AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He was.” I know I don’t exactly have a wide range of memories to go off but I’ve never seen him like that. He was… God, I don’t think there’s a word for it. Terrified seems too weak. Traumatized, maybe. Either way, it was a different side of Cass that I got a glimpse of today.
“August said he was crying.”
“Yeah.” The same mushy, gushy feeling I felt earlier when Cass crept into my bed, eyes red and teary, makes a reappearance. “All the adrenaline probably got him.”
Willow snorts. “Adrenaline has nothing to do with it. That man is in love with you.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He definitely is.”
I gape at the boy sauntering into the room. “And what do you know aboutlove, child?”
August shrugs, depositing the yowling creature in his arms on the foot of my bed. “Izzy’s mom said Cass’ love language is acts of service. He’s always doing stuff for you.”
So he must love me. Right. Fine logic at work there.
Desperate for a subject change, I reach for my son. My sweet, sweet son who thinks love is that simple and has barely left my side for the last day and who, when faced with another change of address, took it all in his stride. I drag him onto the bed beside me, snatching up Pickle too because my fur-child has been left alone all day with a woman who needs an alarm to remember to drink water and thus deserves some love for surviving. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“Hell yeah,” is my son’s more than exuberant reply, boosted by a hearty meow. “This place is cool. Cass’ got, like, every gaming system. And he bought a cat tree for Pickle. And Isaac said his mom said I can come over whenever I wantandthat last summer she let him walk to practice by himself ‘cause it’s so close, so we could walk together, right?”
As easily as that, August eradicates any worries I had about how he would handle the recent move, if I was being selfish and he was suffering for it, if his agreement was purely placating.
It's just that simple for him. Games, Pickle, and Isaac.
For once, something is simple.
* * *
I don’t see Cass for the rest of the evening.
It’s not that bad. I’m plenty occupied doing other things, like unpacking my room—by unpacking, I mean sitting in bed while other people unpack for me and threaten violence if I dare move a muscle—and helping August do the same—by helping, I mean sitting in his bed while other people help and threaten violence if I dare move a muscle.
Multiple times, I remind everyone that I’m not on bed rest, that the doctor said I’m perfectly fine to go about my daily routine, but I get shushed every time. I also mention that threatening to rugby tackle me if I tried to get up was slightly contradictory to me staying in bed for health and safety reasons, but I got shushed again, and Luna—the threatener, of course—threw me a glare too for good measure.
An overbearing nature runs in the family, clearly.
While I’ve theoretically been busy and had plenty of distractions, I’ve still noticed Cass’ absence. I’ve physically felt it, as pathetic as that sounds. I almost risked a tackle once or twice in order to go find him but pride kept me seated. I figured if he wanted to come see me, he would; I am literally down the hall, after all.
After everyone leaves—again, bestowing upon me strict instructions founded on absolutely zero medical advice to refrain from doing absolutely anything—I lock myself in the bathroom and indulge in a long, well-deserved bath, half-hoping that when I emerge, Cass will be waiting.
I’m only a little disappointed when he’s not. A little more so when someone knocks and it’s not him bringing me dinner. I hope, as I smile at Amelia, that my dejection doesn’t show too strongly.
I fear, as her face creases in sympathy, that I don’t do a very good job hiding it.
“Delivery,” she croons quietly, carrying a wooden tray as she pads towards me, bringing a delicious fragrance with her. “Nick cooked tonight.”
Instantly, my mouth waters. Cass’ cooking is unreal, don’t get me wrong, but Nick’s? The man could be a chef. His recipes deserve gold meals. I still have dreams about the sweet treats he provided at my baby shower, and I can’t dig into the steaming bowl of some kind of Brazilian stew quick enough.
With a knowing smile, Amelia perches on the edge of my bed. “Feeling okay?”
If I had a dollar for every time someone’s asked me that today.
When I nod, she tuts a skeptical noise as she makes herself comfortable beside me, coasting a hand over her equally pregnant belly.
“Really,” I insist. “It was scary and horrible but I’m good.”
Amelia remains unconvinced, but she lets it go, lets me eat my meal in peace.
