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Fuck my life.
I wasn’t prepared for this. One look at me shows I wasn’t prepared for this, for him.
If I knew he was here—if Luna, the little bitch, told me he was here when she demanded I come meet my new niece—I would’ve… I don’t know. Washed my hair. Showered, at the very least. I definitely wouldn’t have worn shorts I didn’t buy and a too-big hoodie that isn’t mine, pinched from a closet that also isn’t mine in a room that isn’t mine either.
Do I have a cosmic ‘kick me’ sign stapled to my forehead? Why is the universe out to get me? Complicated accidental pregnancies, a vengeful baby daddy, another one who picked a fucking sport over me. A mopey, overbearing son and a stubborn mule of a daughter. Challenges are coming at me from all angles, and the newest one, I just barrelled into face first.
Clearly, Cass was expecting to see me as much as I was him. Shock paints his features as his eyes dart towards Amelia in a way I really hope is only accusatory in my head. Despite my best efforts not to, I stare. It’s impossible not to; a large, attractive man cradling a newborn baby warrants staring. Excruciating, emotional staring.
He looks… different. Normally loose curls are secured in neat braids, tight against his scalp. Brown skin is a couple of shades darker, stained by a summer spent training under the sun. That fucking shoulder, the one anyone with eyes can see is troubling him, sits a little higher than his other, like it’s constantly tensed, always braced for impact.
I’m pretty sure I’m scowling but I can’t stop. I hate that shoulder. I hate the tiny little surgical scars decorating it. I hate it for getting injured in the first place, I hate it more for getting better, and I hate it the most for obviously being busted again but not quite enough for Cass to quit playing. Not enough for him to think ‘hm, maybe this isn’t worth it’ and come home.
Or maybe it’s me that isn’t worth it.
Amelia is worth it. One phone call from her and here he is. One phone call and he cements the horrible, nagging suspicion that there is, and always will be, a very clear separation between his family and mine.
That realization deepens my scowl and Cass, I cannot fucking believe, scowls right back.Hescowls atme. Like my presence is the problem. LikeIam the problem. Jesus, am I getting deja vu. Plagued by flashbacks to many moons ago when we first re-met, when all we did was glare and bitch at each other. Before we fixed things, before the baby, before everything that led us here—apparently right back to where we started.
Full freaking circle.
A veritable eternity passes in a matter of seconds. Some kind of ocular stand-off is occurring—one of us daring the other to look away first, to speak first, to acknowledge the other beyond intense eye contact—that neither of us win.
“You’re here.” The quietly confused, heartbreakingly hopeful yet outstandingly irked statement draws me back to reality, back to the very occupied room I stumbled into, back to the boy holding my hand and gaping at the closest thing he’s ever had to a father figure—and what a pathetic thing that is—like he’s a mirage set to disappear at any moment.
In the blink of an eye, Cass’ expression changes. It softens and warms and morphs into something completely different, something I can’t help but be completely and ashamedly jealous of while simultaneously resisting the urge to clasp my chest and coo.
Seriously. C’mon. Give me a fucking break. Cradling a babyandgazing at my kid like he’s the best thing since sliced bread?Seriously.
As usual, no one listens to me.
“I’m here,” Cass confirms, soft and sincere as he adds, “I missed you, kid.”
When August’s tentative steps towards him are counteracted by Cass, without hesitation, passing his new niece to her father so he can yank my son into his arms, I’m struck with the overwhelming need to get the hell out of here.
And, in possibly one of the most undignified, embarrassing moves of my life, I do.
* * *
I’m halfway through typing a plea to spend the night at Willow’s when very loud, very irritated footsteps stomp down the hallway after me. “Really, Sunday?”
Clutching my temper with both hands, I keep my mouth shut, my eyes on my phone, and my body moving—waddling, fuck my life once again—forward.
“You’re not gonna talk to me?”
Nope. I’m not. I can’t. I’m pretty sure if I open my mouth, the only thing that will come out are sobs.
“Hate to break it to you, sunshine, but you’re in no shape to outrun me.”
Because I can’t resist, I allow myself a brief moment to pause and scowl at him before continuing forward. Or trying to, at least. It’s kind of hard when you’re suddenly being yanked aside and stuffed into a… a supply closet. He drags me into a freaking supply closet. He wants to chat whilst surrounded by intravenous tubing and bedpans.
Cass huffs at my scrunched expression. “You’d rather scream at each other in the hallway?”
“I’d rather not scream at all, if that’s okay with you.”Good girl, Sunday. A whole sentence with no tears. Good fucking girl.
Cass inches closer but I refuse to lift my gaze, keeping it squarely focused on his chest. His bulkier-than-normal chest straining against an obnoxiously tight compression shirt. How many times can I say ‘fuck my life’ in one day before it becomes too repetitive? “Apparently, you’d rather nottalkat all.”
“What, exactly, do you want me to say?”
