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I steer the conversation back on track, breaking the long, loaded silence. “He didn’t want kids. Or he didn’t want my kid.” I pause. “He didn’t want me but that’s okay. I’m pretty sure I only wanted him ‘cause I was going through a David Beckham phase and if you squint in a really dark room, he couldmaybepass as a distant, inbred cousin.”
If I were brave enough to look at him, I wonder what I’d see on his face. His voice gives nothing away, deceptively and annoyingly neutral. “Big soccer fan?”
“Big Spice Girls fan.” Oh, the strife of a Baby trying to be a Posh.
Cass laughs but it distinctly lacks humor.
“Do you?”
“Like the Spice Girls?”
“Want kids.”Not specifically with me, I start to add but I don’t know what I’ll do if he comes back with anobviously. Although, I’m not sure his actual answer is any better.
“Never thought about it.”
Think about it,I want to scream.Think about it right now. Tell me.
Cass doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t offer an explanation as to why it’s never crossed his mind, or any additional thoughts now that it has. Just leaves the words floating awkwardly between us, a tangible thing that I refuse to let sink in because oh, how that’s gonna hurt.
He’s never thought about it. That’s fine.
Guess I’ll think about it enough for the both of us.
* * *
It’s hours later—if I knew adult birthday parties went on for so long, I would’ve tried marginally harder to get out of this one—when I find myself alone again. After the sun goes down, a fire pit comes out, and as everyone migrates outside, I linger indoors.
No one notices. Adult Parties involve Adult Drinks, and tipsy adults aren’t particularly observant. Especially not in this crowd, where everyone has something to tell someone, another thing to ask someone else. Not even my sweet child, who’s been methodically checking on me at least once an hour, takes note of my absence, too occupied by the dozen best friends he’s accumulated.
That’s fine by me. I’m perfectly fine sitting alone at the kitchen island, steadily working my way through the copious amounts of food covering every marble inch, listening to the ruckus, observing through the large French windows—rich people windows, Willow deemed them in a whisper when Rory was giving us the house tour she insisted on—and obsessing over four words—never thought about it—that are likely to haunt me for, I don’t know, approximately the rest of my life.
The noise briefly gets louder as the back door slides open, dimming again when a lithe Black woman closes it behind her. “Thank God.” Kate sighs, the tips of her thick braids brushing the curve of her back as she tilts her head towards the ceiling, eyes closed. “Silence. I swear, it’s like living in a zoo sometimes.”
My laugh is quiet, nervous, unsure whether or not it’s allowed. Whether I’m allowed to commiserate over the volume or if it’s anI can talk shit about my family but I’ll cut you if you dokind of thing. I don’t think Kate is like that—I don’t think any of them are—but really, what do I know?
Bare feet pad towards me, the stool beside me dragged out so Kate can plop down on the leather seat. “What’re we eating?”
Too overwhelmed for shame, I vaguely waves a hand over the delectable spread. “Everything.”
“My favorite.” Kate hums happily, stretching to grab a fork. “Is there a specific reason you’re hiding in here or is it just the chaos of it all?”
I choke on my cinnamon roll. Jesus. Talk about blunt. “I’m not hiding.”
“No?” Kate cocks her head, chewing a piece of banana bread thoughtfully. “Huh. Could’ve fooled me.”
Did I like Kate before? Can’t remember. Not her biggest fan right now. “You’d hide too if everyone here knew you’d banged the birthday boy.”
“Not everyone. The kids aren’tthatin the loop.”
“What about their grandparents?”
If her wince didn’t say it all, the way she reaches for one of the half-empty wine bottles littering the counter certainly does. “No, thanks.”
She stops filling my empty water glass with red liquid. “You don’t drink?”
Not for the next thirty weeks, give or take. “I don’t like wine.”
“Blasphemy.” She hisses through smiling lips. “Beer? Cider?” She scans the kitchen before pointing at the bottle of tequila someone—Ben—tried to coerce Cass into taking thirty-six shots of—a birthday death, he’d drawled.How festive. “Liquid poison?”
