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He harrumphs—child for‘fat chance of that.’
He slumps against me—child for‘you’re weird and annoying but I love you anyways.’
Smoothing a hand over his hair, I drop a kiss to the forehead of the only birthday gift I could ever want. “I love you a lot, little boy.”
“I love you, old woman.”
14
CASS
Sunday Lane is standingin my kitchen, one hand flicking suds at the squirming, giggling baby trying her best to take a dishwater bath, the other preventing Pippa from doing just that, and my brain doesn’t know what to do with the image.
Do you want kids?she’d asked me.
Never thought about it,I lied.
I think about it. Pretty much every time I see my nieces and nephews, I think about it. Consider it. Want it. Promptly reconsider it because what the hell kind of a stable life could I provide?
For me, it’s not a matter of want. Money and shelter, sure. Easy. But the other shit? I’ve watched my friends raise their kids. I know how much time and energy it takes, two things I’m exceptionally low on. What’s the point in doing it if I couldn’t do it properly?
And there’s the small issue of never liking anyone enough to essentially tie myself to them for the rest of my life.
August sidles up to the sink. Sighs at the mess his mother and Pippa are making. Nudges them both aside, earning poked-out tongues, and takes over dishwashing duties.
As Sunday settles my niece on her hip and tickles her round belly, I get this weird…thingin my chest. Indigestion, likely. Definitely notlongingor anything. That would be ridiculous. That would be far too much to feel towards someone I’ve known for, what, less than three months? Someone I resented for at least a month, tried to for another.
Too much.
Way too much.
* * *
“You look like shit.”
I huff as I drag a towel down my sweat-soaked face, blindly flashing my brother a middle finger. “Thanks.”
“What is she doing to you?”
Making me suffer for every past transgression, I suspect. When it comes to my rehab, Amelia is fucking vicious. I thought, it being my birthday weekend and all, she’d go easy on me today. That dream went up in smoke about five seconds after I entered her house and found her pissy, pregnant ass ready to ride mine.
Toeing off my sneakers, I peel off my socks and damp t-shirt, tossing both and the towel over the stairs banister, a reminder to bring them up to the laundry later. “You’ve made yourself at home.”
James grins at me from where he’s stretched out on the sofa wearing nothing but his boxers, a packet of cereal resting on his lap. Brushing crumbs off my three-thousand-dollar sofa, I flop down beside him. “I thought Mom was cooking.”
“She is.” James tosses a handful of Cheerios in his mouth. “But I’m a growing boy.”
I snort. Three years older than me, James is grown in only the physical sense of the word. It’s funny how I get ripped apart for being immature and not settling down when James is just as bad. Sure, he was married—very, very briefly, and I think a night in Vegas had something to do with it—but that was years ago. He’s been single and childless and flitting around the globe in search of God knows what for years but I can count the number of times anyone’s given him shit for it on one hand.
Mom says it’s because James is a lost cause; she still has hope for me.
I suspect that one—again, super brief—marriage has a lot to do with it because hey, at least he tried.
And favoritism. Definitely some favoritism.
“So.” Fuck, even the way he chews is shit-stirring. “Are we gonna talk about our newly revealed girlfriend?”
And here I was thinking I’d gotten away scot-free with that whole thing. “Who told you about that?”
