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“So, what?” August’s demand relegates my murderous thoughts to the back burner, reminds me of my priorities. “Y’all are dating now?”
“No—”
“We’re figuring it out, buddy.”
Cass must not hear me choke. He must not feel my eyes burning into the side of his face. He must not register my presence at all, actually, because he only focuses on August. “I know this is weird,” he tells my boy. “I’m sorry you found out the way you did. I know that feels shitty.”
My wide eyes narrow. Pointed, much?
I don’t have time to focus on the little dig, though. Or whatever the hellwe’re figuring it out, buddymeans. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. An eleven-year-old little guppy trying very hard to hide his hurt behind a mask of indifference.
“Whatever.” Tense shoulders lifting in a shrug, August makes for the hallway. “I don’t care.”
For someone who doesn’t care, he sure makes a show of stomping to his room, the slam of his door making me wince.
Turning on Cass, I get the wildest urge to kick him in the shins. “What the fuck was that?”
At least he looks marginally sheepish. “I thought—”
I don’t have time for his thoughts; I have a hurt eleven-year-old deserving of an explanation, and since I’ve had a loyalty to him since way before Cass and his fucking fertility sauntered into the picture, I don’t feel guilty about prioritizing one over the other. I do, however, feel slightly guilty about leaving him alone with Willow but hey. Like I said; priorities.
August doesn’t move as I enter his room—knocking first, of course, but choosing to take his snapped‘what?’as ‘sure, mama, come on in’.Face down on his bed, one hand buried in the fur of the feline curled up beside him, he remains silent and sullen, not acknowledging me at all, even when I perch beside his feet. “August, can we talk please?”
He grunts into his pillow.
“C’mon, kiddo.” I set a hand on his lower back, gently smoothing circles the way he likes when he’s sick or sad or just in a bad mood. “Big boy words.”
Grunting again, August reluctantly flops onto his back. He wriggles upright until his back hits the headboard, tucking his knees up towards his chest, leaving just enough room for Pickle to slink onto his lap. “You’re having a baby withCass.”
Okay. Hissing his name like that with a wrinkled nose is probably not a good sign. “Yeah, Gus, I am.”
“John's gonna freak out.”
“I know.” God, do I know. But John can kiss my ass. And fuck him for being such a territorial jackass, even his son can sense it.
“He doesn’t like Cass.”
Again, fuck him. “I know that too.”
“I like Cass.”
Relief.
“I don’t like that you didn’t tell me.”
Guilt.
Scooting closer, I wrap my fingers around his lower calf. “I’m sorry, Goose, I really am. But I had to tell Cass first.”
A disgruntled noise rumbles in my boy’s chest. “You didn’t. He found out like I did.”
Crap. So he caught that. “I know, and I apologized to him too.” I’m all out of apologies. I’ve used my yearly allowance, it feels like. “For what it’s worth, you were the first person I wanted to tell. My first thought was ‘jeez, how is August gonna feel about this?’”
He doesn’t look like he believes me. “You’re gonna have a baby,” he repeats, and the tiny kernel of hurt in his voice makes my stomach hurt. “Is it a boy?”
“Don’t know yet. Why? You want a brother?”
“Half-brother.”
