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One of those ugly-cute ones with the smushed faces and the yellow eyes and the long, fluffy fur that sheds everywhere and sticks to everything. I’m not sure my favorite black jeans can ever be salvaged, but I don’t think displacing his beloved pet is the best way to get on August Lane’s good side.
And, as the kid stares me down from across the room, Pickle’s warm weight is pretty comforting.
“Y’all aren’t getting married, are you?”
Beside me, Sunday chokes on air. “No. Definitely not.”
I can’t resist side-eyeing her. “That was a little quick.”
She side-eyes me right back. “Not the time.”
“Are y’all dating?”
Both our gazes bounce back to August. Damn. Way to beat us to it, kid. We had a whole speech planned. Rehearsed it and everything on the way here. With hand gestures, too.
Fingers dancing nervously where they rest on her knees, Sunday sucks in a breath. “Would you be okay with that?”
His mouth says, “Who cares?”
His slumped posture and crossed arms hint that he does.
“I do,” Sunday and I say at the same time. Briefly exchanging a somewhat helpless look, she continues, “That’s why we wanted to talk to you, Goose. We don’t wanna do anything that’s gonna make you uncomfortable.”
When her son’s gaze pointedly slips to her stomach, Sunday sighs. “Anythingelse.”
August hums a long, unsure noise. “So y’all are, like, asking my permission?”
“Yeah, buddy. We are.”And we really, really need you to say yes.
Nodding, slow and thoughtful, August straightens. He braces his hands against his knees, looking a whole lot older than his eleven years as he locks eyes with me. “I wanna talk to Cass.”
Real, honest-to-god fear seizes me but still, I nod.
Sunday, on the other hand, is not quite as agreeable. She hesitates before reluctantly rising, casting me a dubious look. Looking slightly worried, too, but not for August—like she’s not sure what August might do or say without adult supervision, and she’s concerned about it.
Only when I wave her off—and when August slides her a look—does she relent. Listening to the slow steps taking her down the hallway, August waits until her bedroom door clicks shut before very formally announcing, “I have some conditions.”
Don’t smile, Cass. This is not the time to smile.“Go on.”
“You have to be nice to her. Like, really nice. Buy her flowers and chocolates and jewelry like in those cheesy romance movies.”
The urge to smile grows. “I can do that.” I was, after all, raised by a cheesy romance movie fanatic; my dad set the bar incredibly high. “What else?”
That serious frown gets even more serious, something so very Sunday about him as he drops his gaze to his fidgeting hands. “I don’t wanna live with John.”
It takes a second for his quiet request to sink in and wipe the burgeoning smile from my face. Another before I can croak, “What?”
“After the baby comes,” he elaborates, his voice getting quieter and quieter with every word. “You’re not allowed to send me to Texas. I was here first.”
Pickle mewls in protest as I displace him by standing. Rounding the coffee table separating us, I take a seat on the sofa beside him. “I would never do that.”
August tilts his head towards me, face splashed with hopeful but hesitant trust, and if I didn’t get it before, I do now. Why he’s so hot and cold with me, why it’s just as easy to piss him off as it is to earn his forgiveness. He’s spent his whole life being treated like a pawn, like he’s replaceable, by everyone but his mother, and he’s been conditioned to put up with it. To forgive and forget. He doesn’t understand that that wasn’t normal, that he shouldn’t have had to accept that as good enough, that my family doesn't operate that way. “Promise?”
“Swear on my life.”
Staring intently with eyes that cut through me the same way his mother’s do, August thinks about it for a long time. Long enough to make me sweat and fidget and become more nervous than I have been since I was twenty-three and starting my first Wolves game as a fresh-out-of-college rookie.
“Okay.” He nods, an interesting mix of relief, nerves, and pure dread. You can date.”
