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Cass scrambles to his feet, leaving no room for argument as he slings an arm around my shoulders and commands, “Smile.”
I try.
Not hard enough, apparently. “Smile, Sunday.”
“I am.”
He remains dubious. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“Not all of us got social media selfie-training.”
Catching the elbow I throw his way, Cass drags his fingers down my arm until they lace with mine. In a quick maneuver, he lifts his arm above my head, looping it around my back so our joint hands land on my belly. He stoops until our foreheads touch, smile perfectly smug. “I didn’t need training. I was perfect at it already.”
“Flirt later, please,” Nick interrupts us. “My camera’s overheating.”
“Because of all the hot air coming out of your head, I’m sure.”
“That’s a really creative way to say I’m hot, baby.August,” he yells the latter, giving me no time to refute the falsified compliment. “Get over here. Family picture.”
My poor, unsuspecting child, who’s prior experience with ‘family pictures’ involves me, my phone, and a big helping of coercion, is rendered so immobile with shock, he gets body slammed by the next crashing wave.
Smooth.
24
CASS
“What’re you doing here?”
Well. Not quite the greeting I expected. Pushing my sunglasses to rest atop my head, I flash Sunday a grin through the open window of my Jeep. “Picking you up, my love.”
A dramatic gag sounds in unison with one of the back doors opening, a backpack thudding onto the leather seats before a small body follows. “That was gross.”
“August,” Sunday snaps. “Get out.”
The kid frowns as he clicks his seatbelt into place. “Why?”
“Because this isn’t our car.”
“You can get it tomorrow,” I chime in. “I’ll drive you.”
“We don’t need a chauffeur.”
My smile fades, my gaze shifting to the various other people scattered around the school parking lot very obviously watching us. From where it rests on the open window frame, my arm flops towards her, reaching out to grasp the clenched fist closest to me. “Please get in the car. We’ve got an audience.”
Subtly flicking me away, Sunday kisses her teeth. “We always have a fuckin’ audience.”
Guilt clogs my throat but an apology is as unwelcome as the rest of me is. Watching her through the windshield as she stomps her way to the passenger side, I half-tilt towards August. “What’s up with her?”
The kid shrugs. “I dunno. Hormones?”
Ah. Okay. I can handle that, I think. I’ve been around enough pregnant women in the last few years to know what to expect. Like I know when I lean over to open the door for her, she’s gonna scowl at me for absolutely no reason. I’m not surprised when she sullenly hauls herself inside and slams the door behind her, and when her scowl deepens, it’s really my mistake for thinking I’m allowed to speak. “I thought we could go for dinner.”
Sunday grumbles something incoherent.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
