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“We just came back from the beach,” Kamila tells me. She can’t take her eyes off her son in her husband’s arms, and I don’t blame her. My grandson’s the spitting image of his father, an overload of cuteness for the entire family. “We’re about to have dinner. Do you want to join us?”
I shake my head. “I have plans.”
“Plans?” Fylox asks.
“You got an issue with that?” I ask, a little too defensively.
Fylox shrugs in response.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you at all,” Alex claims. He hasn’t changed. He’s still my son. All the rings in the world won’t change that. He’s incredibly grounded, and I don’t know where he got it from. His mom and I have immense egos. “We should talk at some point. Kamila told me what happened.”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” I say. “Everything’s okay. When are you seeing Danai for the next ultrasound?”
Fylox raises his eyebrows at me, judging me for my distraction tactics. Alex and Kamila lead the conversation as always. They don’t need us to confirm or deny anything. The next baby check’s in a couple of weeks. Alex is staying for the entire summer. Fylox doesn’t plan on leaving at all because Kamila’s about to enter her third trimester.
Worry flickers in Kamila’s eyes, but she doesn’t comment on it. I’d say she’s got female instinct, but I’m not sure if that’s problematic in this day and age.
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” Alex suggests as they are about to depart for the palace. My car’s unlocked and ready to go. My young king gazes at me with big eyes. “We could do a workout together for an hour, perhaps? I’m sure you can find the time.”
“I don’t think—”
Fylox interrupts me, “We’ll be there.”
I roll my eyes at Fylox, but he doesn’t talk back to me about it. Instead, he turns and leaves us in the parking lot. The baby makes funny noises, watching Fylox leave.
“Take care of yourself.” My daughter-in-law pulls me in for a hug. She whispers, “Wrap it up, will you? We have enough babies as it is. Unless you want a baby. Then, go ahead. We’ll open up a palace kindergarten!”
Alex draws his eyebrows together in curiosity, watching his wife chuckle as they return to the palace.
They say that the big sister is watching on Katantia. That might be true.
I hop into my Escalade, one out of ten big cars in the Katantian streets. Cars that eat a lot are frowned upon in this country. The palace is the sole owner of such cars. We can’t have Kamila driving around in a tiny college kid vehicle.
Before driving to Ivy’s for myfriendlyappointment, I go into one of the gift shops downtown. It’s outside of my route, but it’s worth it. My ex-wife always insisted on bringing gifts to friends, in this case, the Castros, since we didn’t have a lot of friends back then. Perks of having an anti-social husband that doesn’t want to be seen. Alex and Fylox grew up together in a sense because of our relationship with the Castros. They’re like brothers, unrelated, but their bonds are strong.
It’s the first time I’m at this shop, and the employees widen their eyes at the sight of me. They think they’ve done something wrong to have me on their turf. They help me out with my gift, and I give them a little undocumented extra cash.
I speed over to Ivy’s home, and I park my car near hers. My SUV would swallow her death trap of a car. Do friends buy each other cars? I shrug.
This time around, I sign in at the reception properly. I’m permitted entrance into their high-tech elevator. I reach Ivy’s floor, and it looks the same as always. Flowers. Shoes. Nothing. With my gift basket in hand, I ring the bell. Smolyakov’s out and about. I’ve checked with my eyes. My little doe and I won’t be disturbed tonight.
A couple of moments later, Ivy opens the door. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, and her face is dirty with fingerprints in various colors. Her clothes are wrinkled and painted on. She welcomes me inside, warily eying my gift basket.
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at what I hold in my arms.
As I kick off my Off-Whites, I say, “That’s for you. It’s coffee stuff.”
“Coffee stuff?” She fights her smirk, but I see a hint of it. “Let me clean up. You’re early. I’ll be out in five. Make yourself at home. And… Thank you for not barging in without permission.”
“Friends don’t do that,” I say, but I don’t really believe it. My type offriendsdo a lot of bad things. Stalkers have nothing on us.
There’s a light bounce in her step, and I like that she’s in a good mood. I place my gift basket on the coffee table, and I explore the room. On top of a rug, there’s a watercolor box on the floor with ten different brushes on the side. Ivy’s abstract painting’s in the middle. Dots of red are on one side, but there’s a flood of blue waiting to swarm the innocent dots. It seems easy to me since I have no clue about art. My ex-wife had paintings like these in her home over the years. She paid a lot of money for them. Is my little doe an artist in the making?
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t have the time to put that away,” Ivy says, brushing by me. She kneels on the floor, swiftly picking up the brushes.
“I like looking at it. You don’t have to put it away because of me,” I tell her, and she stares up at me. I could get used to her kneeling in front of me, and my dick certainly agrees. However, I put my game face on.
We can be civil adults for the night. I brought her a gift basket to sweeten the deal.
