He spins the bottle in slow circles. “They want you to come home.”
“Excuse me?” My parents have never asked me to come home for a visit. My mom claims it’s because I’m too busy, but we both know the truth. I can’t be around my dad for more than twenty-four hours without getting into a fight with him.
“You heard me. They’re requesting your presence.” He drags out the last three words, making it sound even more ridiculous than it already is.
“Why?” A humorless laugh burst from my lips.
“If I could tell you, brother, they wouldn’t be asking to see you in person.”
I shake my head. “I can’t, man. Layla’s due any day. No way I’m leaving her.”
He nods, but it’s halfhearted. “Sure, sure, I understand, but”—he sets his eyes, so identical to mine it’s freaky, on me—“it’d just be a day trip: flight in the morning, be home that night.”
“No way, I’m not leaving Layla.” Why do I sound so defensive as if he’s going to drag me home against my will? “I can’t believe after all these years they want me home and I’m supposed to jump at the sound of their whistle?”
He keeps his mouth closed, listening.
“I mean, come on, Brae. They haven’t had anything to do with me in years.”
“It’s not really Dad, bro. It’s Mom. She sent me.”
I blink and try to figure out if I just hallucinated. My mom doesn’t even piss without my dad’s say-so. What could possibly be so important that she’d need to see me in person? No, it doesn’t matter. “I love Mom, I do, but my priorities are my family.” I point toward the hallway. “Layla and Axelle are my family.”
I don’t miss the flash of disappointment in his eyes and a strange tension pulls tight between us.
“Dude, you’re family too, but you know what I mean.”
“Sure, yeah.” He nods and takes a long swig of his beer. “Thing is . . . this is kinda important. It’s one day; you don’t have to stay the night. One day.”
My eyebrows drop low as realization dawns. “Hold up . . . so you know what this is all about?”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I do.”
At least he didn’t try to lie.
“Just tell me what’s going on.” In the short amount of time I wait for him to answer, I review every possible scenario in my head. Maybe they’re moving, Dad’s retiring, or maybe now that I’m having a baby, they’re ready to mend fences.
How would I deal with the possibility of them wanting to be grandparents? I wish I could let the past die a cold miserable death, but the resentment that ignites in my gut proves the past is alive and kickin’.
I can’t handle the thought of my dad treating my kids the way he did me, ignoring our feelings and subjecting us to a military upbringing. My fists clench, and the beast that raged when Gibbs had me drugged reminds me how easy it was to act just like my father. Reminded me how close I am, how vulnerable I am to becoming exactly like him.
No, the safest thing I can do for my family, for Layla, Axelle, and our baby is to stay the fuck away from my parents.
“I’d tell you if I could, but I can’t. Promised Mom I’d let her talk to you.”
“Just fuckin’ tell me. No, you know what?” I chuck my bottle top into the garbage so hard it hits with a satisfying thud. “Fuck it. I don’t care.”
What could my mother possibly have to say to me now? After everything we’ve gone through, the silence between us over the past . . . way too fuckin’ long. She’s married to a man who despises me and has never had shit to say until now? Years of resentment resurface and my skin pricks with irritation. My fingers flex and itch to get at Layla, to bury myself inside her and work off the anger while reminding myself what matters. But anger-fucking my nine-month pregnant woman isn’t in the cards.
A heavy session in the music room oughtta do it.
“Sleep on it.”
I hear the sound of the key in the front door and breathe deeply to calm my nerves. “Axelle, come here for a sec.”
The sound of her dropping her backpack on the tile echoes through the room before Braeden catches sight of her and stands.
“Hey, Brae! What’s up?” She gives my brother a hug.
“Damn, short stuff! You look like you’re old enough to be hittin’ the bars.” He playfully pulls her knit beanie down over her eyes.
“Ha, barely.” She pushes the hot pink material back off her forehead. “But”—she holds up one finger—“I’m almost old enough to legally buy cigarettes.”
“You better not.” I growl and glare at my teenage daughter.
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head then moves around the island to the fridge and pulls out some kind of diet soda shit. “How long are you here for?”
Braeden shrugs and his eyes dart to mine, communicating that his stay depends on how long it takes for him to convince me to go home.
Plan on an extended stay, brother.
“Not sure yet.”