“Not twelve,” Jaime says evenly. “She looks twenty. Twenty-two, maybe? Totally legal, but still taboo. Lethal combination. Danger is my favorite flavor.”
“She is eighteen.” Vicious puts Jaime out of his misery, tsking his disapproval. “Her dad just bought my old car for her birthday. Jordan believes in showing Edie money doesn’t grow on trees and all that jazz. Fun guy. And what the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s his turn to punch Jaime’s arm. “You either go for the old ones or the young ones. No middle ground for you.”
“Fuck you, my wife is not old.”
“Your wife is not old, but she is here,” Trent reminds him, and we all shift our gaze to watch a very pregnant Mel. “So you might want to stop drooling over a teenager. And while you’re at it, stop cursing in front of my kid.”
“Shit, sorry, Luna,” Vicious says. Jaime laughs. I shake my head. Our kids are going to talk like drunk sailors before they hit ten.
“She doesn’t look a day over sixteen,” Trent offers his two cents on Van Der Zee’s daughter. Yet, his eyes are fixated on her. I’m not sure what to make of it. On one hand, it’s a good sign that he is actually looking at someone. On the other, he is looking at the wrong fucking person. Story of our lives, I guess.
“Sixteen, huh? Is that why you’re glaring?” I smirk. Trent looks away and frowns before sliding a burger onto a bun, squishing ketchup onto it, and handing it to his daughter.
“We were having a conversation about her, so I stated my fudging opinion.”
“Stated your fudging opinion, or imagined how it would feel to fudge her?” I start, and Jaime cuts into our conversation.
“This is getting creepier by the second. Make me one as well.” He points at the burgers.
My dad walks over to us, holding a red Solo cup with a very virgin punch. Everyone slaps his back. I stay put, but when he comes in for a hug, I stretch my arms open and let him in. My arms, my heart, my life.
Shit, I sound like a cheese ball, but it’s true.
Three years ago, I spent a month and a half in the hospital nursing my dying girlfriend.
Three years ago, she came back to me.
Three years ago, one night, when I thought she was for sure going to die, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of beeping hospital machines. I snuggled next to her every night, one hand pressed against her heart—I didn’t trust any fucking machine other than the beating organ in my chest—and realized that her flesh was warm again. My Rachel came back to me. Fourteen years it took me, but this Jacob got the sister he had yearned for.
I love my friends, but they don’t get it. Me. I have to fast-forward everything to truly enjoy life. That’s why Rosie and I eloped four days after she left the hospital. That’s why I can’t afford to hold a grudge against my father and mother. That’s why I finally let go of the bad shit and let all the good come in, even if it cracks my cocky bastard armor.
“Knight is trying to start a fire using two rocks by the fountain,” Dad warns, tilting his head to the far end of the garden. He adds, “Vaughn is helping him.”
Vicious grins. “And you said our kids can’t tolerate each other.” His shoulder bumps mine. “Of course, they can, when there’s enough destruction involved.”
“How old is she again?” Trent asks out of nowhere.
“Eighteen,” Vicious enunciates. “And you’re thirty-three, in case I need to remind you of that, too.”
“I’m well aware, assface.”
“Then peel your eyes off of her body, dickbag.”
“Language, boys,” my dad says, and it never gets old, even when we’re thirty-three.
Trent looks away, smiles a genuine grin for the first time in years, and pats Luna’s head as she wolfs down her burger. I wonder if she understood anything from the conversation we just had, and if she did, how much of it. Her doctor claims that there is nothing wrong with her, that she is mentally in line with kids her age.
But she doesn’t speak. To anyone. Ever.
Completely mute.
“I’m going to make sure they don’t burn my house down.” I motion with my chin to the fountain, right near the swan stone benches. We sit on them every night when we look at the stars. They’re the place where I tell Rosie that I love her, that she is the only one, that she will always be the only one, no matter when she leaves me. It’s the truth. If Rosie’s lungs collapse tomorrow, and with them, my whole life, I will not bother to pick it up again. I will be there for my son—soon-to-be sons—and I will raise them the best I can, but the ride will be over for me.
“Knight! Vaughn!” I stride in their direction, and they both whip their heads around, looking guilty as fuck. I wiggle my finger before they do something stupid. “Stop trying to set the place on fire. How much trouble are you going to get yourselves into if this is what you do at four?”
“My guess is just as much trouble as you gave us.” Dad chuckles behind me.
We all get back to the house—three men from different generations—and Vaughn. I put the two boys where I can see them. The media room we set up for Knight and his baby brother.
“Did you ever check on your mom?” I ask Knight.
“Yeah. She said she is good. She also said that she loves me more than she loves you.”
I narrow my eyes. “She did not.”
“Did too.” Knight shrugs, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Bull…’s head.” I clear my throat. Knight jumps and high-fives Vaughn.
“Told you I’d get him to say a bad word! I’m goooood.”
He is good, and I am blessed.
And whole.
And fucking alive.
Thanks to her.
What makes you feel alive?
My family. My home. My men. My belly. I’m alive. And my therapist was right. I am going to live forever.
“Dean, stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate it when you do that.”
“What am I doing?”
“Singing the ‘super sperm’ song.”
A dark chuckle leaves his mouth. I roll my eyes and turn on my back in bed, my huge belly poking out. I have a high-risk pregnancy. I don’t get out of the house very often. I see my doctor every other day. My body was not designed to carry another person, and while my appetite quickly caught up with the plan, my lungs are struggling to function for two. But it happened. I fell pregnant. And I fell pregnant because…
“Superrrrrr spermmm.” Dean hits those high notes, walking out of the shower and into our bedroom, his sex hair still dripping water. Not that we’ve been having sex recently. Which is a crying shame, because pregnancy makes you really horny. My hormones took the wheel eight months ago and drove me into the arms of soft porn and erotic books. Doctor Bernstein said no funny business until I pop this kid out. “Gets the fucking job donneeeee!”
Oh, yeah. The super sperm song has rhythm and double meaning. Justin Timberlake, watch out.