Page 93 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Teague immediately gives me his full attention, eyes doubling in size, so hilariously spellbound by the idea of chefs cookingoutsideof the kitchen. “That is so cool! I want to go there, Cali! Can we go there instead? Please? Please? Please?”
Cali’s whole body jostles sideways as Teague continues his tugging onslaught, and the corners of her lips flex into a half-relieved and half-exhausted smile. “Sure, Squirt. Why don’t you go over and thank Gage for offering to take us.”
“That’sUncleGage,” I clarify.
Cali huffs out a snort, but deep down, I know I’m defrosting that cold, black, shriveled heart in the hollow chamber of her chest. I have a way of growing on people. Like barnacles. I get really deep in there until no amount of prying can uproot me.
“UncleGage,” she corrects, humoring me with a hand on her hip.
Teague skips over to me, a too-big smile on his face, but he doesn’t chant my new name.
He stares at me in a strange way, then his eyebrows lower with a squint of his eyes. “Shouldn’t I call youDaddyGage?” he asks innocently.
Globs of saliva cluster in my trachea, pretty much choking me as I slam my fist against my chest a few times to loosen the impediment, all while Teague watches obliviously and Cali watches in high alert in case she needs to give me the Heimlich or some shit.
“Uh, Gage isn’t your dad, Squirt,” Cali amends quickly, whacking her hand against my back to help me eject Teague’s goddamn audacity out of my wheezing body.
“I know that, but he acts like my dad.”
Both Cali and I kind of just stare at Teague, not knowing what to say next, and still not knowing how to remedy the chokes and splutters. Eventually—humiliatingly—one of the caretakers brings me a glass of water to ameliorate the irritation in my windpipe, and I thank them before greedily gulping down the entire drink.
“Come on, Cali. Try it! Call him Daddy Gage!” Teague giggles, blissfully spinning around himself.
“Teague, I’m not going to call Gage that.”
I set my glass down, leaning on the nearest flat surface for my signature cool-guy pose, my lips jerked into a disarming grin. “Yeah, Cali. Call meDaddy.”
“I should’ve let you choke,” she whispers threateningly to me.
I open my mouth to hit her with another Gage-specialized innuendo, but she doesn’t let me get a word in—which is probably for the best.
Although my brain’s definitely not used to the idea, I can’t believe I was so afraid of Teague looking up to me. No, I’m notthe kid’s dad, but I’m the only male role model in his life. That’s a title I don’t take lightly. It’s a privilege to know a kid as extraordinary as Teague, and even more of a privilege to be a part of his family.
“Come on, T. Say goodbye to Mom. We need to let her get some rest.”
The caretakers hurry out of the room to allow us some privacy, and I stand by the doorway—just out of earshot—while Cali strokes her mother’s dark hair, whispering something to her with Teague smushed to the side of her leg.
I respectfully avert my eyes to the glistening, clean floor beneath me, so polished that I can just faintly see my reflection in the pristine surface. It only takes a few minutes for Cali to come out of the room with Teague tailing behind her, and to my utter joy, there are no tears in her eyes.
“You hungry?” Cali asks, giving my arm a soft squeeze.
My heart sprints under her touch, and still, after all this time, I’m unable to vanquish those Cali-specific nerves that love to worm into the most inconvenient of places.
“I could eat,” I reply, afraid that if I elaborate, she’ll tie my tongue too.
Teague’s already five strides ahead of us, and Cali rushes to catch up with him before he causes a three-way car crash. I’m right behind them when a hoarse voice deluges my ears.
Cali’s mother’s bony hand hangs over the side of her bed, clawing for the warmth of another living, breathing human, and her rheumy eyes pin me down, unblinking as she waits for me to connect our palms.
I’ve never talked to Cali’s mother before. I only met her today when we picked her up from the hospital. I slip back into the room without alerting Cali or her brother to my current whereabouts. When I rest my hand in hers, careful not to squeeze too tightly, she musters all her energy to give me a watery smile,emaciated fingers littered with varicose veins clinging to me. She’s as cold as a walk-in freezer, and I feel my stomach violently collapse inwards, reeling the rest of my organs in with it.
“You’re good for her,” she breathes, tears already flecking her sallow cheeks, bloodshot eyes burdened with an equal measure of physical and emotional pain. Her voice is brittle, fluctuating unpredictably, and there’s a smoker-like rasp that ties off the ends of her words.
“I’m in love with your daughter, Ms. Cadwell,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside her so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to look up at me. My joints orchestrate a cracking crescendo, but the soreness pales in comparison to the ticking time bomb of my heart. “She’s my whole world.”
“I can see the love in your eyes,” she confirms, surprising me when she consolidates enough strength to crush my hand in hers. “Please make me a promise.”
Goose bumps respond to her weight-carrying words. “Anything.”
