Page 51 of Brat Baby
Xavier.
I sit up, grab my phone, and turn the flashlight on, aiming it at the space beside me that clearly has a body imprint still left in it. My chest feels like it’s a million sizes too big and my skin feels too hot. Flopping face-first into the second pillow, I have no idea if I want to scream or cry.
So, I do both.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Every racking sob has the smell of him filling me up. When did he arrive? Did he spend the night watching me sleep? Or did he sleep beside me? Did we touch? Did he hold me to him? Did he kiss me more than just that goodbye kiss?
Why the hell doesn’t he wake me up? Doesn’t he know that I’m miserable without him? That all I want is to have his arms wrapped around me and his heartbeat beneath my ear? Actually, wait…
Icanhear his heartbeat. Pushing up onto my elbows, I shove my hand under the blanket and fish around until I feel something soft and fluffy. My heart surges up into my throat as I pull Teddy out from under the quilt and cuddle him to my chest, the little speaker inside of him thud-thudding rhythmically.
Burying my face back into the pillow he slept on, I try to trick my brain into thinking that Xavier really is here with me.
Why the hell doesn’t he just stay?
The answer to my question is my alarm going off. Blindly, I search for my phone and hit the side buttons until the noise stops.
How the hell is this my life now? One daddy who spends his nights with me, like some sort of caped crusader, watching over me in what I’m hoping is a really uncreepy way, while the other three can’t stay far enough away.
Should I leave him a note telling him I want to be woken up? Or is this another kink I’m unaware of? I don’t know how muchlonger I can force myself to pretend like he isn’t here, right where I want him.
Urgh.
I roll back onto my own pillow and stare at the ceiling, my phone’s flashlight still shining brightly.
Today’s classes have zero daddies in them, so I don’t need to think too deeply about my outfit or my behavior. I’ll just be able to cruise through the day, pondering all the things I plan to do over the weekend and in next week’s classes to gain their attention with my bratty attitude.
The sound of Oakley’s door opening, and a few seconds later, the TV turning on reaches me, signaling the start of our days, so I shove out of bed and go to join her.
Something I have discovered about Oakley is that she likes to watch the news in the mornings. And I don’t mean the news for regular people, where they talk about the weather, traffic, upcoming athletic events, and the antics of the rich and famous.
I’m talking about the real news. The serious stuff. International goings-on. Medical advancements. War correspondence. Political movements. Heavy shit. It had been an absolute fucking surprise.
What shocked me even more was her degree and career path. The full poli-sci path, all the way to a fancy PhD that I can’t remember the name of, so that she can work in a political translator role. Apparently, she speaks three languages and is working on another two.
Which is just, wow. Honestly. That saying about not judging books by their covers? Totally Oakley.
I kind of feel like a shitty friend for judging Oaks by her exterior. Bachelor of Arts, or teaching, or something in marketing is what my first answer would have been. But nope, my girl wants to change the world.
Taking my phone with me, I find Oakley in the kitchen, whisking what I assume is eggs in a bowl.
She grins when she sees me. “Scrambled eggs?”
I head over to the fridge and get the milk out. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”
Just as I put my phone down to get a mug for hot chocolate, I get a message.
My gaze snaps to it instantly. I’m still not used to getting text messages. The only person who ever messaged me before was Tray, and even that was rare, since we were basically with each other all the time.
But now, I get messages from Oakley and from NU about social events, which I can apparently opt-out of, but I kind of like getting them. Not that I will ever attend, but I like knowing what’s going on, like that the first home game for the hockey team is this Friday. And that there is going to be some sort of fall festival in a few weeks.
It gives me a weird sense of community.
The message is from an unknown number. Deciding that it can wait, I finish making my hot chocolate the way the video I watched on TikTok told me to—powder, milk to three-quarters of the way, and then microwave for just over a minute, or the milk starts to froth and rise. I’ve been sprinkling some of the powder on top to make it look a little fancier.
