Page 134 of The Last Call Home
We talk about it all.
“Do you think we’ll ever be normal?”Keir asks.There’s a tremble to it, buried under bravado, like he’s scared of the answer.“I mean, I’m going to therapy—still.But I feel like I fucked up everything I touch because no one taught me how to love myself.”
“You’re learning,” Atlas states.“In my opinion, you’re doing your best and normal is just an imaginary place where everything is perfect but no one can reach.”
Hopper shakes his head.“Perfect and normal are subjective to everyone’s vision.There are probably eight billion types of perfects and normals—and they’re just something we can’t reach because we’re too cruel with ourselves.”
“No,” Ledger says.“But I don’t think we need to be.”
“Fuck normal,” I add.“We made it out alive.That’s more than he ever gave us.”
“And we’re here,” Atlas says, lifting his bottle.“Together.”
Which is unbelievable after the life he had.Thankfully, we’re all working toward becoming a family and a better version of ourselves.One where it doesn’t matter where Atlas came from, he’s ours.It doesn’t matter how much our father tried to break us—we survived.We’re learing to love each other.
We raise our drinks, clink the bottles, and fall into easy laughter as the fire crackles beside us.
Across the yard, I spot Delilah on the porch swing.Simone sits beside her.Nysa laughs with Rosalinda near the grill.Cassian has Maddison lifted under the arms, twirling her like an airplane.She lets out a squeal loud enough to startle a few birds from the trees.
Blythe is rocking Everly, while Galeana rests in the hammock while rubbing her belly.She’s due any day now.Baby boy Timberbridge—they don’t have a name yet—is due soon.
For once, no one’s running.No one’s hiding.No one’s bleeding.
We’re a little bruised.
A little broken.
But finally—finally—we’re whole.
ChapterSixty-Two
Cassian
There should bea rule about this.
Something in writing.Signed, stamped, notarized—fuck, maybe even tattooed on someone’s ass if that’s what it takes.
Don’t let the man you love announce he’s cleared for sex while the woman you’re obsessed with is already naked under one of your goddamn flannels.
Because right now?
Delilah is curled on the cabin couch, legs bare, smirk loaded, hair still damp from the shower, looking at me like she wants to ruin my fucking life.And Malerick—leaning against the doorframe, he just shrugged and said, “Clean bill of health.I’m good.”
Good.
He’s good.
I’m seconds from losing my mind.
“By good,” I ask, slow and dry, “you mean?—?”
“He means,” Lilah interrupts, her voice sweet as sin, “he’s officially allowed to have sex again.You know, the thing you avoid because we’re hurt.”
She stretches like a cat, the hem of my shirt riding dangerously high, and smiles up at me with that look—the one that makes my knees lock and my restraint damn near snap.
He is?Because he was shot, lost blood and ...okay, I’m still working on the part where he didn’t die and is still with me.Do I spend hours holding them both at night barely sleeping because I’m afraid someone’s going to take them away from me?Oh, yes, I do every fucking night.
I am going to therapy, but it’s evident that my protective personality isn’t going to catch up with reality any time soon.At least not today.Do I want to have sex with them?I’ve been sporting a hard-on for the past month that might be the death of me, but I will wait until they’re fine.
