Page 25 of Riot Reunion
Michael selects a pack of Pop Tarts from the hard case, thrusting them into my chest. “Kitchen’s through there. You do know how to use a toaster, right?”
I take the Pop Tarts, my blood raging like a river of molten lava through my veins. “Yeah, I do. And I’ll happily go and prep these the second that you explain what the he—” I catch myself in the nick of time. “What theH. E. double hockey sticksis going on!”
If I’m not entirely mistaken, Michael’s eyes actually dance with amusement. “Dash, this is Colt. He’s a very special friend of mine. You’re going to be watching him for the next six hours.”
“What! I didnotcome here to babysi—”
“Yes, I’m afraid you did. Mason isn’t too great around kids. Plus, we need him with us tonight, anyway.”
The little boy with the dark chocolate eyes has gotten up from the couch. He tugs on my hand, pointing at the Pop Tarts. “I can…I’ll show you how to make those, y’know. You can try one.”
“Michael! You’re not leaving me here with him. I know nothing about childcare!”
“You’ll figure it out. Just don’t let him eat too many of those. He will definitely throw up.”
“I will,” Colt agrees. He starts tugging me in the direction of what I can only assume will wind up being the kitchen.
“Where are you evengoing?” I call back over my shoulder. Michael gives me a wicked smile—the first smile I’veeverseen grace his face—and replies, “Do not answer the door to anyone. I meananyone. If anything happens to that little guy, you are gonna find yourself in a serious mess. His father isn’t the kind of man you wanna let down.Believe me.”
Then he’s gone.
In the well-stocked caterer’s kitchen, thirty seconds later, I set the little boy on the counter, his legs swinging, while he talks me through how to open the Pop Tart packet and slide them into the toaster.
“Then…you just…yeah! Youdoknow!” He’s delighted. “You push it down like that, and the inside of the toaster starts…gets…it goesglowy, and then it cooks—”
“Colt?”
It takes a lot of effort for him to look away from the toaster, I can tell. “Yeah?”
“Doyouknow where Michael just went?”
“Yeah, I do!” he says proudly. “It’s…he’s went to be with…my daddy. They’re having…a big boy party.”
“Oh? Theyare?” The bastards are going outdrinking?I’m going to raise so much hell over this. I swear to all things good and holy—
The toaster spits out two steaming hot Pop Tarts, and Colt squeals at the top of his lungs.
“Colt, who is your daddy?” I should know better than to ask the question when I know I’m probably not going to like the answer.
Colt frowns at me, as if he doesn’t understand what I’m asking him. “He’s my daddy, silly. Daddy and Mommy are having an even bigger party soon. They said I could come with them, next time. That’s because…Daddy and Mommy are getting…” He takes a deep breath. “They’re gettingmarried!”
8
PAX
Fuck Alaska.
For fucking real.
I went to Sarah Lawrence to help Chase get settled in back in August; I’ve visited her there a bunch since then, too. I thought that place was over the top and pretentious as fuck, but at least it was close to New York City. Fairbanks, Alaska, is in the middle of fucking nowhere, and it’s freezing. It's nearly November. There's snow everywhere, blanketing everything, so deep and powdery you can’t differentiate between the white lumps that are cars and the white lumps that are houses. Snow on the East Coast is fine—it’s wet and damp and doesn't stick around for long. Occasionally, a blizzard rolls through and the city grinds to a halt for a day or two, but there's a romantic, cozy quality to the city then. Here, the city infrastructure is well prepared for disgusting weather like this; no one has the decency to stop what they're doing and wait it out. They just keep on going to work, going to school, going to buy groceries, and driving. Driving everywhere, as if the roads aren't treacherous swathes of ice, hell-bent on killing anyone who dares try and navigate them.
“Tell me again why we’re here?” Wren mumbles into the collar of his thick wool jacket. We've only crossed the airport parking lot from the terminal to the Europcar rental office, but the fucker has little teardrops of ice forming on the ends of his black eyelashes; he looks like something out of a Brontë novel. Drives me fucking crazy that no matter where we are or what we get into, Jacobi always manages to look like the hero of a tragic romance novel. It's all the thick wavy hair, and that tortured, soulful look he’s perfected on his too-fucking-handsome face.
Ahead of us, Elodie scowls crossly over her shoulder. Not at her boyfriend, for being an annoying pain in the ass. No, she scowls atmefor some unknown reason.
“Ask your buddy there,” she snipes.
“The fuck? I didn’t ask you to come. In fact, I recall protestingveryloudly that I didn’t want either of you assholes to come. I don’t need hand-holding while I visit my girlfriend.”
