Page 20 of Michael: The Hawthornes

“Was he big or small?”

“Huge,” she said, sniffling a bit as she smiled. “He weighed nine and a half pounds when he was born.”

“Tell me somethin’ else,” I demanded.

“What?”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know to ask about,” I said in frustration. I’d missed it all. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to know.

“He sleeps in bed with me,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. “He drags my old pink blanket around like it’s one of his limbs. He doesn’t like the crust on anything, so he won’t eat it. Um… he always wears sunglasses outside because he says it’s too bright even when it’s overcast. That’s why I put them on him when I sent him outside.”

I shook my head and stared at the floor. It was just bits and pieces. I didn’t know him. I looked at him, and I loved him, but I had no fucking clue what he was like.

“Please,” she said, walking toward me. “Let me explain.”

I glared at her. “I don’t want our boy’s first memory of me to be us fightin’,” I ground out. “So let’s table this for now.”

“I don’t want to table it,” she argued. “I at least have the right to actually tell you what happened.”

“You bailed. You have no fuckin’ rights,” I shot back, struggling to keep my voice down.

If she’d argued again, I could’ve maintained my distance. If she’d stayed frustrated and earnest, I would’ve been able to shut her down. But as what little fight she had drained out of her, and her chin began to tremble, I was thrown back to our senior year of high school when she’d shown up after a particularly bad fight with her parents, hollow-eyed and sad.

“You’re absolutely right,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m just so glad that we’re finally here.” She dropped her face into her hands and shuddered with a suppressed sob. “God, it took so long.”

I’d never been able to see her cry without doingsomethingand I supposed I still wasn’t able to, because before I realized what I’d done, my arms were wrapped around her. She pressed her forehead against my chest and shuddered.

“I know you won’t forgive me,” she murmured. “I know. But we’re finally here.”

“Shh,” I whispered against the top of her head. Jesus, how had it been three years since the last time I’d felt her against me? How had so much time passed? It seemed impossible. Her hair felt the same, but I noticed now it got caught in my beard.

We were quiet for a while as she calmed down. She smelled the same, but she didn’t feel the same. She was leaner than she’d been before, more angles than curves, but she still felt incredible. As she slid her arms around my waist and pressed her chest more fully against me, I knew I needed to put some space between us. My mind was starting to travel a very dangerous road.

“You named my boyRhett?” I muttered, loosening my arms.

“What’s wrong with Rhett?” she asked, pulling away. “It’s an awesome name.”

“If you say so.”

“His name is perfect,” she said stubbornly.

“He sounds like some old southern gentleman.”

“Good.”

“We’re not southern.”

“I gave him your name, too,” she pointed out.

“And apparently Rumi’s,” I said dryly, running my hands over my face.

“Well, I knew—” She looked flustered as she glanced around the kitchen. “I knew that you’d choose Rumi, but I wanted him to have your name.” She looked up at me defiantly. “So that’s why.”

I stared at her.

“Who’s here?” my little brother Titus yelled as he barreled through the front door. “Someone’s car is out front. Hello? Where is everyone?”

He came into the kitchen on a run, sliding in his socks halfway to the table before catching himself.

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