Also, it’s official, I’ll doanythingto keep these kids happy.
“Come the hell here,” Kane whispers under his breath, holding out his arm, and I snuggle underneath it as the movie rolls on.
Sophie sneaks me a shy knowing smile I pretend not to notice.
Yes, they’re basically in on the big secret—and they’ll know we’re lying if we pretend we’re not ‘doing it,’ in their innocent little words.
I bite back a laugh.
On one hand, it’s a relief. Sneaking around for kisses made me feel eighteen again, like something fun and dirty and illicit. Something to keep from prying little eyes.
But Kane admitted we only have a week left.
Hardly enough time for us tobeanything. I’m worried that little Sophie especially might get the wrong idea.
She said ‘girlfriend’ when she came to see me that night.
But I’m not his girlfriend.
I’m not anything.
And Kane, he’s just safe, all delicious scruff and calloused fingers playing absently across the skin of my arm as we watch the film.
Less than an hour in, Sophie looks like she’s drifting off. She jerks awake every time the music blares with another song.
Dan keeps his eyes glued to the screen, no doubt dreaming of far-off journeys, even if they won’t be as wild as Moana’s.
I miss this age, though.
Back when an animated movie could stir a thousand hopes and magic still felt real.
They’re not trying to grow up too fast like so many kids. That’s wonderful.
In a couple more years, things will be different, I’m sure.
Social media throws children into adulthood.
Soon, they’ll hit puberty and start caring a whole lot more what people think about them. They’ll worry about every selfie and dumb comment, and whether it’ll sink them if some other little brat decides to record it and post it in a group chat.
They’ll measure time in friends and followers.
They won’t count the good days—not consciously—when there isn’t another care in the world besides the next laugh with their awesome dad or close friends who feel like extended family.
I know I didn’t with Ethan, Hattie, and Gramps.
Feels like only yesterday when we’d hunker around the fireplace with PopPop here while he read us dramatic stories with Greek heroes and scary minotaurs. Honestly, I think he made up half the tales he told or heavily embellished old myths.
Kane brushes his lips through my hair, snapping my attention back to the present.
The kids are half-asleep now.
I’m not as close to him as I could be, and he tugs me closer.
His hand grazes my ass.
A shiver lashes us both.
At this angle, with the blanket and everyone facing the screen, nobody notices. But it’s close enough to stay hyper-aware.
