“So they’re already half-way there.”
“I think you’re being optimistic. I’d say one-third.”
“Of course you would,” he grumbles.
“I’m right about this,” I insist. “I bet when we go to the clubhouse tomorrow, the cease-fire’ll be over.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
I snort. “We won’t have to see. We’ll hear it from the parking lot.”
“So we gotta get them to get along first.”
“And back in school.”
“Yeah, that.”
“And there’s my mom to consider.”
His voice and face blank in that way it does when he’s suppressing emotions. “She’s not moving in with us.”
I shudder. “God forbid. But I need to give her notice and some time to get used to the idea. And she’ll want the back rent I’m supposed to be paying.”
“How many months?”
I think about it. “How old is Henri?”
He nods. “It all makes sense, Selkie. And you know I don’t say that lightly when it comes to you.”
“You have a lovely sense of humor.”
“That wasn’t humour. I’m dead serious.”
I bite my tongue. “Ow,” I exclaim.
“What’s wrong,’” he says as he straightens up. He looks alarmed.
“I bit my tongue.”
“Oh.” He relaxes. Then he says, “I’m not gonna not live without you forever. I don’t give a shit whether Elle can’t let you go or the kids can’t get along. We’ll fuckin’ sort things out as we go. That’s what families do.”
He’s right, but... “That’s how parents get drug addicts.”
He capitulates. “How long do I have to wait?”
“Six months.”
He groans. “That’s a long time.”
“I know.” I think of all the things I won’t be able to do with Eight on a full-time basis. “But we can manage this. Our children aren’t innocent. They’ll know what’s going on behind closed doors. I can spend the night here sometimes. And you can spend the night at my place.”
“Not a fuckin’ chance.”
“Mom likes you. She’ll make you breakfast.”
“Not. A. Fucking. Chance,” he repeats.
“Fine.” I pretend I’m annoyed by his stubbornness, but really, I’m relieved. I don’t want him to spend the night at mom’s. She has this habit of walking in on me day or night.
