Bro is frozen, staring at her. I take one for the team.
“But my angel, Mas’s baby, Paco’s coparent, cinnamon roll of my heart,” I babble, hand flailing because I don’t know what to do, “You didn’t eat yet. And Mas made all that for you. The bastard wouldn’t feed any to me, saying you came first. That has to mean something. And he didn’t even get me a beer when I asked. And you have to eat. We double dicked you good, and you need your strength. And you love to eat. I love to eat. Mas especially loves to eat, mainly your ass, but food too.”
Her eyes slice through me. Not cruel or angry. Just tired, so I blabber on.
“And you love naps. And I love naps, and we could just nap together. I won’t even touch you. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my dick. I swear!”
I hold up my fingers to make whatever that thing is the Boy Scouts do because I know we were in Scouts, even if Mas’s dumbass doesn’t remember.
“And the pool. You didn’t even get on the unicorn floatie with me. Paco did. He loves it here. Loves me. He’s our son, and you agreed to joint custody, and I need him for my healing. He licked my side, and made it felt better. See.”
I angle my body to show her, and she frowns. I keep going because that fucker Mas is no help at all. The slump of his shoulder says that he’s already given up this fight, but I haven’t.
“You shouldn’t let him lick you. Dogs’ mouths have bacteria that could?—”
“See! This is why you need to be here. I don’t know these things. Mas doesn’t know these things. I could die from Paco. Our son is basically trying to kill me, and I don’t even know it. Bad Paco!”
I wag my finger at him. The tiny murderer pops up and trots out, getting away with his crimes.
“And I get my cast off on Monday. I’ll be able to fuck you even better. Mas and I could really get into tag teaming you. Buried deep in both holes, and you wouldn’t have to do a thing. And?—”
“Emilio,” she interrupts, crossing the room to me. Her hand lands on my chest. The exact place that has the weird hurt. “I need space. I need my home and my bed.”
She says that same damn word. The worst word in the English language.
“Sofia,” Like the chump Mas is, he steps toward her. Hands open like she’ll trot out of here like Paco did. “We get that. Em and I really do, but you don’t have to go right now. You could just stay the weekend. Ignore Em and his bullshit about tag teaming. Just stay and relax. We’ll leave you alone?—”
“What? Not fuck. That sucks.” Mas glares at me like he’s about to throw hands. Sofia’s eyes shift from him to me, hardening. She snatches her hand back. That’s not good. “I mean, yeah, whatever you want, my angel. I’ll keep my chubby to myself, but if you want my mouth to help you fall asleep tonight?—”
“Shut the fuck up! You’re making everything worse.”
“Boys, I appreciate it, but?—”
“Don’t run, Sofia.” His hand caresses down her back, making me jealous. “You don’t have to with us. We’ll give you whatever you want. Space, time, whatever. Just don’t run away from this. If it’s too much, then we’ll talk about it, and I’ll duct tape Em’s mouth shut.”
“Hey, that’s not nice,” I whine, knowing he’s right, but it still stings. My mouth is one of my best qualities.
“I’m not running.” She spots her bag and clothes spilling out on the chair by the windows and steps around both of us to get to it. She’s already pulling on her underwear underneath the towel. “I just need to breathe without both of you watching me. Without pressure. Without?—”
She stops talking, tugs her jeans on, then turns her back to us to yank a shirt over her head.
Without us.
I feel it even though she doesn’t say it. Massimo swallows, jaw working. “I didn’t mean to pressure you earlier. Neither of us did.”
“I know. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” she says, looking a bit sad. I’m sad. Mas is sad. Everyone is sad. The only way to fix it, since Mas is doing a terrible fucking job, is for her to stay. But she won’t. And I feel lousier now than ever before.
“But you’ll come back,” I blurt, because the silence between sentences is killing me. “Right? You’ll text. Call. Let me send dick pics. You’ll send a pic of Paco, your tits, and that fat ass? Like balance. Right? Work-life balance. That’s what it means. I send you my goods, you send me yours. I’m super good at balancing shit.”
A tiny laugh escapes her. Barely there. Gone before I can catch it.
“I’ll text when I get home. After I figure out how to get home.”
That’s it.
That’s the nail in my coffin.
I’m dead. Mas looks murdered. Both of us standing there bleeding out like when the Sox fucked up their World Series comeback in 2019. Yeah, that fucking bad.
