“No,” I say, moving to stand in front of the bookshelf so neither of them can get it.
“I have waited my entire life to show your baby book to the love you bring home.”
Wren puts their hands together. “And I’ve waited my entire life to see it. My mom made me one, but it was lost in one of my many moves. You should thank your lucky stars you have yours and the mom who loved you enough to make one.”
Neither of us comments about how Mom basically said I loved Wren, even though it’s way too early for such a statement. And my heart aches for Wren at the sadness in their tone when they talk about their own missing baby book.
But I point to the two of them, narrowing my eyes. “You can both stop that right now. Nobody needs to be seeing me in my birthday suit sitting in the tub when I was three.”
“Oh, but we do,” Wren pleads.
But it’s the smile on their face, the bite of color in their cheeks that makes me fold like a weak hand in poker.
“I fucking hate you, Ma,” I say as I grab it and put it on the coffee table between them.
When Wren flips it open to the first page, I instantly want to crawl into a hole. Pink. Squishy. Screaming my lungs out. Wearing just a diaper and a hand-knitted beanie.
Wren gasps and covers their mouth. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah. Well. God ain’t gonna help you when we get home.”
Mom flips the page. “He had the skinniest little chicken legs but had more energy than anyone could keep up with.” Then, another flip. “Oh, Lord. Do you remember this day? You’d been out five minutes and then came off your bike into the mud.”
I sip my drink. “I remember you hosed me off in the yard.”
Mom looks to Wren. “Well, would you put all that in the washing machine or the bathtub?”
Wren leans closer, and their smile softens into something quieter.
“Puberty hit late,” Mom says. “Then one summer, it was like…BAM. Shot up like a weed. Went from soft to strong.”
I snort, trying to save some face. “Alright, that’s enough memory lane.”
“This was the day he patched in,” Mom says, looking at the image with pride. I’m shirtless but wearing my cut.
“Your hair,” Wren says. “It was so long.”
“I cut it right after the whole Catfishing thing and never shared a photo of me with it shorter online.”
“You got any tips?” Wren asks.
“About cutting your hair?” I tip my chin to Mom. “Mom did it out in the yard.”
Mom smiles. “I donated it to one of those cancer wig charities.”
“You’re too sweet to be a biker,” Wren says.
Mom shakes her head. “Nope. He has a temper when he gets bothered.”
“I didn’t mean tips about the hair; I meant tips about looking like this.” Wren points to my physique, running their fingers over my arms and shoulders.
“For getting jacked?”
Ma cackles.
“Yeah.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want to work out with me?”
