His nose twitches. His lips too.
He doesn’t look down at his shirt. Or his pants. Or his shoes.
Holycrap, those look like expensive shoes. I hadn’t noticed his shoes until they were coated with my son’s vomit.
He leans forward, closer to Bash, and puts his hands to Bash’s sides. “How’s your tummy, little guy? You okay? That looked like it hurt.”
Fuck. Me.
He couldn’t have had a more perfect and simultaneously worse reaction if he’d rehearsed it a million times.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp.
“No, she’s not,” Sabrina says.
Laney snorts. “Take it back, Emma. You’re not sorry.”
“Okay. Okay.” I nod. Shake my head. Nod again.Shit. “I am trying very hard to not be sorry.”
Bash sticks a finger in his mouth—yes, the mouth of destruction—and eyes Jonas with those big brown eyes that could talk me into nearly anything. “Eye keem?”
Jonas snorts, a smile lighting up his face.
He’s sitting there covered in toddler puke andhe’s smiling.
Oh, god.
This isnotgood.
Not good at all. Not for Bash. Not for me. Not for our future.
“Made some room for it, didn’t you?” Jonas asks him.
I leap out of my seat while Bash nods.
Too much. This is too much. “C’mon, Bash. Let’s get cleaned up.”
And then I’ll talk him into the nap he needs but won’t want to take.
And I’ll insist I have to nap with him too.
Anything to avoid looking at Jonas any more than necessary.
“Thank you,” I stutter as I grab Bash’s hand. “You make a very good target. I should’ve told you to bring clean clothes. I always bring clean clothes.”
He holds my gaze for a moment that lasts a lifetime.
“I’ll be okay,” is all he says.
Out loud.
The quiet part though?
He’s my son too. I can be a good parent. I’ll do the work. This doesn’t faze me. I can handle anything. I want to handle anything.
That’s the part that scares me.
“You need any help?” he adds.
