His two children sat on the sofa, in their matching Christmas pajamas from Cricket—Navy with red and white candy canes—staring at their father with concern and trepidation. Had Atticus done bath time this early? Oof. That wasn’t good. They were little but not so little they still sent them to bed when the sun was up.
It was Jagger who broke the silence, timidly saying to Atticus, “Daddy?—”
Atticus held up a finger, cutting him off. “Not a single word until your other father comes home. Just…shh. Please.”
“Okay,” Jagger whispered. “But…I have something important to tell you.”
Atticus raised his weary head to glance at his brown haired boy. “Yes?”
“I have to poop,” he said in a whisper, sounding apologetic at least.
The neighbors could probably hear his husband’s sigh of resignation. “Fine. Go. Then come right back here.”
“Freckles?” Jericho asked, hesitantly, closing the door behind him.
His husband’s gaze snapped upwards, a look of relief washing over him. “Oh, thank God.”
“Gosh,” Jett corrected.
“Yeah, that,” Atticus muttered, looking at Jett. “Why don’t you take a bathroom break too?”
Jett frowned. “Cause I don’t have to go?”
Atticus gave him a tight smile. “Try. For me.”
Jett’s sigh matched Atticus’s for pitch and volume as he slid off the couch and went into the spare bathroom. The moment the door closed, Atticus crossed the room and fell into his arms, burying his face in his neck. Jericho did the same, inhaling his scent on Atticus’s skin. He loved when he smelled like him. It stirred something deep and primal within him.
“Rough day, Freckles?” Jericho asked, unable to hide his amusement.
“Our kids are monsters,” he muttered, words muffled against his skin.
Jericho scoffed. “What? Our adorable, angelic little cherubs. Surely not,” he mocked.
Atticus ignored him to ask, “Why didn’t you pick up your phone? I called you three times?”
Jericho frowned, slipping a hand into his pocket to find his phone. “Shit, sorry, baby. Looks likesomeone—”Jagger— “got into my phone again and put my calls on silent.”
“I told you that you should use face ID or biometrics. Your codes are so easy our preschoolers figured it out.”
Jericho chuckled. “Sorry, Freckles. I was so engrossed in finishing up that job for Coleman that I didn’t even notice how fast the day flew by. I finally got that piece of shit running and out of my garage though.”
“That’s nice,” Atticus said, trying—and failing—to sound like he meant it.
“Okay, Freckles. What’d I miss?”
Atticus sighed, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Oh, just a trip down to the school to have a chat with the school psychiatrist.”
“Again?” Jericho said, frowning.
Atticus shook his head. “No, no. Not the counselor. Not the clinical social worker. A whole ass psychiatrist, called in special, with MD after her name. They brought her in. Special. Just for our kids. She insisted that I come to the school immediately after today’s incident.”
Jericho’s stomach grew slippery. They’d had plenty of problems with the two boys since their adoption, but things had been improving so much lately. They were still working through their massive trauma—most of which even Atticus and Jericho weren’t privy to—and that left them acting out sometimes, trying to inadvertently push their parents and even teachers and other students away.
What could they have done this time that warranted calling in an actual medical doctor? “Explain.”
Atticus gave him a humorless smirk. “Oh, no, baby. This is more of a show and tell.”
He slipped from Jericho’s arms and took his hand, walking him into the kitchen. There was a metal tin decorated with the typical holiday fare…snowmen, Christmas trees, nutcrackers, the usual. Atticus leaned against the counter, folding his arms over his chest, gazing pointedly at the container.
