Hopper pulls away from the curb, and I watch as Holmes puts his arm around his brother, leading him inside.
I’m not shocked that Maverick kissed me, given his penchant for flirting. I’m floored, though, that I kissed him back.
I wish he’d been sober.
Settling back, I stare at the road ahead and try not to think about the fact that I exchanged numbers with him right at the end there. Or, in a panic-inducing turn of events, that I’m sitting next to my birth father.
“I suppose running by Pierce’s place and curb-stomping him until I feel better is highly illegal,” Hopper muses, stopping at the red light. “Right, Detective?”
Rainey Street, usually so busy and overrun with college students and tourists, is quiet. The high-end engine goes silent while we wait for the light.
“Very,” I answer, amused at the sincerity in his question.
“That’s too bad,” Hopper says with a wry grin. “Even though we’re not related, my friends are like brothers, and their children…”
He looks off into the distance, his silence telling me more than words ever could. I’m also stupidly relieved to have him verify that I’m not related to Maverick.
I mean, I kinda knew that, but still.
The light turns green, and Hopper chuckles to himself. “If you wanna see a grown man cry, just ask me about the first time they called me Uncle.”
His eyes develop a shine as he turns onto Cesar Chavez.
“Sounds like you have a special relationship with the Wildlings,” I say, using the popular nickname.
He nods.
“My husband and I…we lost the baby we were having through a surrogate,” he says, the casual revelation a shock to the system.
I could have had a sibling?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It really fucked me up,” he says, tapping his temple. “But Maverick, he was the first one to crawl up on my lap and tuck in against my chest. Like he could tell I was sad.”
I bite the inside of my lip, incredibly moved by that visual.
“He’s thoughtful?” I finally ask as we pass familiar downtown streets.
“More thoughtful than anyone gives him credit for, including himself.” Hopper shakes his head. “‘Don’t be thad, Uncle Hop,’” he says, imitating a little kid’s lisp. “‘I made you a pawt-hoder.’”
Hopper rubs his chest at the memory. “I still have that potholder.”
Maverick had once shared a throwback picture of himself and Holmes. They were maybe five years old, exact duplicates of each other, with twin manes of gorgeous corkscrew curls. I can picture his sincerity so clearly.
“Sounds like he was a special kid.”
“He’s a special adult too.” Hopper shakes his head. “We kept some important information from him, and I think it makes him doubt that.”
Curiosity piqued, I say, “He mentioned something about that. No details, just…he’s hurt.”
Hopper goes silent, and he presses his lips together, like maybe he wants to cry.
I wonder what that’s about.
“Anyway,” he says after a moment, “after he called me Uncle Hop, all the other kids started doing the same. And not just with me, but with all of their fathers’ closest friends. They could see how important it was to us.” Hopper hums to himself. “I’m lucky. I have a half-brother who would remind me that I am not half anything, and niblings who love me, even now that they’re all grown up.”
“I’m guessing that if your baby had survived, they would have been loved by so many cousins.”
