Prologue
Three years ago
Well, I guess I’m not getting laid tonight.
The indignant glare my wife levels me with as soon as she opens the front door tells me the chances of me getting told, "I have a headache" again for the umpteenth time are at an all time high. Sarah doesn’t say a damn word as she stalks into the house. She doesn’t even raise her voice in greeting as she slams both her work and baby bags down on the side table in our entryway, shouldering past me on her way into the kitchen.
At least one of my girls seems happy to see me, though. Terra, having grasped the concept of zooming around on her chubby toddler legs more confidently than her identical twin, Tati, comes tearing in the open door next. “Daddy!” she squeals, running at me with her arms in the air.
“You give ‘em hell at daycare today?” I ask her the same question I do every weekday, scooping her up and plastering her face with sloppy kisses.
She nods, her wild black locks—identical to my own, because there’s no doubt they are my little spawns—flopping against her face. She growls like a menacing bobcat kitten before telling me, “I bited Liam today.”
My lips tip up and I chuckle. “That’s—”
“Donotfinish that with ‘my girl,’ Gannett,” Sarah hisses, slamming the pantry door. “We’re not supposed to beencouragingthis behavior.Remember?”
I frown. “That’s no bueno, my chunka-munk,” I quickly correct, tickling her belly.
“But him bited me too!” she chirps after giggling.
“Who bit who first?” I ask, scrunching my brows.
“Gannett, does it matter?! She should not bebitinganyone,” Sarah huffs, dropping the pot of water on the stove with so much force, I grow concerned she may crunch it like a beer can. “Damnit, why do I have to doeverythingaround here? Why am Ialwaysthe bad guy?” she mutters to herself, making sure she’s loud enough so I can hear.
She storms around the kitchen island, pulling Terra from my arms and sitting her down on one of the booster seats at the table. She crouches down in front of Terra, narrowing her eyes at our feistier daughter. “It does not matter who bit who first. Two wrongs don’t make a right. We don’t hurt our friends.”
“Liam’snotmy fwiend. Him fwiends with Tati. Him say me a meanie,” Terra snaps back, scowling.
The hair might be mine, butthat scowl—that’s all Sarah,right there.Jee-zus.
Sarah rolls her eyes, clearly over it. “Well,gnawing on himis probably why he thinks that…” She rises to her full height again, going back to the stove to add the pasta to the now boiling water.
“Here, let me,” I tell her, pulling the spoon from her hand so I can take over stirring.
“Ohh-ho-ho—” She huffs out a humorless laugh. “Nowyou help. Look at you, Gannett!” She gestures at me, waving a hand up and down. “Couldn’t you have started supperbeforeI got home? Not all of usdrinkour supper here, you know! And did we wake you from your customary nap?!”
I scoff. “Oh! Pardon me forunwinding! So sorry, I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to be tired after a long day at work!”
“And what? I just effed off all day?! Is that what you think I do? Just because I have an office job and I don’t spend all day hauling lobster traps, that means I don’t work?!”
“Never said that,” I mutter, absently swirling the spoon around in the frothy water.
“You didn’t have to. That’s the thing with you,Gannett,” she hisses my name out with venom in her voice. “You don’t even acknowledge that I work all day too, and then you expect me to do it all at home as well! I drop the girls off at daycare. I go to work, then I pick them up from daycare because you’re already half in the bag. I—” She sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide. “Tatiana!” she shouts, scurrying towards the still open front door.
I drop the spoon, rushing after her to find Tati sniffling on the porch, rubbing at her soaked eyes. Sarah scooches and scoops Tati up, holding her close to her chest. “Oh, Mommy’s so sorry, baby,” she coos softly, all while glaring at me.
A thud in the kitchen calls my attention backwards, just in time to catch Terra calling out, “me otay!” while rubbing at herforehead—evidence that she just managed to dismount from her booster seat with all her characteristic un-gracefulness. At the same time, hissing from the direction of the stove tells me the water is boiling over. Shit, I still can’t get over how everything manageable can all go to hell so quickly.
I quickly turn down the stove and then snag Terra before she can run away. “Let me take a look at your noggin, monkey,” I tell her. “Yeesh,” I say, grimacing at the egg starting to form. “You sure that doesn’t hurt?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “Me stwong.”
I snort. “Thick-headed, like me, is more like it…”
I ruffle her hair and then send her into the living room to play. Terra, also our more independent twin, keeps herself pretty well entertained. As predicted, the sound of her bin of toys being upended—likely scattering her crayons everywhere,again—echoes out into the kitchen. The sound doesn’t grate on me nearly as much as it does Sarah. I can’t say that I really understand why either. It’s just a way for our girls to exercise their independence, and I see no issue with that.
If I had to make a guess, it probably has something to do with Sarah’s absurd desire to keep our house looking like a home organizer’s wet dream. I mean, what did she expect when we had kids? There are going to be Crayola marks on the wall. It’s just a thing kids do, isn’t it?
