I’m not exactly thrilled to let go of my wife, who feels more like a lifeline, more like family than anyone else in this room. She’s the reason I’m brave enough to be here. Still, I let go of Stella and set my hand in his.
“Still playing ball?” Dad grunts. If Felicity keeps up withmy games, she either doesn’t share with my father, or he doesn’t bother to listen.
“Am I working as a professional athlete still? Yes.” I peer around my father. “Where did Mason go? We haven’t been introduced yet.” I wonder—not for the first time—if the kid even knows that I exist.
“You finally came to meet your brother,” Dad says.
“Well, I stopped waiting for you to bring him my way.”
Stella coughs and nudges my side with her hip. It’s a wifely nudge that tells me arguing isn’t going to help me right now.
But Dad and I were always good at arguing.
But—crap. Here I am, calling Dad out for not introducing me to Mason, and I haven’t introduced my wife yet. Stella never met Dad before today. He left us before Brice and I were close. So, even Brice only met the man once or twice, I clear my throat. “Dad, Felicity, this is my wife, Stella Everly.”
“You kept your own name?” Dad says. “Probably wise.” He looks Stella over, and I don’t like the curl of his lip.
“What does that mean?” I say.
Dad shrugs. “You’re young. She’sveryyoung.” He shakes his head. “You always made…” He’s still looking at Stella. “Interestingchoices. If things go south?—”
“Hey, that’smy wife,” I growl. “And things aren’t going to go south.” I curse beneath my breath and earn another nudge from Stella. “I’m not you,” I say to my father. “We’ll be fine. You can be friendlier, or we can leave.”
My father’s lip flattens in a pressed line, and he gives me a hard glare. Something I’ve said hit its mark.
Stella doesn’t let the awkward silence linger long though.She steps up, hand out to my dad. “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Graves.”
Felicity giggles at her formality. “I’m guessing you can call him Peter,” she says with a wink. Maybe the woman has a tic. Maybe every time she speaks it forces her right eye closed. At least she’s being friendly.
“Yes,” Dad says. “Peter is fine.” His gaze flicks back to me. “So, no invite to the wedding? You couldn’t take a second to call your old man?”
“I don’t recall being invited toyourwedding,” I say. “The secondorthe third one.” I’m ready to walk out, to see him again in another five years, when a redheaded little crab comes scuttling through the living room entrance.
Mason.
I came here for Mason. I came here because Stella adored her brother and lost him all too soon. I’m here because she knew I needed to meet mine. I’m not here for my father.
The little boy scurries over to me, his hand stretched out like a pincer. Just when I think he wants to hold my hand, he nips my leg with his claw.
“Mason,” Felicity coos, crouching down until she’s at the same level as her son. The boy looks at his mother, and his freckled face—so much more like Felicity’s than mine or Dad’s—softens. “This is Roman.”
“Roman,” he repeats with a pinch of his clawed fingers.
Felicity pats Mason’s back. “He is your brother.”
Sittingon a couch that may cost more than my cabin, I sipon Felicity’s iced tea and look at Mason, who stares right back at me.
Taking his fingers, Mason traces the tattoo on my forearm—Brother, in Brice’s handwriting. He peers up at me, waiting, asking without speaking.
“It says brother,” I tell him. My body buzzes with a bizarre ease around Mason, a stark contrast to the discomfort I feel in my father’s home.
Mason tilts his head. “I never had a brother,” he says, a playful lilt to his voice.
I know the feeling. And when I pictured a brother, I pictured Brice, someone my age, someone I could be friends with. “Neither have I,” I tell him.
“You like crabs?” His hands are no longer pincers, and his little feet dangle at the very end of the couch.
“Sure. I like crabs.” It feels like the only right answer. “Have you ever eaten a crab?”
