“Lindy,” I say, like he should know her name, when really—why should he? Because of one little introduction? I don’t want him knowing my sister’s name. I already have a Brent problem; I don’t need a flirty Lucca problem, too, when it comes to my sister. “And I don’t know. Probably grabbing something inside—with herboyfriend.” At least Brent’s good for one thing.
“I’m just confused,” he says. “You aren’t the mom, but you sort of act like you are.”
I’m so tired of people pointing out that I’m not Wyatt’s mom. I’m very aware of the fact. “I don’t act like his mom,” I say with a scoff, yet I know that I do at times. I don’t know how not to when it comes to Wyatt. I’ve been protective and motherly since the day that boy was born. I’m protective of WyattandLindy.
I quit soccer, and both Lindy and I moved home after she got pregnant. She stopped drinking—with help from me and our parents—but she went into heavy, brutal withdrawal, all while experiencing pregnancy symptoms. It was terrifying for her and the baby. After Wyatt was born, her body was worn out. She’d experienced so much havoc. She went into a wretched postpartum. Keeping her from drinking was atwenty-four-hour-a-day challenge. I became in charge of mothering Wyatt. I fed him. I changed him. I got up in the night with him. And I helped Mom care for Lindy. It was the most difficult and exhausting time in my life.
And after Lindy was better, I couldn’t quite turn off my motherly instincts for Wyatt or my sister. I’ve tried. I’m still trying. And Lindy is more than patient with me. But in a lot of ways, we’re like coparents. And more often than not, my sister is happy to let me take the lead.
I don’t say any of that—because Lucca Cruz doesn’t need any more windows into my life than he’s already gotten.
I peer over at him to find him watching me. “You do,” he says, referring to my mothering of Wyatt.
“Well, if I do, I have my reasons.”
“Cake time!” Mom says, and Lindy comes walking out of the house with the 3D soccer ball cake I watched a million YouTube videos and spent seven hours to get right. I’m grateful for the interruption, for a reason to look away from Lucca’s prying eyes.
“Your tricks are finished. You don’t have to stay,” I tell Lucca. I clear my throat, mustering some manners. “Thank you for coming—for Wyatt.”
But Lucca only smirks. “You think I’d miss cake? Cake is the best part, McCrae.”
I swallow, a lump forming in my throat. I justhadto ask him to come, and now I’m not sure he’s ever going to leave.
I move three steps to the side, finding a better view of Wyatt with his cake and removing myself from Lucca. Only—Lucca follows after me.
So, I do what any sane adult woman would do: I pretend he isn’t there.
“Wyatt,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Smile!” He stands behind the table Mom has set his cake on and grins for mycamera. He’s got one tooth missing up front, making this the perfect picture.
“Maggie, I want one with you, Wyatt, and the cake,” Mom says.
“Yes,” Lindy says. “Aunt Maggie made the best cake ever.”
Feeling the eyes of Lucca on my back, I try to do what I’d do if this were just my family. I round the table, crouch next to my favorite guy, and smile for Mom’s and Lindy’s cameras.
“Happy birthday, buddy,” I say, kissing the top of Wyatt’s head. I step back in line, next to my dad, making sure I am two bodies away from Lucca.
And then?—
“You made the cake?” Lucca says from my opposite side.
I jump a little, my hand flattening to my heart. “Are you following me?”
“I am,” he says without reservation. “The cake?”
“So what? I made it.”
“Maggie always makes Wyatt’s cakes,” Dad so helpfully offers from my other side.
“It’s a hobby. So yes, I do. I love my nephew, and I bake. Is that a crime?”
Lucca chuckles. “I’m not sure why you’re so defensive. It’s just cake.”
Dad laughs, too.
“I’m not defensive. I don’t know why you have so many questions.” I give one curt glare to Lucca before turning back to Wyatt.
“Because maybe,” he says, and I peer back at him. He lifts one shoulder. “We should be friends.”
