Iamonly human.
“Uncle Jacob!” Rhiannon lunges for me. I take her and hug her close. She leans back to inspect my face with solemn eyes.
“Have you had a bad day?” she asks.
“Uh…” I can’t unload onto a child. “I had a tough moment,” I say.
“That’s OK. We can do some calming breaths together and maybe draw our feelings.” She pats my shoulder. “You can use my new pencils.”
Tippi beams at me over her head, and my heart melts. The nerve of my father calling Sadie “immature” and Leo a “lout” will never cease to astonish me. They’re raising a child who meets distress with kindness and practical ideas, love and boundaries. They’re already better parents than he ever dreamed of being. Or cared to be.
“Come on in,” Tippi says. “I’ve got family dinner almost ready. Tacos sound good?”
My chest aches at the thought of being able to come home to this every day. Toher. I can’t have that, but I can make the most of every second she’s here. “Tacos sound great.”
Family dinner is chaotic and glorious. Rhiannon chatters non-stop, taking us all through her day at school between mouthfuls of tortilla. Sadie yawns her way through three tacos in record time, and Leo keeps trying to sneak extra cheese onto everyone’s plate. Ezra and Toren grumble and gurgle as they snooze in their baby carriers, soothed by the low hum of everyone’s voices. There’s laughter, overlapping conversation, set to a backdrop of a gentle clatter of cutlery and plates being passed back and forth. It’s mundane. It’sspecial beyond measure.
After the cold, echoing silence of my father’s house, the warmth in this little kitchen hits me like sunlight after a storm, and for the first time all evening, I feel my shoulders properly loosen.
Chapter 11
Jacob
Idon’t even realise I’m rubbing my thumb into the inside of my wrist until Tippi catches my hand.
“Hey,” she says softly. “We can still stay home and watch terrible telly. I hear there’s a very promising documentary about otters on later.”
Her eyes are bright and teasing, but there’s no pressure in them. She’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, hair piled up in a loose knot, a black camisole slipping off one shoulder. Nothing about her looks like she’s about to take me to my first orgy at the Pink Sugar Club. She looks like she always does in my house: like chaos disguised as comfort.
“I thought you said you were treating this as a work event,” I mutter, my voice drier than I intended. “You said you needed fresh material.”
She grins. “Itisa work event. A deeply rigorous professional environment. Lots of… networking.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “That’s not what networking means.”
“It is in my industry.” She scoots closer, knees bumping my thigh. “So. Last chance. We can stay. I can make popcorn. You can point out continuity errors in crime dramas - or otter dramas - and I’ll beveryturned on.”
I exhale slowly. My home is quiet and warm, and entirely predictable. The club will not be any of those things. I can already feel the anticipation fizzing under my skin like static, everywhat ifflickering through my mind in high definition.
What if it’s too loud.
What if I freeze.
What if I don’t like seeing Tippi with other people.
What if I do…
I look at her. At the little crease between her brows that appears only when she’s genuinely worried. At the way she’s holding herself back from bouncing, keeping still on purpose for my benefit.
“I want to go,” I decide. My heart gives a hard, nervous thump. “I…amalso terrified. But I want to go.”
Her face softens, everything bright and golden. “There it is,” she murmurs. “My brave boy.”
Heat slicks under my skin at the words. I clear my throat, shaking it off. “You did say we’d go over… guidelines. Again.”
“Absolutely.” She lets go of my hand only to crawl to the edge of the bed, where she’s laid out clothes like an altar. “But first, wardrobe. Because if I’m taking you to Pink Sugar, you are not going to show up in your usual Arcus funeral chic.”
I glance at the neat rows. She’s clearly raided my wardrobe while I was in the shower.
