Bren looks startled. “Wait, what? It’s only seven and we just started dinner. Let him finish, Elodie. This is great—look at how well he’s eating.”
“I said no.” She tries to heft Jude up, but he’s perfected the art of boneless defiance, and he slithers downward even as she tries to hold him. A bullish fist has wrapped about her throat, and she’s strugglingto see straight. Control has slipped, gravity off center, and when Bren hovers a hand at her elbow as if he’s going to tug her away, she all but snarls at him.
“You’re making no sense.” Bren’s eyebrows draw together. “He needs the protein. You give him a handful of crackers and that’s it for the day.”
“Oh,Igive him?” Her voice hurtles up a notch. “That’s all he wants to eat. I can’t force food down his throat—”
“So let him eat now since he wants to—”
“I SAID NO.” She doesn’t remember deciding to sweep her arm across the table, catching the plate of half-eaten steak, the gravy jug, the cutlery, and sending them crashing to the floor in a wild explosion.
Food splatters against the cabinets, broken plate skitters across the floor. Fury burns across her vision in a white hot brand, and she stands there, breathing ragged as her lungs heave in and out.
Bren stares at her.
Elodie yanks Jude into her arms and this time he doesn’t try to worm away. His eyes have gone saucer-huge, and a tiny, unsteady whimper starts in his throat. Her hair tangles around them both, an explosion of dank locks that cascade over Jude like a protective blanket.
“What the hell”—Bren’s voice is oddly steady—“is wrong with you?”
She can’t look at him.
“He’s not growing.” He yanks the frying pan off the stove and slams it in the sink, where steam hisses. “But you know that, right? He’s six years old, he should be growing like a weed, but I don’t think he’s even gone up an inch since I met you.”
“He’s only four.” She says it so quietly.
“Like, Jesus, he’s losing weight. He’s in the lowest percentile for weight and height, and at this point, we have to start doing tests to see if he needs growth hormones—” He catches himself.
A dark, incandescent fury begins to spill over Elodie’s vision. Her hands shake around Jude, her grip tightening until he squeaks in protest. Everything narrows to this: the flush creeping over Bren’s ears as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her.
“What the fuck,” she says.
Bren closes his eyes for a second. “Elodie…”
“Did you take him to a doctor?” she snarls. “Withouttelling me?”
Jude cups his hands over his ears.
“That’s illegal. You can’tdo that,” she shouts. “He’smychild—”
“Well, I did.” Something snaps in Bren’s eyes. “Because you won’t. You can count your son’srib bones, but that doesn’t freak you out. It sure as hell freaksmeout. Oliver took me aside at Thanksgiving—”
“Who the hell is—”
“Ava’s husband!” He yells it now. “I don’t know where you were, but Jude tripped, and Oliver picked him up, and he told me he’s shocked at how light he is. He said to bring Jude into the clinic and he’d do a general checkup, just to see what’s going on. I’ve got a reference to a psychologist and an eating disorder specialist, because this kid is fucking malnourished.”
Elodie shoves him.
He is immovable, built of steady oak and iron and corded muscle, and all he does is grab her wrist in response, yanking her close while she struggles to keep hold of Jude with one arm. Jude has begun to cry, his fright genuine and unsure.
She tries to pull free, but Bren holds on. “You have no goddamn right to take him anywhere without me.” Her voice tips into a scream. “You kidnappedmy son.”
“Jesus Christ, can you even hear yourself? Why wouldn’t you want your fucking husband to look out for our kid?”
Jude’s whimpering turns to full-out wails and she has to raise hervoice over him. “He doesn’t need your help! He needs me. He only needs me.”
“The last thing he needs is you right now.”
“Don’t youever say that!”
