“Kane?” I step forward. “Would you like to be helped, hugged, or heard?”
Ezra deflates, still crouched on the floor. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he buries his face in my abdomen.
“Millie already listened to me,” Kane answers.
“Would you rather have a dog or a cat?”
“Cat,” Kane answers at the same time Ezra says, “Dog.”
“Uh-oh,” I laugh, going in for another taco.
Ezra put in an order and picked them up, and while Kane and I waited, I forced him to eat my soup. That hasn’t stopped him from polishing off two of his own tacos, though.
“We’re not getting a fucking cat.”
“I’ll help you get the fucking cat,” I whisper loud enough for Ezra to hear.
“You’re in trouble, you know that?” He winks.
If a minor was not present, I’d have a good comeback for that.
“Would you rather be able to fly or breathe underwater?” Kane asks.
“That’s a good one,” I say. “I think I’d rather fly.”
“Me too,” Ezra agrees, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “My turn. Would you rather be a millionaire or find true love?”
“Millionaire,” Kane replies instantly.
With a roll of my eyes, I ruffle his floppy hair. It’s overdue for a cut. Or maybe he’s growing it out like his brother’s.
I think for a long moment, acutely aware of Ezra’s intimidating gaze. “True love,” I decide, then quickly steamroll to the next question. “Would you rather everyone you know read your thoughts all the time or for everyone you know to see your emotional supportscreenshots?”
“Your what?” Ezra sits back, crossing his arms. “That’s not a thing.”
“Of course it is. They’re the screenshots you take of things that make you happy or things you don’t want to forget—which is ironic because you’ll probably forget you screenshotted them in the first place.”
He throws his head back and guffaws. “Let me see your emotional support screenshots.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? What do you have hidden?”
With a shimmy of my shoulders, I shoot him a wink. “Oh, I have a separate hidden folder.”
“Gross. I’m sitting right here.” Kane groans, slumping low in his chair.
By the time we’ve demolished the last of the tacos, Kane looks like he’s about to fall asleep at the table.
“You ready to go home?” Ezra asks, standing and collecting trash from the table.
“Yeah,” he answers, stumbling to his feet. “Millie?”
“Hmm?”
“You coming?” he asks.
I collect our glasses and tuck them against my chest with one arm. “Coming where?”
