He speaks slowly, enunciating each word sarcastically, talking to me like a five-year-old asking for a history of thecrayon. But I’m not a child. He is. Insert photo of me sticking out my tongue here.
…Maybe he has a point.
He stops in front of the bedroom door, planting his hands on his hips. It’s a very adult pose and looks ridiculous on his toddler body.
“There was an additional clause,” he mentions, like he suddenly remembered something important.
“Of course there was,” I mutter to myself. “Lay it on me. What was theadditionalclause?”
“The agreement I made with Jay stipulated that whoever occupied the upstairs living quarters at the time of my rebirth would assume temporary guardianship.”
“Temporarywhat?”
“Guard-ian-ship,” he repeats, slowly as he strolls into the bedroom.
“You built childcare into your contract with my uncle?”
“It’s not childcare,” he argues, clearly offended. “I need someone who can reach things and talk to people. It’s hard to convince the normal population that I’m an adult when I look like this.” He gestures to his two-foot-tall body before turning to pull open the bottom dresser drawer.
“So… Childcare,” I repeat.
“No.” He pulls out a pair of tiny boxer shorts that are small enough to put on a Build-A-Bear and tugs them on under his shirt. “I look young, but I’m not actually young. My mind is several hundred years old. My body is the only thing that is new and vulnerable.” He continues digging through the lime green dresser.
“So, Jeremiah agreed that whoever lived upstairs had to take care of you.”
“Help me. And yes.”
“This doesn’t sound legal. Who is going to stop me if I kick you out?”
“You wouldn’t do that,” he laughs, settling on a black t-shirt with a cartoon phoenix on the front.
“What makes you think that?”
“Jay said you wouldn’t,” he says, eyeing me seriously. “Was he wrong? Are you kicking me out?”
“He never even knew me,” I grumble.
This is getting out of control. What do I know about raising a child? I know.Iknow. He’s notactuallya child, but my brain is panicking like I’m going to have to change diapers any second now.
“I’m aware, but it’s not because he didn’t want to know you. Your grandfather, and then your father, didn’t know what to do with him. Being an independent omega isn’t exactly done in your family. You should be able to relate to that.”
I flinch at his deep reasoning. He has a good point.
“Plus,” he continues. “The property holder benefits from my presence.”
“Yeah, the ashes,” I say, distracted. “You mentioned that.”
He’s halfway into his jeans when my brain finally catches up.
“You’re telling me that I have to parent a phoenix child for a month and all I get is ashes in return? How is that fair?”
“No. Not parenting,” he corrects, his lip curling in a decidedly unchildlike way. “I don’t need a daddy.” He buttons his jeans with as much dignity as he can muster at two feet tall. “Just someone to reach the top shelf and make food.”
“Food?” I ask, rubbing my temples. “Phoenixes don’t eat.”
“I don’tneedto eat, but I do enjoy it.”
I watch him strut into the living room and scramble onto the couch, where he finally settles into a perfect upright sitting position with his hands resting on his thighs. The exact position I found him in.
