Page 229 of Wait for Him

"You're absolutely crying."

"I'm having allergies."

"Indoors?"

"Very aggressive indoor pollen. Focus on your son."

James is grinning at me even though he can only hear my half of the conversation. "Is he crying?"

"Like a little bitch."

"I heard that," Jackson says.

"I figured."

James laughs and squeezes my hands. "I did consider Madre."

"No."

"I know. I scrapped it."

"Good."

"I practiced it in the mirror and everything. It was bad."

"Thank God you have some self-awareness."

"I also tried Mother."

I stare at him.

He immediately shakes his head. "Yeah, no. Creepy. Felt like I was about to ask you for permission to go churn butter."

A laugh bursts out of me right through the tears. "Ma is good."

"Ma?"

I nod, biting my lip because if he says it again right now, I may need medical intervention. "Ma is perfect."

"Cool."

Cool.

My son just decided to call me Ma, and this motherfucker gives me cool.

Teenagers are emotional terrorists.

He wanders off to inspect the robotic arm again while I wipe my face and try to get myself together. The room is black and gray, with a queen-size bed and posters of his favorite scientists and engineers on the walls because he's an intellectual like his uncle. But most of the square footage belongs to mechanics and robotics: workbenches, tools, storage, monitors, components, and enough equipment that I made him promise three separate times not to accidentally create sentient life without adult supervision.

"So cool." He shakes his head, then turns to me. "But I'm starving. Can we grab Jackson and go to Atlas for pizza and wings?"

I put my hands on my hips. "I have to feed you too? God. So needy."

"Did you know I won a wing-eating contest two years ago at the carnival? I've been hooked on Atlas wings ever since."

"No, I did not know that. See? This is exactly why I need you around more. Critical biographical information has been withheld from me."

We head for the door and find Jackson waiting in the hallway.