“Sure,” I tell her.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Chelsea agrees softly.
“Dude! I just got a greater idea!” Lucas says, turning my way. “So . . . you’re like the manny, right?”
“The what?” I ask, my expression heading for hostile.
“Like the nanny, but you’re a guy? You can watch the kids, yeah?”
“Sweet!” Nikki squeaks, picking up his train of thought. “So, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hotty can stay with the babies while the four of us go out!”
I wait for Chelsea to decline.
I wait for her to say she’d rather stay in with the kids.
With me.
But she doesn’t.
She just turns to me blankly. “Would that work for you, Jake?”
A sharp snort rumbles out of me. Frustration and resentment simmer in my stomach, burning like acid. “Whatever you want to do, Chelsea.”
“Awesome.” Lucas nods. And he still hasn’t moved his fucking arm from her shoulder.
I want to break it off.
Lucas’s eyes crawl over her. “You should get changed, babe.”
I give him a hard stare. “I think she looks perfect.”
His head toggles. “Well, sure, she’s smokin’.” Then he turns to Chelsea. “But you kinda look like a MILF. Hot and all . . . but still a mom, ya know?”
And now I want to break his mouth, too.
Her face falls, but she agrees. “Okay. I’ll get changed real quick and then we’ll head out.”
Ten minutes later, she comes down the stairs in tight blue jeans and a white halter top. The shirt pushes together her tits in a fantastic way—she looks gorgeous. But different. There’s less . . . elegance in this outfit. And she seems infinitely more screwable.
Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, normally. If I had met her in a bar, wearing that—before—I would’ve pulled out all the stops to get her to come home with me. It’s just the fact that she’s going out without me—where other pricks will be looking at her and thinking the same thing—that rubs me the wrong fucking way.
She leads me into the kitchen, rattling off Ronan’s feeding schedule and bedtime. Things I already know by now. When she stops talking, her eyes rise from the floor to meet mine.
“I’m sorry about dinner.”
“Don’t be.”
“Jake, I . . .” She licks her lips, shifts her feet indecisively. “I haven’t seen them in two months. I didn’t know . . .” She pauses again, then seems to find the words she wants to say. “Are you mad at me?”
And her eyes look so hopeful. So . . . vulnerable. My voice softens. “No, I’m not mad at you.”
Her douchebag friends, however—that’s another story.
“And you’re okay with this? Watching the kids for me?”
In trial law, you learn very quickly that words have meaning. Your questions, your answers, are posed carefully and with forethought, because so much of what is said could be open to interpretation. It’s made me very good at sidestepping—a useful skill at the moment.
“I planned on being here all night anyway.”
And then I think about that hamster wheel again. All the giving of herself she’s done, never taking. My hand reaches out, covering hers. “You should go out with your friends, Chelsea. Have fun.” No matter how much I hate the idea. “The kids and I will be fine.”
She smiles, like a weight has been lifted. And I feel just a little less miserable.
• • •
Robert and Rachel McQuaid’s bedroom is on the third floor of the house. The staircase to their room begins at the end of the second-floor hallway. Privacy was obviously important to them. And romance—they did have six fucking kids, after all. The room is huge: a sitting area, a spa-like bath, his-and-hers closets as big as some apartment kitchens. The walls are a tasteful red, the furniture dark wood. There’s a fireplace in the corner with their wedding portrait above it—they look happy and young, and so eager to start their lives together. On the dresser are pictures of their children—tender, candid shots of first baths, Christmas mornings, days at the beach, and sleeping cuddles.
The kids are quiet when they first walk in, almost like the room is a shrine. But after a few minutes, their natural exuberance and easy comfort with the space take over. They remind me of puppies in a box as they climb on their parents’ California-king bed—bumping into each other, lying over one another, until they’re all finally settled and comfortable. Riley holds Regan on her lap. Judging by the way Regan’s sucking her thumb and her far-off stare, she’ll be lucky if she’s awake past the opening credits. Raymond scoops Cousin It into his arms like a security blanket, and Rosaleen pats the empty space in the center of the bed.
“Come on, Jake, there’s room for you.”
I don’t know the rules about a grown man lying in bed with kids he’s not related to, but their collective, comfortably expectant expressions puts my mind at ease. I slip the movie into the DVD player, grab the remote, and pounce on the mattress, making them all bounce and giggle.
Later, around the time the Goonies tell Troy and his bucket to go screw himself, Rosaleen asks, “Where did Aunt Chelsea go?”
I tense, thinking about exactly where Chelsea is—and who she’s gone there with.
“She went out with her friends,” I answer, trying to keep the scowl out of my voice.
“I didn’t like them,” Riley whispers, so as not to wake the sleeping bundle of two-year-old on her lap. “They were smoking weed in the backyard.”