He shakes his head. “I want mac ‘n cheese.”
“How about some cereal?” I place a kiss on his forehead once I’m convinced he’s okay. Well, as okay as he can be right now.
I never blamed Ward for Crew’s getting hurt—he’s been hurt countless times under my supervision—but it killed me to watch Ward fall apart and blame himself. It wasn’t his fault. Sometimes things just happen.
“No. I want mac ‘n cheese,” Crew whines, and I can tell it’s going to be one of those days. After last night, he has a right to be grumpy. He’s probably in desperate need of pain medicine. We both are.
Ward opens his eyes, a small smile flitting onto his lips before he sits up. “I’m with Crew on this one.”
“Please, Mom,” Crew begs.
“Please?” Ward shoots me some equally tortuous puppy dog eyes, and I’m not immune.
I turn back to Crew, and just like it always does, my heart seems to grow just by looking at him. “Only if you give me a kiss.”
He slams his tiny face into my space and presses a quick kiss to my lips. Then he looks at Ward expectantly.
“Hurry so we can get mac ‘n cheese.”
Ward’s eyes bulge as his jaw goes slack.
“No, honey,” I try to tell Crew, but he just groans.
“I’m so hungry I’m going to die!”
My mouth is suddenly dry and in need of some serious rehydration. The perfect cure for my problems is sitting right next to me. Can we kiss but maintain a fake relationship?
After last night, is it still fake?
I peek at Ward. “You don’t—”
He leans forward, and I’m sure that his lips will land on mine. It’s inevitable, like New Balance sneakers on dads. My heart pumps hard and fast.
There’s a hunger in his eyes that matches mine. I can’t catch a full breath as he moves in. Each millimeter has my heart pounding harder.
His lips bypass mine and brush my cheek, pressing just below my cheekbone and leaving an imprint. I only watched theTwilightmovies once, but I’m pretty sure that means I’m his now.
Fireworks explode and crackle in my brain.
No,wait.
That’s dried noodles on the linoleum.
I rip away from Ward and jump off the couch. “Crew Scott! You’re going to pick up every one of those noodles!”
Ward leaps off the couch and runs to Crew. He lifts him from the stool he used to reach the macaroni and spins him around, tickling his sides at the same time.
Crew’s laugh lights up my world. I’d give anything to provide him with this kind of life every day. Am I selfish to want this too?
“Let’s race to see who can pick up the most noodles.” Ward puts him on the ground and they both kneel on the kitchen floor, picking up the tiny pieces of macaroni.
I take the moment to go to my room and brush my teeth. If my beautiful genius of a child gets any more ideas, I will be ready. It takes me twice as long to change my clothes with one hand. How am I supposed to shower?
I brush out my wild hair and add some lip gloss, for obvious reasons.
When I return to the kitchen I find Ward at the stove, stirring a new box—I hope—of macaroni into the boiling water. He’s got Crew at a safe distance, but I’m burning up from across the room.
Crew dumps in the cheese, milk, and butter with Ward’s assistance and by the time they’re done, an onlooker might believe he’s Crew’s dad. Heck, I almost believed it last night at the hospital. Ward had been trying to hide his emotions when Crew was getting stitches, but I had seen right through it to the pain he refused to let free. In that moment, I could have sworn I loved the man.
