"I'm watching you."
"Weird. Mom says only weirdos watch kids. Weirdos I should tell her about."
"Mmm, you can tell her I was watching you. She won't care."
"Maybe she will."
"She won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because I do."
He rolled his eyes. “Adultsalwaysact like they know that kind of stuff."
"Mm, maybe, but in this case, it's true. I know more about it than you do, so I know she won't care."
"You don't know more about my mom than me!” he retorted angrily, clearly having his pride pricked at the idea that anyone could know his mother better than him.
I chuckled, charmed by his spirit even if he was being a little dramatic and overly defensive. "Well, I think the only people who know your mom better than you would be your uncles and your grandparents."
He thought about that for a minute and then nodded. “Yeah, okay. You're right."
"Okay."
"But I know her better than you."
"True. But when it comes to whether or not she'll be bothered that I was watching you, I know her better."
"How?"
"Because I talked to her about some things, things you don't know about. And that's how I know."
"And why can't I know?"
"Because it's between me and her."
"Oh."
Hmm, interesting. I would have thought that would have driven the clearly nosy child into a fit of wanting to know more. But apparently, the concept of privacy was not lost on this particular eight-year-old. Either through personality or how he was raised, he clearly knew there were things he needed to keep his nose out of. Either that or he was just like that when it came to his mother, which was a pretty good first step. Moira had always been protective of her privacy.
I guess, in his own, weird and slightly hard to pin down way, Mason had always been that way too. So many people thought the sun shone out of his ass, but I knew just how much of a bastard he could really be under all those theatrics and that bright smile. More than once, I'd wondered what kind of other nasty shit he hid under all that charm, and then hated myself for describing him as charming. Now, no less hateful but at least calmer and maybe a bit wiser, I wondered what sorts of things he had hidden under it all.
Ugh. I really needed to stop thinking about Mason. It was annoying how just seeing and talking to him after years was enough to make my brain latch onto him like a deranged animal, refusing to let go.
Micah looked up at me again, and already I knew when he was about to ask a question. “Why do you hate Uncle Mason?"
"I thought he was just Mason to you."
"He is. But Mom might still be around, and she doesn't like it much when I call him that."
"She was around earlier."
"Yeah. I'm glad she didn't notice what I said."
