And we fit. We always have, even before we were us. There was something there, something arcing between us like lightning, always crawling along our skin. Maybe we didn’t know how to name it, didn’t know just how far it could go, but we knew. And we pushed and pulled, clawing our way to each other.
But we fit. Just like we do now. My front to his back, my legs curled up behind his. He’s warm, and my dick is pressed against his bare ass, but it’s not something yet. It will be, and probably soon (there’s only so much naked Otter I can stand before I have to try and get all up on that), but for now, it’s soft and quiet and good. My arm is over his hip, fingers trailing in the hairs on his stomach. My face is pressed against the back of his neck, and he smells good. Like sex and sweat and the soap we have at home.
He sighs, wiggling back until he’s pressed against me, no space left between us. And then he just melts, like he’s exactly where he wants to be and doesn’t plan on moving for the foreseeable future. He’s predictable, and I love him for it. For this.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
“Yes.” Then, “About what?”
“September.”
“Ah. Yeah. I guess. More anxious, maybe. And excited. And nervous. Like, not that vomity-nervous that I sometimes get, but a good kind of nervous. Okay, maybe a little vomity-nervous too, but that’s probably par for the course. I also get sweaty at really random times. Like, I’m not even thinking about the fact that we’re about to be dads, but then I get dad sweats, and then I start thinking about it and get vomity-nervous and—”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“Jerk.”
“No, seriously. I just made love to you—”
“Oh dear god.”
“—made love to you, and now we’re cuddling—”
“I married a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“—and now you’re talking about getting dad sweats and nervous vomiting. You remember what I said about us not being like Anna and Creed? I lied. We need help. Or rather, you need help.”
“That’s mean.”
“Well. It’s how I feel.”
“Because I’m here to validate your feelings. That was not in the wedding vows, if you’ll recall.”
He takes his hand in mine, our fingers intertwining. “That was a good day.”
He’s such a sap. “Yeah. It was.”
“I’m scared too.”
“I think that’s normal, right?”
He shrugs a little. “Probably. I just want—I need to be good at this.”
“Being a daddy?”
He nods.
I tighten my grip around him. “Can I tell you a secret?”
He laughs quietly. “Yeah.”
“Just between you and me.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know that there is anyone who is going to be better at this than you.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. “Bear—”
“I mean it. You’re going to be so good at it, okay? You’ve waited for so long for this. You’ve been so patient with me. And I know you. Okay? I know you better than anyone. You’re going to be good. The best, really.”
“You too, you know?” he says, voice rough. “The best Papa Bear.”
“Knowing my luck, they’ll be neurotic messes who think too much and talk without a filter and end up offending everyone within a two-mile radius.”
“And will make a mortal enemy out of a seagull.”
“Hey! I didn’t do anything to that fucking evil rat with wings. It always came after me. And did you know seagulls have a lifespan up to fifteen years? I learned that on the internet while trying to get ideas for tonight. That motherfucker could still be alive, plotting and planning until I’m completely complacent before it exacts its revenge.”
“Your life is so weird.”
“Right? Lucky you.”
“Lucky me,” he says with a hum.
I’m dozing a little while later when I hear him whisper, “We’re going to be good parents. I know we will.”
Right now, here in this moment, everything is fine.
I’m asleep a moment later.
12. Where Bear Faces the Reality of Married Life
IT’S MID-AUGUST when he snarls at me, “You think I asked for this? Jesus fucking Christ, Derrick. It’s hard enough that we’re having twins, but we also have to have your little sister here too. Sometimes it’s just too much, okay?”
And I’m staring at him, my skin buzzing like I’m made of bees, my fists clenched at my sides. I’m angry, so goddamn angry. Otter knows it too, and I can see the moment when what he’s said hits him, and he pales. The blood drains from his face, his eyes wide. He’s on the other side of the kitchen, and for the life of me, I don’t know how we’ve gotten this far. One moment, things are fine. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon, and we’re talking in the kitchen, and then he says that he has a meeting next Tuesday in Portland that could lead to a new short-term contract for him. Some magazine wants to hire him to photograph something, and I offhandedly reminded him that we had an appointment with Megan and the obstetrician. He said he’d have to skip it, and I reminded him that he’d skipped the last one because he’d been busy with a different job. And maybe I said, “Don’t you think Megan needs the both of us there? After all, she’s having our children,” and that set him off. He said things, I said things, both of us trying to keep our voices low because Izzie was upstairs, just having finished her lunch. We’re supposed to be going school shopping for the both of us, given that I go back the week after next to start all the bullshit admin meetings and prepping for the new year, and Izzie starts the first week of September on a Thursday (which might be the most ridiculous thing in the world).
But according to Otter, it’s just too much.
I know he regrets the words. I can see that, the way his mouth is opening and closing, and maybe I can understand it. Maybe I can get why he could say such a thing, because it is hard. We have a lot of plates up in the air, and things seem to be hurtling toward this inevitable conclusion that we started all those months ago.
We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry. It happens. It’s life.
The problem is a thirteen-year-old girl that lives with us makes a wounded noise from the entrance to the kitchen, neither of us knowing that she’d come back down the stairs at some point.
We both turn toward her. She’s standing there, tense, mouth thin. She’s such a little guy, fiery and fierce and oh so fucking smart. She’s a goddamn handful, but she’s ours. She belongs here with us. Not legally, not yet, not completely, but it’s getting there. The social worker visits have gone well. She’s happy and healthy, and yeah, sometimes she wakes up screaming with nightmares that she can’t quite articulate, tiny shoulders shaking, little hands clutching at my back as I hold her helplessly, but they’re getting better. They’re getting less and less, and she’s funny, okay? She’s sarcastic and biting, able to go toe to toe with the Kid any day of the week. And there are moments, strange little moments where I think that maybe she’s starting to love us as much as we love her.
Otter’s right: it hasn’t been easy. But nothing worth having ever is. Our entire fucking lives have shown us that, time and time again. It hasn’t always been fair, but we’ve made it this far, and we’re so close to having everything we wanted, everything we’ve worked so hard for.
This won’t break us. I won’t let it.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed the hell off.
“Izzie—” I start, but she’s already gone from the kitchen, the stairs creaking as she runs up them. Her bedroom door slams shut, and a moment later, loud jazz music starts to echo through the house because my little sister is weird and doesn’t listen to shitty fucking boy band music like all the other girls her age. She’s not like them. She’s like us, and I almost feel bad about that, knowing just how screwed up Ty and I can be. It’s not fair to her that she has to be like us.
“Fuck,” Otter says, and
I don’t know how we’ve gotten to this point. He’s the levelheaded one that doesn’t say stupid shit that he doesn’t mean. Granted, I don’t have the monopoly on that, but it was cruel in a way that I’ve never heard from him, even if it was unintentional.
I turn back and glare at him.
He’s looking down at his feet, his socked feet because he doesn’t like being barefoot in the house. And they’re his ridiculous tube socks, and I’m angry at them for reasons I can’t quite explain, angry at everything about him.
We fight. We do. Everyone does. It happens. But we always fix it. And I have no doubt that we’ll fix this, but for the life of me, I can’t even think about how it’ll be all right. Because there is a little girl upstairs who heard something she shouldn’t have. And yes, she is strong and fierce and all the other things I didn’t expect but should have, but she is still a little girl, and sometimes, even though I know she doesn’t want us to know, she’s still insecure about her place here. Like she doesn’t quite believe that we want her as much as we do. Like she doesn’t think she has a home with us.
That’s Julie’s fault. I know it is. I’ve been fucked up a long time because of that woman, the gift that keeps on giving.
But maybe it’s also our fault, at least a little. Because as much as we’ve been trying to give her everything she needs, much of our time and attention has been focused on the twins. Maybe we haven’t been the best we could have with her. Maybe we should be doing more.
“That went well,” I tell Otter coolly. “Really. Good job.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know that—” Do you, Bear? it whispers. Do you really? “—but she doesn’t. For all she knows, you’re just like—”
“Don’t,” he snaps at me. “Don’t you compare me to her. I have never been like her.”
And because apparently things need to be made worse, I say, “You left once, Otter. Just like she did.”
He flinches like I’ve raised my hand to him, and that’s not something I’ve ever wanted to see. But that’s the hard thing about being angry with people you love: you know their heart well enough to be able to rip it still beating from their chests.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
“It’s good to know you still think that,” he says woodenly. “That you still hold that over my head. Like I haven’t given up everything for you and Tyson.”
“Given up?” I ask, incredulous. “What exactly have you given up? Please, Otter. Enlighten me. What exactly have you sacrificed? Is there some other life you could be living right now that would make you happier? Tell me. Because I’d sure hate to think that something as little as your family was holding you back.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, and he’s revving himself up again. “Sometimes I get the feeling you think you have the monopoly on what a hard life is supposed to be. Yes, Bear, we all know things were shitty for a long time, but we all don’t still hold on to it. Why you haven’t let things go is beyond me.”
Oh, it laughs. Would you listen to that? Gosh, isn’t it funny to hear these things after all this time? I wonder what else he really thinks about you? Isn’t this fun?
“That’s not fair,” I mock. “Right. I’m sorry that my history is such an inconvenience for you. I’m sorry that I’m a little fucked up in the head, that the Kid still needs the bathtub sometimes because of the fucking earthquakes. I’m sorry that my mother decided to destroy herself so much so that her body gave out. I’m sorry that my little sister had nowhere else to go, so we had to take her in. But you know what? I can make things easy for you. You know where the front door is. Maybe that life you always wanted is still out there waiting for you. Please, don’t let us hold you back. I would hate to think you’d end up resenting us for not allowing you to have everything you wanted.” And it sucks, because when I get really mad, when I’m furious, my voice shakes and cracks, the fragile thing that it is. I’m desperately trying to hold on to my anger, but I’m just sad that we’re doing this. That we’re saying these things. That I’m saying these things.
He hears it too, the way I’m choking on my words, because he’s vibrating, jaw clenched. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he says, which might possibly be the absolute worst thing to say. “I can’t be here right now. I’m going to say something I can’t take back, and—”
“Like what Izzie just heard you say?”
He’s moving then, out of the kitchen, and I follow him, just because I’m trying to decide if I should tackle him or throw something at the back of his head. He’s by the front door, and he’s sliding his feet into his shoes, grabbing his keys and phone off the table. The sun is bright when he opens the door.
“Fine!” I call after him. “Just go! Oh, and by the way, your socks look stupid because no one wears tube socks with shorts!”
And then he slams the door, like the mature, responsible, soon-to-be father that he is.
I hear his SUV start up and pull out of the driveway, the sound fading as he drives away.
“Stupid fucking asshole,” I mutter as I press my forehead against the door. “Stupid fucking Otter and his stupid fucking face.”
The jazz music is loud from upstairs, and I’m trying to calm myself so I can go upstairs and tell Izzie that of course Otter didn’t mean it. Of course he’s coming back. I know this. I know this for a fact, but my hands are shaking just a little, and maybe that awful voice in my head is saying, Yes, of course he will. But what if he doesn’t?
I hate that voice more than anything in the world.
I don’t know that I’ll ever be rid of it.
I take in a long, slow breath. And then another. And then another.
It works. Mostly.
I thought for a long time that the art of breathing was a farce, that it was something Eddie had just filled the Kid’s head with, some psychology mumbo jumbo that wouldn’t lead to anything. It was just breathing, after all.
But for some reason, it works. By focusing on my breath, air moving in and out of my lungs, the anger and fear ebbs to a slow simmer. It’s stupid, really, that it ever even came to this, and I have to remind myself that people fight, they do. It’s part of every single relationship, and Otter said we were good. I have to trust him on that.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not still worried. About him. And me.
And Izzie.
I sigh as I push myself away from the door. Dizzy Gillespie is wailing on his horn, and it’s bright and brassy and completely at odds with the hand clenched around my heart. I know Otter didn’t mean what he said, not completely. But the fact that he’d said it at all was enough to probably set us back with her quite a bit.
I’m about to head for the stairs when someone knocks on the door behind me.
For a moment, I think it’s Otter, already having come back to grovel. I’m almost relieved at the thought that he didn’t get very far before—
It’s not Otter.
It’s Ty and Dom.
“Where is she?” Ty asks, a scowl on his face. “Is she—” He looks toward the ceiling as Dizzy goes on a complicated run, and pushes past me, feet pounding up the stairs.
“How did you—” I start calling after him, but he’s already up the stairs and out of sight.
“She called him,” Dom says from behind me. “We were on our way home from having lunch with Stacey and Ben.”
“Shit,” I mutter, stepping aside to let him in.
He closes the door behind him. “Everything okay?”
I scrub my hand over my face. “She heard something she shouldn’t have. Otter and I were fighting, and it just—it shouldn’t have been said. We’re a little… stressed.”
“This happen a lot?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t play cop on me, Dominic Miller. You know it’s not like that.”
He shrugs but has the decency to look vaguely guilty. “Just have to ask.”
“No, it doesn’t happen a lot. It doesn’t happen at all. But I
think we’ve been building to this for a while. It’s not—Jesus. Look. Otter was an asshole. I was an asshole. We’re about to have twins. We’re tired and cranky, and this got out of control.”
“No one touched anybody else?”
I roll my eyes. “Do you really think Otter would ever lay a hand on me?”
“No. Just want to make sure everyone is okay.”
“I appreciate that, Dom. I really do. But even if Otter was the type to hit anyone, you can sure as shit bet I’d scratch his fucking eyes out.”
Dom snorts. “Maybe I should ask if Otter’s okay.”
I glare at him. “Not funny.”
“Sorry.”
I look up toward the ceiling, the music still blaring. “What did she say?”
He shrugs. “Not a lot. Just that she wasn’t sure if she was welcome here anymore.”
“Goddammit,” I groan. “That’s not—I need to go up there.”
“Just give it a minute, okay? You know Tyson’s good with her. He’ll make it okay.”
“He’s probably mad at us too, huh?”
There’s a little smile on Dom’s face. “You know how he gets.”
“Do I ever,” I mutter. “I’m probably going to get chewed out.”
“Eh. Probably. Better you than me, I guess.”
“Rude.” I turn toward the kitchen, suddenly needing to do something with my hands.
“Where did Otter go?” Dom asks, trailing after me.
The dishwasher is still open, partially unloaded. I start grabbing plates and stacking them on the counter. “Don’t know. And right now, I don’t care.”
“Sure you don’t.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Not trying to be.”
“You know, I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk as much.” I wince as soon as the words come out. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
“That’s good,” he says easily. “Because if you did, you sounded like a jerk.”
“And we all know I’m not a jerk at all.”
“Mostly. You are going to break those plates, slamming them on the counter like that.”