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Some nights, after I finish my homework, we’ll find a TV show to binge-watch until I’m forced to go home after nodding off on James’s couch. Other nights, we’ll each grab one of the books we checked out after taking Lainey and Grayson to Baby Story Time at the library, curl up on opposite sides of the couch together, and read in comfortable silence—which is unheard of at my house. I think I like those nights best.
Not that I’m necessarily unhappy at home. I love my parents and my siblings to the moon and back. But sharing a bedroom with my tween sisters, who fight like cats and dogs, plus Lainey and her crib squeezed in next to my small bed, is exhausting in a whole different way than caring for two babies. My impromptu naps at James’s house are often more restful than a full night’s sleep in my own bed simply because of the silence.
For the most part, Mom has been quiet with her opinions about how much time we have been spending with James. At least she was up until I started putting Lainey to bed there most nights, including weekends, when she knows James has off from work and doesn’t need me to babysit.
It’s just that Lainey sleeps so much better there. Although it isn’t ideal having to carefully scoop her up from the travel crib in Grayson’s nursery and transfer her to her crib at home after everyone else has gone to bed, at least she can fall asleep and stay asleep here as opposed to startling awake at every noise my sisters make in our shared bedroom.
Mom also knows she can’t put up too much of a fuss about it now that I’m eighteen, but I know she’s starting to get uneasy with how close James and I have become, which I understand to a point. He’s twenty-eight, has his own house and career, and he keeps to himself. It doesn’t matter how often she tries to pull him into a conversation when they cross paths. As friendly as he is, he just doesn’t share much of himself with her.
That’s not the case with me, though. He’s been so open and honest about what it was like growing up with his family, one that is even larger than mine but not nearly as happy or tight-knit. He’s also told me about his friends, who he says he’s going to introduce me to soon when it’s his turn to host game night again, which I’m looking forward to.
I wonder how he’ll introduce me. With the way I catch him staring at me—and the way I, subconsciously at first, get a little thrill doing things to get him to stare—I wonder if he’s starting to see me as more than just his neighbor’s kid and Grayson’s babysitter. I’d like to think so since we genuinely enjoy taking the babies out to do fun things together, and he’s more than encouraging when it comes to spending my time at his house.
He asks me about school each day, and I ask about his work day. He gets as excited as I do when Lainey hits a new milestone, and he’s as distressed as I am when she takes a spill and gets hurt or when she cries in pain when she cuts a new tooth. Watching him sway with her in his arms to soothe her is just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. He treats her as special as he does Grayson, which I love.
There’s a lot to love about him.
And I can’t forget the little surprises he springs on me, though sometimes it feels like I’m taking advantage of his kind nature and generosity. That’s why I try to give back to him in my own little ways. I can’t spend the same kind of money on gifts when it comes to surprising him, so I’ve taken to fixing him breakfast or lunch on school holidays and the weekends if we don’t go out to eat, which he always pays for, and I always hug him to thank him. Those hugs are always my favorite part of the day.
He’s also given me a crash course on what he does for work. I knew absolutely zip about coding or programming, but since he’s started showing me the basics, I find myself thinking about possibly getting my degree in computer science, which could be very lucrative. It’s an exciting future to think about, though the idea that I wouldn’t get to see him and Grayson every day if I moved away for school isn’t one I like to think about.
* * *
It’s Thursday night and the start of a three-day holiday weekend, which means Lainey and I can stay even later tonight since I don’t have to get up early for school tomorrow. James gets a call during dinner, and he excuses himself to his home office without finishing his plate. Once I have both babies bathed and asleep in the nursery, I go to the kitchen to finish cleaning up and find the rest of his dinner has remained untouched. I re-heat it, then quietly knock on his office door with his plate in hand.
His office blew my mind when he first gave me a tour of it. A custom-made black desk spans the entire length of the wall opposite the door. He has more computer screens in one room than we do in my whole house, plus two large black and red gaming chairs that are comfier than any other chair I’ve sat in.
On the wall to the right of the door is a black upholstered couch with a black coffee table in front of it. I have had more than my fair share of naps on said couch, lulled to sleep by the surprisingly soothing sounds of his keyboard strokes when I should have been studying.
He usually keeps the overhead light off when I’m not in here studying and turns on the neon-colored LED strips that line the edges of the ceiling on all four walls with a strip that runs the border of the window that looks out to the front yard. I can see my house from here when the blackout curtains are pulled aside.
Tonight, though, he has the overhead light turned on, and he doesn’t look up when I enter. Very unusual. He’s focused on the screen in front of him, still on the phone with whoever called him during dinner.
I set his plate and fork down on the desk to the right side of his keyboard, and my brows bunch with confusion at what’s on the screen. He has an airliner’s website pulled up, and it looks like he’s booking plane tickets, though I know he hates flying and prefers to roadtrip whenever he travels back home to Virginia.
He mumbles out a goodbye and ends the call, then drops his head into his hands with his elbows on the desk. His dark hair is mussed like it gets when he repeatedly runs his hands through it. When his shoulders start to shake, and I hear him sniffle, I know the caller must have been relaying terrible news, and my heart sinks.
I squeeze his shoulder, then smooth my hand up and down his long back. “What’s wrong?” I ask with a whisper, hoping I’m not intruding on a private moment he’d rather I not see.
My breath catches when he looks up, his pale blue eyes red-rimmed and glossy with tears. I’ve seen this man stressed, panicked, laughing, and relaxed, but I’ve never seen him like this. I take a step closer to his side and comb his dark hair back from his forehead with my fingertips. I’ve wanted to know what it feels like for so long, to replace his hands with mine every time he runs them through his hair, and I delight in the feel of the thick strands slipping through my fingers. I find myself lightly scraping my fingernails over his scalp, and he sucks in a shuddery breath.
“My dad—” His voice cracks, and he drops his head again. I bend to hug his side, then return to rubbing circles over his back. He tilts his head onto my shoulder and doesn’t hold back his tears. I don’t say anything, giving him time to gather himself so he can finish telling me what’s going on.
We’ve touched each other before, of course. Our epic hugs, his hand on the small of my back when he ushers me through an open door ahead of him, my hand on his forearm or skimming his shoulder when I need to get his attention, our hands touching when we pass a baby or bottle to each other. But we’ve never held each other quite this intimately or for this long, though I have been tempted to do so more than once. I press myself closer to his side and turn my head just enough to brush a kiss on his forehead, silently lending him support, a literal shoulder to cry on.
After nearly ten quiet minutes of holding him, he finally tips his head back against the chair’s headrest. I scoot back when he swivels his chair to face me. He scrubs a hand over his face, then drops his arms, mentally and physically drained.
“That was my mom on the phone. She said my dad had a stroke and passed away on Tuesday.”
“Oh my god, James. I’m so, so sorry.” I hug him again with my arms around his neck, enjoying his closeness and intimacy. It’s a shame that it’s due to something so awful. I can only imagine how devastating it is to lose a parent so suddenly, especially after recently losing his sister. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes, my heart breaking for him.
He speaks softly, his face pressed to the crook of my neck, his voice clogged with emotion. “Two days. Sh-She didn’t tell me he died for two whole days. Said she forgot.” He chokes back a sob, and I squeeze him tighter.
“That’s beyond horrible. I’m so sorry she did that.” I’m not only heartbroken for him, I’m angry, too, and a part of me hates his mom a little more for not calling him as soon as possible. From what he’s told me about her before, I know she’s pretty cold and uncaring about his feelings, but this is a whole new level of ugly behavior.
“My dad…We were never…”
“Never what?” I say softly, biting back my anger as I drag my fingers through his hair, hoping to soothe him in some small way. He sighs, his breath warming the sensitive skin of my neck.
