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Authors: Emma Chase

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BOOK: Tied
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Anyway, for James’s breakfast? Organic-apple slices and whole-grain Cheerios—without sugar.

I know—it’s official—I’m a hypocrite. I can live with that. It’s not like his taste buds know what they’re missing. And when they do, I’ll shove it down his throat anyway. Because it’s good for him. If one day he decides to hate me for that? That’s okay too.

Because sometimes being a father is hard. And if it’s not? You’re not doing it right.

I pour some Cheerios onto the tray and back up halfway across the room. “Hey, James, set it up.”

He opens his mouth wide and keeps it open. I hold a single Cheerio between my fingers while I bend my knees and bounce my hand as if I were dribbling a basketball. “Three seconds left on the clock, down by one, Evans gets the ball. He fakes left, he drives in, he shoots. . . .”

I toss the Cheerio in a high arc. It lands right in James’s mouth.

“He scores! The crowd goes wild!”

James holds both hands over his head. “Core!”

Then I give him a high five. See—told you. Cool, right? I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and get ready for another shot. Then Kate comes into the kitchen, texting on her phone.

All that worry about losing the baby weight? It was for nothing. Look at her—snug black yoga pants hug narrow hips, a navy Penn State T-shirt shows off her flat stomach and toned arms. Her hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, and a touch of shiny, strawberry-flavored lip gloss is her only makeup.

Gorgeous.

Kate still has that simple, low-maintenance kind of beauty. She doesn’t have to work at being hot—she just is. I maneuver next to James’s high chair and wait for Kate to look up.

Yes, it’s deliberate. Children have the power to suck the sex drive out of a relationship like a hungry black hole. So it’s important to stoke the flame—keep the coals burning hot. And something about seeing a shirtless guy with a baby turns every woman on.

Trust me—I’ve been accosted at the beach enough times to know. It’s like female frigging Viagra.

It’s different for guys. Not that a baby is a negative, necessarily—but seeing a chick with one doesn’t automatically make us want to bang her. Because deep, deep down all men are still little boys. We want all your attention on us. It’s just how it is.

I feel Kate’s eyes on me and I pop a piece of apple into James’s mouth. Then I stretch out my arms—flexing the muscles—giving her a good show. Oh, yeah—it’s working. She’s
definitely wet. See how her head tilts and her eyes shine as she looks me up and down? How her lips part and she breathes just a little bit faster?

She’s remembering what we just finished doing—and thinking about when we’ll get to do it again.

“Mummy!”

Kate’s eyes shift to James. Her smile changes—no sexy, more sweet. “Hey, little man.”

She comes over and takes an apple slice for herself. “How are my two favorite guys doing?”

“So far, so good.” I nod toward the phone in her hand. “What’s up there?”

“I’m texting Billy’s manager Steven and Alexandra’s address. The one he was given is for a pawnshop in the middle of the Bronx. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

My parents are watching all the grandchildren for the weekend. Since Steven and my sister’s two trumps our one, the whole gang’s meeting at their place and taking a car to the airport together.

I play innocent. “Who me? Nope—I know nothing.”

She doesn’t look as if she buys it. “He could’ve missed the car to the airport. Maybe the whole flight.”

“Yeah, that would’ve been a shame.”

“Be nice, Drew.”

“He’s coming, isn’t he? I think letting your ex-boyfriend tag along to my bachelor party is above and beyond the call of nice.”

Kate motions with her hands as she attempts to defend donkey dump. “You’re always complaining about how close I am with him, but maybe if
you
tried a little harder, he wouldn’t depend so much on me. And besides, Billy doesn’t have a lot of guy friends.”

“Which makes perfect sense. He’s a pussy—and females tend to flock together.”

Kate rolls her eyes.

James decides to join the conversation. “Poosy.”

Oh, crap. That’s not good.

But still, I start to laugh. How can I not?

Kate frowns at me. “Great.”

Most kids speak their first word around the eleven-month mark. Because my son is a genius, his first word came at nine months. And it wasn’t
Mama
or
Dada
or anything typical like that.

James’s first word was
shit
. Kate was not pleased.

Between you and me, though, we got off easy. It could have been
so
much worse.

She turns to James and admonishes gently, “No, James.”

He shakes his head, trying to understand. “No poosy?”

I crack up harder. Now Kate is glaring. She puts her hands on her hips. “Yes—and that’s exactly what Daddy’s going to be getting if he doesn’t stop laughing right now.”

James’s eyes go wide and he tries to warn me. “No poosy, Daddy.”

Now I’m full-out laughing my ass off.

Kate throws her hands up in the air. “Well, that’s just perfect! Now he’s going to spend the next two days with your parents talking like a foulmouthed little hooligan. What’s your mother going to think?”

I sober slightly, still smiling, taking her hand in mine and holding it against my chest. “Considering she’s the woman who had to raise the first foulmouthed hooligan? I think she’ll have an enormous amount of sympathy for you.”

Kate grins. “Which is totally deserved. I swear, between the two of you, I don’t know how I keep my sanity.”

“It’s the sex. If raisins are nature’s candy, screwing is its antidepressant. It’s the best way to maintain good mental health.”

An orgasm a day keeps the psychiatrist away.

Kate crosses her arms doubtfully. “Sure it is. That sounds an awful lot like when I was pregnant and you told me women who performed oral sex more often were less likely to develop preeclampsia.”

I point my finger at her. “That was totally true! I read an article about it.”

How awesome is
that
? If I wasn’t sure before, after that I was certain—God is definitely a guy.

“In what magazine?
Playboy
?”


Men’s Health.

Feeling left out, James tries to get another laugh out of me. “Poosy!”

I ruffle his hair. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Kate scoops him out of the chair and holds him close. “Are you done with breakfast, baby? Do you want to sing with Mommy?”

He claps his hands.

Most of James’s likes and dislikes mirror my own. He hates broccoli. Female sportscasters get on his nerves. And he despises televised figure skating. But he loves Kate’s voice.

Oh—and her boobs. See how he bends down to rub his face against them? Reveling in their symmetrical, cushiony softness.

I nudge his shoulder. “Dude, we’ve been over this—they were loaners. You’re cut off now.”

Kate breast-fed for the first year. Weaning was hell. Not that I blame the kid—if Kate told me her perfect tits were off-limits? I’d pitch a fucking fit too.

James’s little face scrunches up—like Damien from
The Omen
.

He grabs on to Kate’s shoulders with both hands and yells, “Mine. Is my mummy!”

I pull her a little closer to my side. “Technically, she belongs to both of us, buddy. We can share. But those?” I point to Kate’s breasts. “Those are mine.”

He ups the volume. “No. Is mine!”

Sigmund Freud would have a field day in this house.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Is my mummy!”

Getting into a yelling match with a two-year-old is not a good idea. That’s a battle that cannot be won.

Kate pushes my chest. “Stop teasing him. And go shower—we’re gonna be late.”

I kiss her forehead. Then, behind her back, I point to myself and mouth to James,
Mine
.

He blows a raspberry at me.
Smart-ass.

As I back out of the kitchen, Kate starts to sing. In that soft, flawless voice that still makes me weak in the knees.

And stiff in the crotch.

I know the song—“Jet Plane” by John Denver—but she changes the lyrics to fit the situation.


Cause we’re leavin’ on a jet plane

We’ll be back on Sunday again

Oh, James, we love you so
.

Kate rocks back and forth slowly, and James’s deep brown eyes turn to her alone. He looks up at her with complete adoration. Overwhelming worship. Total devotion.

It’s the same way I look at her. Every day.

I’m not a big fan of humility. But watching the two of them
like this? It makes me feel humble. Fortunate. Like how Joseph must have felt seeing his wife hold baby Jesus. Just so fucking lucky to get to be a part of something so beautifully sacred.

We’re leavin’ on a jet plane

We’ll be back on Sunday again

Oh, James, we love you so.

I drag my eyes away and head for the shower.

Chapter 3

W
e get to my sister’s place a little after 7:00
A.M.
The apartment is a madhouse—the sounds of yelling kids, talking adults, clattering coffee cups, and barking dogs fill the air.

Well . . . one barking dog. His name is Bear—he’s a Great Dane. I got him for Mackenzie last Christmas because Applejack the pony didn’t exactly work out as I’d planned. Despite some serious begging, pleading, and negotiating, the Bitch wouldn’t break down and agree to let the pony I bought Mackenzie for Christmas live with them. Her main reason was the Central Park West Homeowners Association.

If you’re not familiar with these types of organizations, I’ll fill you in. They’re the geriatric version of the gestapo—composed mostly of bitter, wrinkly old bags who lie in wait for someone to do something they don’t approve of.

Such as hang a gaudy wreath on the door or play music too loud . . . or convert a bedroom into a barnyard stall.

Instead of trying to buck the system and risk eviction procedures,
Steven and Alexandra relocated Applejack to my parents’ place upstate—leaving my poor niece without a live-in pet. Which was utterly fucking unacceptable. Hence—Bear.

He’s awesome. And big. Sort of like a pony’s dwarf cousin.

But he’s gentle—great with kids—even though he has no idea how large he actually is. He’s always trying to climb into Alexandra’s purse or sit on Steven’s lap—which can make breathing difficult.

Kate and I walk into the living room with James on my shoulders, and Bear welcomes us with deep woofs and slobbering licks. We greet the parentals, and Kate heads into the kitchen with my mother—rattling off a list of instructions and unloading James’s paraphernalia for the overnight stay. I put my son on his feet and he waddles over to the corner where his cousin Thomas is quietly constructing a tower of blocks.

If Mackenzie is my sister Alexandra’s twin? Tommy-boy is all Steven. He’s a little underweight for his age. But long—lanky. His hair is dark, his eyes are blue and thoughtful. Thomas is easygoing. Laid-back. The perfect yin to my son’s Tasmanian-devil-like yang.

With a diabolical giggle, James obliterates Thomas’s tower. But he doesn’t complain. He just starts building another one. I wrestle with Bear a bit, until my sister walks in with a cup of hot coffee for me.

I take the cup and gesture toward Bear. “How’s the house-training going?” Bear has a weak bladder. And though it doesn’t detract from his appeal, he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

“Fantastic—
if
the goal was to turn my nine-thousand-dollar Persian rug into his pissing ground.”

I glance at the rug in question. “He’s got good taste. That’s a fugly rug, Lexi. I’m thinking about pissing on it myself.”

“Funny.”

I sip my coffee. “I try.”

She leads me toward the adjoining dining room. “I talked to the wedding planner last night and finished the seating chart. Take a look.”

The wedding.

Okay—most guys would rather have their teeth pulled than have any involvement in the wedding planning. Sorry to break it to you, ladies, but we don’t give a shit about colors or centerpieces or the embossing style of the goddamn invitations. If we act as if we do, it’s only because we’re smart—and we’re trying to keep you off our backs.

As long as the bride looks good and those mini hot dogs are served during the cocktail hour? We’re there.

So in the beginning, I happily left all the details of the big day to Kate and my sister. But then I started hearing such words as
low-key
and
small, intimate affair
and
nothing too ostentatious
. And I had to step in.

Because when an Olympian wins the gold medal, do they have a
small, intimate affair
?

Of course not.

They throw a fucking ticker-tape parade.

Which is the least of what Kate deserves. Because she did what everyone—including the members of my immediate family—thought impossible. She bagged me. The grand prize—the unattainable—the megamillions jackpot.

That should be celebrated. In a huge way.

Plus, a woman’s wedding day is supposed to be special—unforgettable. She only gets one. This is particularly true in Kate’s case, because shortly after James was born, we had that whole discussion about what we would do if one of us kicked the bucket early. You’ve heard of that “
It’s a far, far better thing I do”
guy in
A Tale of Two Cities
? The one who sacrificed himself so the woman he loved could go on to live with another man?

Fucking pansy. He deserved to hang. I’m not him.

Sure, I want Kate to be happy—but I want her happy
with me
. Or no one at all. So if I bite the big one before her? She’s just gonna have to muddle through on her own.

Single.

Celibate.

Because if she hooks up with another guy? Has my son calling some loser Daddy?

I’ll haunt her. Forever. Like,
The Grudge
style.

BOOK: Tied
3.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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