Fake Tattoos
Chapter fifty-two
Fallon
We sat outside for hours last night, talking about Caleb.
Filling in the blank spaces of time we lived without one another.
I have so much admiration for both of them.
All Cyrus has withstood, and still is, his purpose is to serve and protect.
Being in law enforcement is his calling, and even if a surge of panic rattles me to my core when he walks out that door. His coming home is that much sweeter.
I pause, freshly laundered clothes in my hands, when did I begin to think of my home as ours?
I note the folded clothes, two of Billy’s play shirts, and the other pieces belong to little Liam.
I bring the items to my nose, breathing in the fresh scent of laundry, as I close the distance to their rooms. My steps are lighter than they have been.
Yes, I think to myself. This is Cyrus and Liam’s home. We belong together.
The tiny slivers of our lives have slid together seamlessly, I can’t imagine them being anywhere other than here. Laughter greets me when I step into Billy’s room. Both kids still in pajamas, tucked inside a perfectly built fort.
I lay the clothes on the bed before kneeling to crawl across the floor as quietly as possible.
“Shhhh. Mom will hear you!” Billy whispers to Liam, causing him another fit of laughter.
“But it tickles, Billy!”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s a wet paper towel, it’s cold, not ticklish.” Billy tone is unimpressed.
“No, Billy, it makes me tickle, too!” Liam’s laughter is infectious.
The cool sheets crinkle in my palms as I yank them back, and shout, “BOO!”
Both kids shriek, jumping apart so fast I slap my hands over my ears before the noise blows out my eardrums. Their matching expressions of horror are almost funny. Side by side, the resemblance between them is impossible to miss. Same eyes. Same panic. It’s a little eerie, honestly.
“What’s going on in here?” I ask, glancing between them. “Since when do whispers lead to anything good?” My brow furrows at the sight of Liam with wet paper towels wrapped around both arms and one plastered to his forehead.
What in the biscuit-munching?
“Okay, kiddo, first things first. Are you hurt?”
They look to one another, matching mischievous grins, together they shake their heads. “Nope!”
Liam raises his little paper towel wrapped arms above his head, wiggling them close to my face. “Naw. We’re getting tatted up.”
“You’re doing what?”
Billy looks at me, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Mommy, I know you said I had to wait to use them, but they are so cool, and Liam wanted them! Please don’t be mad at us.” Twin blue orbs plead with me.
I scoot into the fort, folding myself into the cramped space, curiosity winning out. The paper towels aren’t damp—they’re soaked. Wet spots speckle Liam’s pant legs and the blankets beneath him. His legs are going to chafe later if I don’t get him into dry clothes soon.
The towels are freezing when I peel one back.
My shoulders shake with laughter. Billy has covered Liam in sleeve tattoos—neon peace signs, smiley faces, retro diner signs, and so many colors my eyes can’t settle on just one.
Liam beams. “Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness. Billy, you’re the best sister ever.” If his goal was avoiding punishment for breaking into the tattoo kit I bought for Billy’s birthday party, flattery was definitely the right move.
I glance at the paper towel drying against his forehead and cringe. The second I peel it back, oh my biscuits. A giant poop emoji—with googly eyes and a huge grin—is plastered right in the middle of Liam’s forehead.
I can’t breathe.
His little face scrunches in confusion. “Why are you laughing, Momma?” My laughter dies instantly, my chest tightening at the word. Momma. Beside him, Billy sobers too, old enough to understand why that single word matters.
I’m not sure how to proceed. Cyrus and I haven’t crossed this bridge yet, the last thing I want is to overstep.
But I can’t stomach disappointing Liam either.
I pull the little guy into my arms, squeezing and tickling his tummy until we’re all laughing.
“I have an idea. How about you two put tattoos on me this time? I think you’ve officially run out of room on yourselves.
” Both kids cheer as I grab the towels and tattoo booklet from the floor, nudging them aside enough to slide between them.
“Okay, my little artists, I need sleeves.” They get to work, pretending to run a whole shop. Billy snaps her fingers.
“Liam, I need our light for clean lines.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Liam snatches up a little blue flashlight, clicks it on, and carefully shines it across my arm like a seasoned assistant. How many times have they played tattoo shop?
Beside him, Billy sprays water onto a stack of paper towels, while my mind keeps snagging on the single word Liam called me.
Momma.
Honestly, hearing it warmed something deep in my chest. It felt as natural as when Billy says it.
I already love Liam fiercely—his happiness and safety sitting right beside Billy’s at the center of my world.
A small part of me wonders what Cyrus will think about Liam calling me Momma.
Will it make things complicated between us?
Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it’s a conversation we’ll have to have. A smile tugs at my lips as I glance between the kids.
“Do you like it, Momma?” Liam asks softly, his innocence wrapping around me so tightly my chest aches with it.
Billy beams beside him. “I think the hearts are perfect. How’d you know they’re my favorite?
” I ask, bumping my nose against Liam’s.
Billy leans closer to inspect her work. “And the peace signs because you’re always so chill.
” Both my arms are covered now—bright hearts, peace signs, smiley faces, and splashes of color layered over my skin.
Completely ridiculous. Completely perfect.
“I love them,” I tell the kids honestly. “Now, how about smoothies while we wait for Dad?”
The fort erupts in cheers just as a voice sounds from outside the blankets.
“Or we could make the smoothies together.”
We lurch forward, all three of us crawling out, popping through the opening of the tent together. Static hair and brightly colored tats; it’s the look on his face that betrays his emotions. He heard, and he doesn’t mind.