52. TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-SEVEN
ALEX
Macon’s bare feet are poking out the bottom of his comforter, toes wiggling, as I perch on the edge of his bed. The lights are out, save for the new space-themed projector I bought with Aspen today that now paints galaxies and shooting stars across the walls and ceiling.
“So, do I read you a bedtime story or something?” I ask, scanning to see if I can spot where he’s hidden Mr. Snuggles.
I think back to when he showed me his room back at Eden’s apartment, and I thought I’d seen him hide something under his covers. That’s making a whole lot more sense now.
He giggles. “No, I can read on my own. We can just chat or something.”
“Okay.” I readjust myself on the bed so I can see him better, just as I catch his fingers moving to a lump beneath his pillow that I hadn’t noticed before. “What you got there, buddy?”
His face flames, his hand shooting back to where it was. “Nothing.”
Fuck Sebastian for making this kid feel ashamed of having a stuffie. What kind of father makes his own son feel like shit for sleeping with something that comforts him? The kind of guy who threatens to take a kid away from the only real parent he’s ever known, that’s who.
“You know what…” Forcing down my anger, I shoot Macon a reassuring smile. “I want to introduce you to someone.”
I dash across the hallway to my bedroom and take what I need out of a dust-sprinkled shoebox in the closet. Macon is sitting up in bed when I return, propped up against the headboard and looking so tiny in the California king.
“This is Pig.”
I present the ragged, once-pink-but-now-a-queasy-sort-of-greige stuffie to him with a flourish, using my fingers to hold out its one good arm for Macon to shake.
“Hi, Pig.” Macon looks my once-beloved stuffie right in its buttonless eyes.
God, this kid is so fucking cute.
“Pig is my friend,” I tell him. “He used to sleep with me every night until he got too worn out for me to cuddle, so he sleeps in his own bed now.”
I’m embellishing the truth a little. Okay, I’m outright lying.
I did used to sleep with Pig every night until an asshole kid from the children’s home amputated his arm.
I was eleven and chose to hide him in a box under my bed after that.
I only got him out again once Brynn and I had moved in with Jack and Libby, our adopted parents.
After everything I’d already lost, I didn’t want to lose him too.
Macon’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushed with excitement now rather than embarrassment. “You have a stuffie?”
“Yep.” I nod my head a little too boisterously. “And I’m a super-cool soccer player.”
His face lights up, eyes sparkling like the stars spinning on the ceiling above him. His lip disappears between his teeth as he contemplates something then comes to a decision.
His hands move cautiously beneath his pillow until the hint of soft gray fluff appears at his chest. He cradles the little hippo beneath his chin, fingers twisting into his flimsy limbs, and searches my face for disapproval.
“Who’s this?”
“Mr. Snuggles,” he says in a small voice. “I’ve had him since I was a baby.”
“That’s awesome.” I grin to alleviate any doubt he had that I’ll respond at all like his father. “And it’s a much better name than Pig.”
He snorts. “Mom named him, I think.”
That tracks. I can’t imagine Sebastian, the toxically masculine, stick-up-his-ass dickhead would name a stuffie something so wholesome—or even name a stuffie at all, unless it was something super macho like Tank or Agamemnon.
“When did you get Pig?” he asks.
I try not to let it, but my mind wanders back through my childhood. Snapshots of smiles, dancing in the kitchen with my mom, and riding on the back of the mower with my dad filter through my mind on a film reel.
It pauses on the first time I met Brynn.
This red-faced little thing in a car seat as my parents carried her into the house, her fists swallowed inside mittens as she flailed her arms and punched out the message that she was either starving or dissatisfied with her new living arrangements.
Dad had knelt down beside me and held out Pig, telling me it was a gift from my new little sister as a premature thank you for always looking out for her.
I swallow down the flood of emotion the memory brings and blink away the heat behind my eyes. “My sister gave him to me when I was little,” I tell Macon. “Brynn. You’ve met her a few times, remember?”
He nods. “Mom always says that whenever I miss her, I should hug Mr. Snuggles as hard as I can, and wherever she is, she’ll feel it.”
“She’s right.” I take a deep breath, feeling words swell within me that I’ve never shared with anyone other than my therapist. “My mom and dad aren’t alive anymore, so when I really need a hug from them, I give one to Pig, and I know they’re hugging me back.”
Macon blinks big wide eyes up at me. “You don’t have parents anymore?”
I clear my throat, dropping my gaze to the pig in my lap. “I do. After my mom and dad died, Brynn and I were adopted by new parents.”
His mouth drops open. “You were adopted? That’s so cool. That’s like what happens at the Poppy Flowers home I’m doing the fundraiser for at school.”
“Poppy Fields,” I correct him with a smile. “And yeah, Brynn and I actually stayed there for a while.”
His eyes widen to such a degree I’m surprised they don’t fall right out of his head. “What? Holy shit.”
“Don’t let your mom hear you say that.”
Maybe Dr. Sharma was right. There’s something to be said for talking about things that hurt.
I mean, I know she probably wouldn’t have recommended a child for me to have this conversation with for the first time, but his innocence makes it easier.
There’s no judgment or pity from him. He’s not asking me difficult questions or giving me stupid platitudes, like “They’re in a better place now. ”
If anything, he’s a little overexcited about the information I’m telling him, too young to understand the relentless storm clouds it’s cast over every aspect of my life since I was his age.
And maybe there’s something in that too. That he’s the same age I was when it happened. Because it’s almost like I’m talking to myself, the boy I was back then, before trauma twisted me into someone else.
“Now we’ve gotta do something really cool for the fundraiser,” he declares so loudly I’m sure Eden can hear it all the way down the hall.
“Have you had any more ideas about it?”
“No.” He deflates. “My friend Ben is doing a livestream on Twitch. I wish I could do something like that.”
My eyebrow lifts. “How old is your friend Ben?”
“Nine.”
“Isn’t he a bit young to be on Twitch?”
“He’s gonna use his big brother’s account, who has, like, thousands of followers, so Ben is definitely gonna win.” He draws out the word thousands with a small scrunch to his brow. “Oh, man, I really wanted to be principal for the day.”
“Hey, we’ll come up with something, don’t worry.”
Like cutting my hair.
Damn Roman for putting that idea into my head. Not that I would auction it on eBay, like he suggested, but if I were to do it after a game in front of seventy thousand fans and livestream it on social media with a donation link, I can’t deny that it would probably reap some pretty solid results.
But I don’t think I could go through with it.
My hair is part of my identity. The guys love to give me shit for it, but I’m as famous for it as I am my right foot. It also makes me money. I can’t count the number of sponsorship deals I’ve landed with hair care brands, and some of them have been pretty damn lucrative.
Am I really thinking about cutting it all off to help a kid out with a school project?
Yeah, I guess I am.
Because he’s not just any kid. He’s the coolest little dude I know.
“I’ll help you.”
He bounces about three feet into the air. “Oh my god, really?”
Ugh, I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Remember when everyone came over for dinner, and Roman suggested I cut off my hair?”
His mouth falls open. “But you love your hair.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “But that’s exactly why it’ll work.”
“Are you sure?”
Nope, but I’m committed now.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” he squeals and leaps at me for a hug. “We are so gonna win this. When can we do it?”
The longer I can leave it, the better. “When’s the deadline for the project?”
“Next month, I think.”
“Then we’ll do it at a home game in a few weeks.”
“At a home game? We’re gonna do it at a soccer game? Seriously, for real?”
“Yep.” I grin. “We’re gonna livestream it on social media and everything.”
He gapes, frozen with his eyes wide as the moon. It’s an expression so sweet, so funny, that any reservations I had about doing this are forgotten. It’s worth it, just to see the kid looking so happy.
He deserves all the good things in the world.
His mom too. Hell, Eden deserves fucking everything.
And it’s moments like this, seeing firsthand what an incredible child she’s raised, and having him look at me like I’m a superhero in a Marvel movie, that I wish more than anything that I was strong enough to give it to her.
And as I tuck Macon back into bed, ruffle his hair again, and kiss Mr. Snuggles on the head, I realize just how fucking much it’s going to suck when I can’t do this anymore.
When our arrangement has met its expiration date and they’ve moved into an apartment of their own.
One where I can’t play video games with the kid anymore or listen to his mom sing in the shower when she thinks I can’t hear.
“Hey, Alex?” he yawns. “Can I ask you something?”
Red and orange stars sprinkle across his face in the darkness, illuminating him just enough for me to catch the nervous expression on his face.
“You okay?”
“When everyone came over for dinner, Salem and Ivy called you Uncle Alex.” Then quieter, he says, “Would it be okay if I call you Uncle Alex too?”
This must be what it feels like when your heart explodes.
A lump the size of an orange lodges itself in my throat, my eyes tingling for what must be the third time during this conversation.
Apparently, Macon has quite the gift for making emotionally stunted men cry.
Something to look into for the future, I suppose.
“Yeah, buddy. You can call me Uncle Alex.”