Chapter Twenty
Rose
"Always?" I stagger back a step, the word barely making it out.
"Mensa, Rose."
"You're Mensa?" James lights up. "That's so fucking awesome."
"Hey!" My finger comes up on reflex. "No F-bombs."
He just laughs. "Sorry."
"And you..." I point at Michael, then stop because I can't decide whether to hug him or strangle him, and my heart is doing enough already without adding violence. "Back to you. Follow me. I can't function in this much adorableness."
I grab them both by the hand, my brother in one and my son in the other, and there's a sentence I never thought I'd get to think, then pull them out of the nursery toward the dining table.
"Sit." I point at two chairs. "Spill."
The rest of the audience files out behind us and arranges itself across the living room couch, openly watching.
They may as well have popcorn. A year ago I would've dragged this conversation behind three closed doors and required everyone within earshot to sign an NDA, but I'm not hiding anymore. This is my life. They can watch.
Michael folds his hands on the table like he's opening a shareholder meeting.
"Well, you went in for your 'thyroid surgery.
' Samson and Lauren came home with a baby they'd adopted.
You watched said baby constantly, from our driveway, from park benches, from wherever they happened to be.
And he has a white streak exactly where you have yours.
You dyed it, sure. But we all knew it was there. "
He looks over at James, and his voice softens.
"I never knew the circumstances, and I didn't care to dig.
I never wanted you to feel obligated to tell me, so I never said a word.
I can't imagine what it cost you to walk away and then watch him grow up the way you did, but I know you, Rose.
I know you did what you believed was best for him.
So I made a point of knowing him." He knocks his knuckles lightly against James's shoulder. "He's a pretty cool fucking kid."
"He can say it?" James protests, pointing.
"He's an adult. And you're a buffering menace. You're both menaces. This table is full of menaces."
James grins like he's just been promoted.
I look at my brother and realize he's been carrying this quietly for years, protecting me from my own secret while I thought I was the one protecting him.
"Are you mad at me?" I ask. "For never saying anything?"
"No. God, no." He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. "Rose, I could never. You gave up everything to raise me. You gave him up so he could have everything you couldn't give. There's not a version of this where I get to be mad at you."
His eyes shine, and he blinks hard before continuing.
"I'm just glad I don't have to pretend I don't love the kid anymore. Do you know how exhausting it's been acting casual about his robotics projects? I've been dying to brag about my genius nephew and how he got his smarts from Uncle Benny."
"I am not calling you Uncle Benny," James says flatly, both hands up.
"Uncle Mikey?"
"Not gonna happen."
"What are my choices here?"
"Uncle Michael or Uncle Bennet."
"I disagree."
"What?" James throws his hands up. "You can't disagree with choices!"
"I can and I did. Counterargument: Unc, or BenBen."
James turns to me with an expression I recognize from my own mirror, the face of a reasonable person encountering Michael at full strength for the first time as family instead of company.
"Is he always like this?"
"YES!" comes from everyone at once, me, Blaire, Jackson, Joe, the entire couch gallery in perfect unison.
Michael sits back, deeply satisfied, a man who has never once been embarrassed in his life.
"BenBen it is."
"Nobody agreed to BenBen!"
***
"How's he doing over there?" Samson asks.
I was mid-story about Michael falling through the attic at ten, the couch audience howling, when my phone lit up with Samson's name. I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me before the second ring.
"He's everything, Sam. He's so outspoken and free. He's a sponge, wants to know everything about everyone. We're at Michael's place right now." I pause, because one question has been nagging at me since last night. "Did you know Michael knew?"
"I assumed. He never said it outright, but that boy's been orbiting our restaurant for years, and he doesn't do anything by accident." A low chuckle comes through the phone. "Runs in the family."
I stay quiet, and he hears everything in it because Samson has always had the deeply irritating ability to know when I'm building a case against myself.
"Don't overthink it, sweetheart. We're okay over here. Nobody in this house is sad or angry. Our hearts are full knowing he's there with you, getting to know his family."
"You're his family, Sam." My throat tightens. "I'm not trying to take him from you. I need you to know that."
"Sweetheart." His voice goes soft and sure. "He was always on loan. And we will always be family. I mean all of us. Nothing's changed except the good parts. We love him as a son, and we love you and your brother no different. We are yours, and you are ours. Am I clear, Rosie?"
That does it. I wipe the stream of tears off my face with the back of my hand and try to answer without sounding like I've swallowed a frog. "Thank you, Sam."
"James and Amelia would be so damn proud of you both." He lets that sit for a moment before clearing his throat and turning brisk again. "Now get back inside. And don't tell him I called. I just wanted to make sure it was going well. Boy can talk a mile a minute; I figured you'd earned a check-in."
I hang up and press my back against the wall. I've been holding myself together since we left the restaurant last night, and I'm not ready to go back inside yet. I can't remember the last time I cried happy tears, so I let them fall.
The door opens beside me, and I turn my face away immediately.
I don't want James walking out here and finding me crying, then deciding it has anything to do with him.
He was wonderful last night and all morning, but I've started noticing this little flinch every time I get quiet or emotional.
He watches my face too closely. Asks if I'm okay too quickly.
He's trying to keep me happy because some part of him is scared I'll disappear again if he gets this wrong.
He hasn't said that. He doesn't need to.
I've told him I'm not leaving him again. I've told him he gets to be completely himself with me, that he doesn't need to edit a single piece of who he is to make me stay. I just want to know him. All of him.
"Rosalie."
Jackson.
The door clicks shut behind him.
"Bennet's asking if you want anchov..." He stops when he sees me and comes around to stand in front of me. "Hey."
His voice changes on that one word.
Old Jackson.
My Jackson.
And fuck, I am not equipped for him right now.
“Hey."
He pulls me into his arms before I can decide whether that's a good idea, pressing my head to his chest and letting me cry.
God, I've missed this. His arms. His scent. The steady beat of his heart under my ear. It's the first time we've hugged in over a year, and once my body realizes that, the tears get worse instead of better.
I hold onto him for a few seconds longer than I should.
Then Rian's face comes to mind.
The wedding is three weeks away.
Rian's Jackson. Not mine.
I pull back and wipe my face quickly. "Sorry." I clear my throat because I currently sound like a congested chipmunk. "Sorry about that. I was just talking to Samson and it got emotional."
Jackson slides his hands into his pockets. "You don't have to apologize. Are you okay?"
I nod far too aggressively, creating some awful hybrid between a nod and a bow that no adult woman should ever perform in public. "Yeah. I'm good. Great, even. What were you going to ask me?"
He just looks at me.
Direct eye contact. No escape route. He's been doing that since I came back, and it's deeply fucking unsettling.
"Anchovies."
I blink. "Anchovies?"
"Yeah. Um." He scratches the back of his neck and looks toward the ceiling. "Bennet wants to know if you want anchovies on one of the pizzas."
"Oh." Jesus Christ. All that intensity for fish. "Okay. I was headed back in anyway. I'll tell him. Thanks."
I nod again.
Why am I still nodding?
Why does this man reduce me to malfunctioning body language now?
I reach for the door, and his hand closes around my wrist.
"Is this really who we are now, Rosalie?" he asks quietly. "Strangers in a hallway?"
I look down at his hand before meeting his eyes.
"I don't know how to be anything else and keep my heart safe in the process, Jackson. I told you to move on with your life. You did. And I'm truly happy for you. I am."
He takes a step closer, his hand still around my wrist. "But?"
As expected, there's a but. He knows me too well to let me get away with the press-release version.
"But you touched my face and called me baby, then introduced me to your fiancée in the next breath.
" I make myself hold his eyes because if we're doing honesty now, we're doing the whole ugly package.
"And yes, I'm happy for you. But I have to take the man who called me baby and put him away.
I have to learn how to love Rian Fields's husband from a distance instead. "
His grip loosens slightly.
"That's our reality now. We're not strangers. I don't think we could ever be strangers if we tried. But we're different."
"Did you?" he asks.
"Did I what?"
"Move on. With your life."
"No." I wrap my fingers around the doorknob, then make myself turn back.
This whole healing-truths thing is such bullshit. I want a refund.
"I'm not sure I'll ever be able to. But that's my problem, not yours. I'd better get inside."
His face gives him away before he can stop it. His eyes widen, his breath catches, and for once Marcus Jackson has absolutely nothing to say.
I don't rescue him from it. I don't take the words back or soften them into something easier for either of us. A year ago, I would've buried the truth under six qualifiers and a joke until neither of us knew what I'd actually said. I'm not doing that anymore.
I love him. He's marrying someone else. Both things are true, and neither one requires me to lie.
I open the door and step back into the noise of my family without looking behind me.
He can decide what to do with the truth on his own.