Until December (Until Her/Him #8)(40)

He shrugs. “Get that Mom doesn’t really care about us.”

My throat gets tight, and I fight against the anger I feel threatening to take over. I never want my boys to feel unloved, and I have tried to make it so they never will, by giving them good people who they can count on. Unfortunately, I have never been able to control the impact their mother has on their lives any more than I can direct the sun from setting each evening. “Your mom is—”

“A bitch.”

My spine stiffens. “Language. I get that you’re upset with her, but do not ever disrespect her. She’s your mother. She loves you boys.”

“If she did, she would be around.” His jaw ticks. “She’s not around unless it’s convenient, and when she is here, she’s always talking about where she’s going or what she plans on doing next. I’m not stupid; I know she only shows up to make sure we haven’t forgotten her. The thing is… I always forget her the moment she walks out the door, because she doesn’t matter.”

Fuck, my throat gets tight. “I hate you feel that way.”

“I hate that Max thinks she’s perfect, but I also know I won’t be able to change his mind about her. He has to learn that for himself.” He pulls in a breath. “I just….” He pauses to shake his head. “I was just thinking that if you and December did get together and Mom did come around, he’d see the difference, and maybe it wouldn’t be so hard on him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… he could see what a mom is supposed to be like.”

“Mitch—”

“I know you’re going to say it’s too soon for that,” he cuts me off, holding up his hand toward me. “I just know that it would have been nice when I was his age to have a mom type person around, and maybe if December is that, it would be good for him.”

I stare at my son, not sure I’m able to stomach what he’s saying. I have tried to keep what happened between his mom and me away from him, but nonetheless, it’s obviously seeped through. I hate that he’s had to witness it; worse, I hate that he’s now trying to protect his little brother from experiencing the same thing.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, looking older than he is. “I know you’ve put up with Mom for years because you wanted us to have her in our lives.”

“You’re right. I want you boys to have your mom. Still, I’m sorry that you feel the way you do, and I don’t like that you’ve had to deal with things you shouldn’t have.” I close the distance between us and rest my hand around the side of his neck, giving it a gentle squeeze to get his attention. “I’m glad you’re trying to look out for your little brother, but this is something you don’t need to worry about.”

“Okay.” He dips his chin.

“Love you, kid.” I rest my forehead against the top of his head.

“Love you too, Dad,” he whispers back, and even though I’ve heard that from him time and time again, I know it will never get old.

“I’m proud of you.” I lower my voice. “I got this. Trust me to look out for you and your brother,” I say, and he nods.

“Ready!” Max shouts, cutting into the moment, and I lean back grinning, wanting to ease the tension in the air.

“You better go get packed up before your brother beats you to shotgun.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist suddenly, stunning me. And then before I can hug him back, he lets me go and rushes out of the kitchen, shouting “Shotgun!” as he rounds the island.

“No fair!” Max yells.

“Totally fair,” he counters, and even though I can’t see either of them from my vantage point, I know they’re in a scuffle, because I hear their grunts along with their shoes skidding on the hardwood.

I think about stepping in but decide to let them fight it out, since neither of them are crying or yelling for me. I pick up my cup of coffee and down the rest of it in one gulp then take the empty mug to the dishwasher and drop it inside. I continue to listen to them as I shrug on my jacket, and when I round the island, I find Max with his arms spread wide, blocking the hall. “Can I have shotgun?” he pants, giving me a pleading look.

“Your brother called it first, bud.”

“He doesn’t even have his bag,” he points out.

I glance at Mitchell. “Get your stuff.”

“I would have already if he let me down the hall.”

“Let your brother by,” I tell Max, surprised he was able to keep his brother back, when Mitchell has at least five inches and thirty pounds on him.

“Fine.” Max steps aside, glaring at his brother before transferring the look to me and heading outside in a huff.

With a short shake of my head, I grab my keys then walk out to the driveway, beeping the locks, and get in behind the wheel. Max gets into the back seat, grumbling about how unfair things are, and then as soon as Mitchell gets in, he announces that he’s calling shotgun for the ride home after school.

I fight back laughter, wondering how December would hold up in this situation. She’d probably think it was as hilarious as I do and wouldn’t even bat a lash at the boys arguing. That thought gives me pause. Like Mitchell pointed out, it’s too soon to be thinking of December’s reaction to my boys’ everyday antics, but still, there’s no denying I want to see her reaction and intertwine her in our lives in all the ways she can be.