To Have It All(29)

Helen stared at me blankly for a moment before looking at Mary. “Pancakes for the little one,” she began. “And I’ll just have coffee.” Then moving her eyes to me, she mumbled, “Nine o’clock in the morning and he wants to give her a cheeseburger.”

She had a point. Twisting my mouth, slightly embarrassed, I said to Mary, “Kind of new to this whole kid thing. I’ll have a BLT please and coffee.”

“Anything else?” Mary chirped as she jotted my order down.

I couldn’t help smiling at her. She couldn’t know I admired her because she didn’t know I knew her . . . sort of knew her anyway. I knew enough. This woman fed me when I was hungry and never expected a thing in return. Every person in this restaurant only saw a pretty lady in a uniform, but I saw an angel.

“That’s it, Mary. Thank you,” I answered after a beat. As she hustled away, I watched her, thankful for people like her in this world.

“So. . . .” Helen hinted, drawing my attention. “You got a thing for this waitress or what?”

“No,” I shook my head adamantly. “Nothing like that.”

Helen smirked in a way that told me she didn’t believe me. “The way you were looking at her says differently.”

“It’s not like that Helen. You’re way off base,” I insisted as I handed Pim a few Cheerios from a zip-top baggie Waverly had packed.

“Then why were you looking at her like that?” My sister never let up sometimes. It could be so damn frustrating.

“Drop it, Helen,” I moaned in annoyance.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“Because she fed me, Helen,” I growled, keeping my voice low so others around us couldn’t hear, but with enough emphasis to indicate I was angry. I wasn’t angry about her asking, I was ashamed, and somehow it manifested to anger. I didn’t want to have to explain to my sister that I held Mary in the highest regard because she fed her worthless homeless brother food when he couldn’t pay for it for himself.

Helen’s features went slack. “Fed you . . . you mean when you were living on the streets?”

“Yes,” I snapped, sitting back, clenching my fist under the table as I pressed it to my leg. I was so damn angry, and I hated that. I was a prideful man, I knew this. Pride had kept me away from Helen; I was too ashamed to face her in my circumstances. I never wanted to be a man irrational about his pride; a man that let it make me act like an asshole. Unfortunately, my anger was only partially due to my pride and shame. Mostly it was due to the savage withdrawals from steroids. It was coming to the point that literally, every second of every day, one truth was reiterated; Max was a fucking idiot. I felt like raging one minute and weepy the next. I nearly goddamned cried that morning when Pim got excited about watching bike videos again. What the hell was that about? I thought I was losing my mind. Then, a moment of lust came over me as I watched Waverly bite her lip. She was a gorgeous woman, but even that moment was off; I felt attracted to her, but physically, downstairs, not even a twinge. Apparently, Max was facing erectile dysfunction as well. I really fucking hated Max.

With a few deep breaths, I managed to calm myself and try to explain as Helen’s lower lip trembled. She wanted to cry and was trying her damnedest not to. I wasn’t sure if my small anger tantrum had upset her or the revelation of who Mary was to me had, maybe it was both. Either way, I hated to see my sister hurt.

“There’s no crush,” I explained, calmly. “I’m not attracted to her. I’m just . . . grateful to her, okay?” When she moved her gaze to her hands where they were joined on the table, I felt awful. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“Don’t be sorry, Liam,” she murmured just as Mary dropped our coffees at the table.

“Food will be up shortly,” Mary informed us.

“Thank you,” Helen said softly, her eyes teary as she smiled up at Mary. Poor Mary. She didn’t realize a couple of seemingly whack jobs would be occupying one of her tables this morning. We weren’t crazy . . . not entirely anyway, but anyone taking a moment to observe might believe differently. I was shouting, Helen was crying, and I was trying to feed a baby a cheeseburger at nine in the morning.

Mary’s stare darted from Helen to me in question before moving back to Helen. “You okay, hon?” Even as nuts as we seemed, she asked the question with sincerity. She wasn’t judging us at all.

Helen wiped under her eyes and chuckled a little, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m fine. I think my pregnancy hormones are just making me emotional,” she lied. At least her lie looked believable when she rubbed her belly.

Mary congratulated her, and by the time she left our table, Helen had told Mary about how her delivery with David had been hell—26 hours of labor—and she was hoping this baby would be a C-section. When Mary finally managed to escape the madness, I had to try and lighten the mood.

“Thanks for sparing us the description of afterbirth and not telling her about how you poo’d on the table.”

Helen whipped her gaze to me, her stare filled with shock. Tilting her head, she asked, “What?”

Holding my hands up, I chuckled a little. “It was just a joke.”

She shook her head. “I’m just surprised you remembered is all and, by the way, I didn’t poo on the table,” Helen sassed, cutting her eyes away from me. The truth was, she did. How did I know this? Oh, only because I somehow got stuck being in the delivery room with her when she gave birth to David because his father was a douche bag and I was the only family member alive to be there for her. David was premature, and the whole thing was scary as fuck, and there was no other choice. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but my baby sister needed someone in there that loved her, and I wouldn’t let her go it alone. My eyes were closed for about 90 percent of the delivery, and I remained near Helen’s head the whole time, facing away from the main event, but I do remember the doctor telling her not to worry, it happens all the time as they tore the paper under her away and disposed of it. It was one of those let’s never, ever talk about it things. That and she threatened to murder me in my sleep if I did. “Even if I had poo’d,” she whispered her last word “it’s part of giving birth. It’s all part of the . . . beauty.” She waved her hand haphazardly.