Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(52)

“I’m glad too,” Spencer says. He takes a doughnut off the counter and gazes at it like he’s just fallen in love for the very first time. “I’m never eating Dunkin’ Donuts again.”

The smile tugs at my lips and a chuckle rolls up my throat.

“Hey Spence—hook me up with one of those.”

My son hands me a gooey, warm doughnut dripping with glaze. I sink my teeth in and moan, because—holy shit—it doesn’t taste quite as good as one of Violet’s blow jobs feel . . . but it’s really close.

“Oh my God,” I manage to mumble around another bite.

The three of them laugh at me—mocking my ecstasy.

And I almost forgot what this is like. The sweetness of sharing these moments—good or bad—with someone who’s a partner, a lover, a friend.

But I remember now.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Violet


As summer shifts into August, Connor and I slip further into each other’s lives. Smoothly. Effortlessly.

We uncover even more about each other. For instance, I learn that Connor has watched every episode of The Office—three times—but it still makes him laugh. On one Saturday afternoon when I’m driving us to the farmers market because his truck is getting new tires, Connor discovers my occasional tendency to road rage.

Beep beep.

When a middle-aged woman in a shiny new Lexus commits the unforgiveable sin of doing 40 mph in the left lane of the frigging Garden State Parkway.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Move over! Get into the right lane!”

She eventually moves over. But as I’m passing her on the left, she gives me the finger.

And my head practically explodes.

“Fuck me? No—fuck you! Learn how to drive!”

Connor just stares at me from the passenger seat. In shock. Bewilderment, perhaps.

“What?” I ask. “I would never talk that way if the boys were in the car.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . are you sure you weren’t born in Jersey? ’Cause it really sounds like you were.”

I learn new things about the boys too—sometimes in not so great ways.

Like the night I pick up takeout for all of us from a Mexican place that’s one of Connor’s favorites. I get to his house while he’s still hung up at his parents’ place with his brothers, installing a new television in the living room. An hour after I get there, he comes through the door.

“Hey,” I greet him. “Aaron’s still at football practice, Brayden rode his bike to his friend’s house when I got here, and Spencer’s up in his room. Your food’s over there—Spencer and I already ate—he was starving.”

He brings his Styrofoam container to the table and I sit down next to him.

“What’d you two end up getting?” he asks.

“I got shrimp empanadas and Spencer got chicken empanadas. I accidentally put my plate in front of him at first.”

Connor stops mid chew. “He didn’t eat any, did he?”

“Only one bite. He realized it and—”

Connor bolts for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I run up behind him and when he opens Spencer’s bedroom door and stops short, I bump into his back.

“Hey Dathd.”

It’s sounds like Spencer . . . but something’s wrong with his voice.

Very, very wrong.

“Oh, man,” Connor groans.

Then he drops to his knees in front of his son, giving me an unobstructed view of Spencer’s face.

I suck in a gasp—long and loud—covering my horrified mouth.

Because the little boy’s lips are twice their size and his eyes look like he went a few rounds with Rocky Balboa in his Clubber Lang prime.

I shove in beside Connor, dropping to my knees.

“Are you having any trouble breathing, Spencer?”

Connor takes Spencer’s pulse. “Usually his tongue and lips swell up but not his throat.”

“Just because he hasn’t developed anaphylaxis before doesn’t mean he won’t.”

“I’m aware,” Connor replies, his voice confoundingly steady.

Does he not see his kid’s face?

“Nah, I cath breath othay. My thungs jus a lithel puthy.”

Jesus. Connor entrusted me with his children and I broke one.

For the first time in my life, I understand the concept of self-flagellation. Because the depth of my guilt is so instant and bottomless, I want someone to punish me harshly, hurt me deeply—if only to relieve my crushing self-blame.

“My bag’s in the closet by the front door, Vi. Can you grab it for me?” Connor asks, checking Spencer’s arms and chest for hives or a rash, but his skin is clear.

“Yeah.” And I’m sprinting for the steps.

When I round the corner back toward the bedroom with Connor’s black physician’s bag in my hands, I hear Spencer and Connor talking.

“Are you gontha gith me Benthadil?”

“I’m going to give you a shot of Benadryl this time, buddy.” Connor says.

“A thot? Thots thuck.”

“I know, but a shot will work faster and you’re swelling up like the blueberry girl in Willie Wonka.”