The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)(14)

“What kids?” Rocco still didn’t look sold on the idea. And there was the nose twitch again.

“Some of the other kids who live in our neighborhood. I just met one of them—his name is Aiden and he’s six,” I enthused.

Rocco’s head tipped back down and he dive-bombed his privates with a plastic shark. I gave Gavin a side glance.

“Sounds fun, Rock. You should totally go,” he offered before standing up. “Well, I’m out.” And he left the overcrowded bathroom.

“Will I hafta talk to them?” Rocco asked, zooming the shark through the bath water.

“I guess. I mean, at least a little. Why wouldn’t you want to?”

“Do I hafta play with them and stuff?” Another damn nose twitch.

“That’s kind of the whole point, baby.” Someone please give me the code to my kid’s brain.

“Oh.” Still with the shark. “Nah, I don’t wanna go.”

“I’m gonna be there too,” I kept with the sales pitch. “The other grown-ups and I will be talking and doing adult stuff but I’ll be right there the whole time.”

“In the same room?” I got his eyes again, along with another twitch. What are you so worried about, little man?

“Probably in the next room but you can come see me whenever you want.”

“Hmm.” His tiny lips shifted to the side in thought. “I guess.”

That was the best I was gonna get so it was time to move on. “All right, dude, let’s get this hair washed and then I’ll let you stay in for ten more minutes—but then you have to get out, no arguments.” With the amount of time this kid liked to spend in the bathtub you’d think he was a beleaguered mother from a Calgon commercial.

Out in the hall, I stopped at Gavin’s open door. He was standing barefooted by the dresser fiddling with his phone, still dressed in his dirty jeans and t-shirt from work, his shaggy brown hair matted from his hardhat.

“I don’t get it. What kid doesn’t want to go on a playdate? Didn’t you always want to hang out and do boy stuff when you were his age? I was always hanging out with other kids, wasn’t I?” I asked him. Maybe I was having some selective memory problems.

Without looking up from his phone he responded, “Sure, I guess.” Ever the skilled conversationalist.

Rocco’s voice floated from the bathroom, singing a made-up song about armpits. “Be honest, Gav. Is Rocco, I don’t know, a bit odd?”

His head still tilted down to his phone, only his eyes lifted to mine. “Are we both hearing the same noises coming from the bathroom right now?”





Chapter Six





Dear Superman: Your Brother’s a Dick





LANEY

Thursday dawned bright, and I mean bright. A person was not meant to get up this early. I stumbled around my bedroom, having woken up without my little sleep buddy beside me for the first time since we’d moved. Oh, sweet progress! My alarm had gone off early because I wanted to get Rocco and myself ready for the day and still make it to meet Charlotte at the building site before rushing to school and work. This was going to be a three Diet Coke morning for sure and I needed my caffeine fix stat.

Last night, I had spent some time on the internet looking up nervous tics to see if Rocco’s new nose twitching thing was something to worry about. Turns out yes and no. It seems these little tics are really common in young children, boys especially, and they tend to go away over time. Unfortunately, my research also revealed that the impetus for these kinds of tics was often a feeling of general stress. So, in a way, it told me what I already knew. Ugh.

After a quick shower and a rush-through of my usual hair and makeup routine, I tucked my hair behind my ears and called it good. Congratulating myself for setting out clothes the night before, I slipped on a pair of charcoal dress pants with a skinny red pinstripe and a V-neck sleeveless blouse the color of a poppy. I paired this with some very low heeled open-toed shoes in a matching color. Even Fiona would approve.

I went to wake Rocco but found his bed empty, firetruck sheets in a rumpled mess and pillow missing. After a search of the living room and kitchen I checked the only other possible place. Yep. There he was, snuggled up next to my brother, firetruck pillow cradling his head and all of Gavin’s covers bundled around him. My brother lay next to him, curled in the fetal position with no covers but, thankfully, some boxer briefs to protect my eyes from the bleach bath they would have needed had things gone differently.

“Your son stole my covers,” grumbled Gavin in a sleepy murmur.

I smiled—only because my kid is cute, not because I enjoy my brother’s pain—and went over to the bed to get Rocco.

“Hey buddy.” I rubbed up and down his back. “Time to wake up.” His sleepy eyes blinked repeatedly as he rolled to his back and stretched his arms above his head. “Did you decide to hang with Uncle Gavin last night?”

“Yeah,” he said around a yawn, “but he farts in his sleep.”

Suddenly wide awake, Gavin interjected, “I do not!”

“Do too.”

“Do not! And you steal all the covers!”

Again, why doesn’t my son want to play with other five-year-olds? He clearly lives with one already so it should be a no-brainer.