Page 155 of Things We Burn

Part of me knew we’d get on well. Both seemed nice enough guys—Kip a little more outgoing than Rowan–but I saw they were good people. Though I was a little gun shy with letting anyone into my life since Brax. Yeah, my internal alarms had warned me to be careful with him, but I’d thought he was harmless.

And he’d almost ruined my fucking life.

My fists clenched, thinking about him, and I wondered, not for the first time, if I’d made a mistake in not taking my brother up on his offer.

“You look how I felt for the first year of June’s life, brother.” Kip grinned at me in a way that told me the expression was second nature to him. He slapped me on the shoulder as I got off the bike.

“Fatherhood,” he sighed. “It’s hard.”

I hummed in agreement.

His hand, still on my shoulder, tightened, and his eyes narrowed on me. “No, bro, it’shard. I’ve been in combat. I’ve had people shooting at me, I’ve been this close to death.” He held his thumb and finger millimeters apart. “But I’ll tell you, fatherhood is harder than war.”

I looked at him, not able to tell if he was joking or not.

He shook his head, the haunted look leaving his face. “But it’s worth it. I promise. And it gets easier.” He took a long sip of his coffee, seemingly in thought. “Kind of. I know you guysare still in the newborn trenches, and let me tell you, I know they’re fucking trenches, but once you’re out, we’ll come over. Me and the wife and June. We’ll show you there is life after this.” He squeezed my shoulder again, quite obviously unafraid of physical affection with a man he barely knew.

“For now, copious amounts of coffee, sugar, and for fuck’s sake, don’t ever tell her you’re tired. You’re apt to get your face metaphorically clawed off, if you’re lucky. No matter how tired you are, they are 1.000percentmore tired.”

He winked then turned to leave.

I looked at the pink bakery I’d become a regular in, my bike parked on a Main Street that could only be described as quaint with what I was almost sure was spit-up on my shirt.

I was exhausted—obviously not more exhausted, never more exhausted than Avery—not from an all-nighter, not from training for the Olympics, not from crashing at the X-Games and narrowly avoiding death. Nope, drained from an eight-pound baby who liked to be held and fed and hated sleeping anywhere that wasn’t on her mother or me.

The crisp sea breeze seemed to be the only thing keeping my eyes open.

I’d never felt more alive in my life.

And despite my struggle, my bone deep fear that I was going to fuck up, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Twenty-Five

AVERY

The first threemonths didn’t pass in a blur like people said they did.

Mabel was diagnosed with colic, with her constant crying ramping up the day after my mom and Maisie left. I was aware ‘colic’ was a catchall term for a baby who appeared to be healthy but was in obvious discomfort.

I tried everything. Nothing worked.

Every day dragged into an eternity of dirty diapers, of burp cloths, of milk-stained clothing, engorged breasts, crying and sleep deprivation.

And every day was a variation of the same. With the one key difference: what calmed the baby one day didn’t necessarily calm the baby the next day. More likely, it served to distress her more.

And although I thrived on routine, that was not any kind of routine crafted on Earth. Often, I would’ve sworn that in the middle of the night, amongst the cries and the grunts and the feedings, that that routine was crafted in the depths of hell.

Kane no longer had the magic touch. Because when you have a colicky baby, there was no magic except in the blissful fifteen minutes—if you’re lucky—we got a day when our baby was content, ready to look at us and occasionally even gift us with her precious smiles.

Aside from that, magic was somewhere else, at Hogwarts or wherever.

No, for all Kane’s considerable talents, calming the baby was not one of them. His magic was to stay calm when she wasn’t. To speak to her with adoration, kiss her head, rock her, walk around the house for hours. Not once did I see him get frustrated with her, lose his temper, look at all like he was going to go out for a pack of diapers and never return.

That was a feat in itself. Because in my darkest of moments, I’d thought about getting in my car and driving off. Not forever. Just for ten minutes.

Ten minutes of peace. Ten minutes when I wasn’t trying to stop the baby from crying or tense, knowing it was inevitable that the baby would start crying again.

I would look at her—her tiny nose, the cute fingers, the rosebud lips—and find it impossible to believe that something so perfect existed. That someone so precious was mine, ours.

---