Page 119 of Who's Your Daddy?

“Fine.”

“Did you take any pictures?”

“A few.”

He doesn’t offer to show me or send them to me, so I don’t bother asking. He spoons the mushy sweet potato into a bowl, then walks over to Ambrose and sits on the stool in front of the highchair.

“Now, don’t give me a hard time today,” he warns sternly, gently blowing on the spoon.

“Is he a messy eater?”

“Nope. He doesn’t eat at all. We have the same fight every day.

“Can I try?” I ask, fully expecting him to say no.

He hasn’t looked at me once since I entered the kitchen. Even now, he doesn’t answer and simply hands me the bowl without turning to face me. I set the bowl on the counter, then take Ambrose out of the highchair and place him on my lap as I sit down on the stool next to Peter.

I remove the spoon, dip my finger into the sweet potato, and taste it myself. “Mmm...that’s good.” I take another taste, then another, and by the fourth, his little fingers grip my hand, and he pulls it to his mouth. “Oh, you wanna try some, too?” I give him a taste, and after he all but gnaws it off my finger, I take another bite. “Wow. This is delicious.” I animate my voice to make it seem more amazing than it is, and that makes him eager to have more. I give him some, then I have some, and we establish a pattern.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Peter says, sounding just a tiny bit impressed. “I’ve been fighting this battle daily for two weeks and then you come in and solve the problem so easily. No highchair. No spoon. I never would’ve thought of doing that.”

That is probably the most he’s spoken to me since the day I came back. And there’s no animosity in his tone, which I am taking as a huge plus. I’m too stunned to say anything and instead, focus on feeding Ambrose. Somewhere along the line, he feels empowered and takes matters into his own hands. Literally. He sticks his hand in there and smashes it into his face. And because we established a pattern of turn-taking, the next handful gets smashed into my face.

“Oh, God,” I say, recoiling slightly from the shock. “Well, I wasn’t...expecting that...and with a side order of spit.”

Peter snickers beside me but keeps it under control. Ambrose’s messy hands tangle in my hair when he feeds me again, and the strands stick to my face and neck. Some even gets into my mouth.

“Yo, ease up, li’l Bro. Give your mom a fighting chance.”

Peter’s snicker progresses to outright laughter, and I have to admit. I really miss that sound. I miss that playful naughtiness in his eyes. Using the back of my hand, I attempt to get my potato-infused hair off my face and out of my mouth, even trying to spit out the stubborn strands that just refuse to budge.

“Shit, that’s gross,” Peter chuckles. “You’re a mess. Let me get that for you.”

He traces his finger along my cheek, trying to gather the messy strands into one lock. It’s been months since I last felt his touch, and I just want to shut my eyes and melt into it. I relish in the gentle stroke of his finger, the warmth of his hand.

He stops when he reaches my lips. His eyes meet mine, and even though the smile remains on his face, he’s more serious now. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and, very slowly, his finger moves across the corner of my mouth to remove the hair. His gaze flicks between my eyes and my lips, and for a moment – only a moment – he looks at me the way he used to. It doesn’t last more than a second. Ambrose’s hand shoots up again, this time offering some to Peter.

“Uh...I’m gonna pass. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Legend has it that if you turn down a baby, you’ll turn to stone.”

“Never heard of that legend.”

“Oh, come on, Lestat. You’ve lived a few millennia. You’ve been around the block. You were probably around when that legend was invented.”

And with that, all humor fades. It’s like that one statement reminded him of why he hates me. He stands up and takes Ambrose from me. “I’ll take him. You should get cleaned up.”

The cool distance between us is reinstated, and the glimmer of the happiness we just shared disintegrates right before my eyes. I nod, accepting that this is how things are now.

Laughter is no longer the norm in this house, but rather a by-product of both of us simultaneously forgetting that we should be constantly walking on eggshells around each other. It’s the unfortunate result of letting our guards down just long enough to enjoy each other’s company again. Laughter is a reminder of how perfect we were together, and as such, we can never relive that because, according to him, that blissful perfection was all a lie.

I hide the dejection on my face and leave without saying another word.

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