Page 31 of Crazy In Love
“I would get mad if you took my fork.”
“I know.” I slide my hand over his hipbone and bring my focus to the television. He’s watching MythBusters. “But you would still love me, even if I annoyed you.”
He nods, though the movement is subtle. “Is that a question?”
“No. Family loves each other, no matter what. Well, ours, anyway. And luckily for me, family doesn’t always have to share DNA.”
“Like us.”
“Exactly like us. And honestly?” I inch back and search his tired eyes. “I love youmorethan every single other person on this planet whose DNA matches mine. I love you more than all of them combined.”
He exhales, smiling and sighing until two deep dimples pop in his cheeks. And because it’s late, his eyes flicker closed. “I love you, too. I’m glad you’re visiting.”
ROUND TEN
CHRIS
I don’t begrudge Franky and Fox their ability to fall asleep, curled in each other’s arms and draped across the couch in an odd pretzel shape that would leave me damn near broken by morning.
But I don’t understand it, either.
I can’t fathom how easily they rest, knowing Alana is at the hospital right now, her body stretching and tearing. Her life, in the hands of someone else while her baby claws its way into existence.
Everyone says that childbirth is beautiful and special. Magical.Whatever. But all I can focus on are the maternal mortality statistics my stupid fucking brain latched onto somewhere around Alana’s fifth month.
Because that’s what it does. It searches for facts and data. Statistics. When the world is upside down, and my normal, sensical routine is shoved off-kilter, I reach for literature, digesting the details as eagerly as a starving man feasts on his next meal.
Sometimes it helps.
In fact, most of the time, it does.
But not this time. Because instead of remembering the nearly six hundred babies bornsafelyacross the world every two minutes, I think about the one that dies.
Mother. Baby. Or both.
Instead of reminding myself of the advances in modern medicine and acknowledging how safe Alana and the baby truly are tonight, I think of the things I can’t control.
Which, of course, is my fucking curse.
Why was I born like this?
Why, when Tommy and I shared a womb, did he come out with a normal brain. And I’m… fucked up?
It’s my punishment, I guess.
The sky outside is pitch black, and the clock on the mantle reads three fifty-three. Frogs swim in the lake out back, while the cicadas, thankfully, sleep. Mosquitos buzz, hungrily hunting for a crack in the window screens surrounding Tommy’s home. They know there are people inside, exposed arms and legs and blood ripe for suckling. But we learned long ago to make sure that shit is taken care of.
Franky and Fox sleep soundly, soft breaths inhaling and exhaling in sync. Franky rests with his face on Fox’s chest, his long lashes folded down to kiss his cheeks, and his lips pushed forward in the pout he got from Alana.
Lucky kid.
Fortunately for him, he didn’t get too much from the Watkins side of the family, besides his eyes—the same green sparkle as mine and Tommy’s—and his over-analyzing ‘why am I like this?’mind—which only he and I have in common.
Fox shifts in her sleep, smacking her lips and exhaling a soft sigh. She curls tighter into the couch, pulling her feet up and resting her knees against Franky’s hips, and because of her new position, her shorts ride up and reveal more than she probably means to. A fraction of her swollen ass cheek—just one side—and a flash of red underwear.
I should put a blanket over them.
Jesus, I should stop being a fucking creep. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things, and for as long as she’s dreaming, she’s not taunting me.
