Page 101 of Never Stop
I wasn’t going to ask and bring that shit up again.
Brooke slapped my shoulder. “Is Tucker your boyfriend?”
I glared at my wife. She rolled her eyes at me, and I felt as though I was about to have a heart attack. My skin was heating as if my blood was literally on fire inside my veins.
“Eww, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. She was still in the “eww” phase.
“Well,” she continued and my eyes widened, waiting for more words to come from her mouth, “I think he’s cute, but he’s mean to me.”
“Aw fuck,” I hissed, scooting my chair back and standing. I really didn’t even care about my language, especially given my two girls were determined to kill me.
Brooke sat in my place, and I went to finish dinner because I needed a distraction before I murdered this Tucker fucker. Then I laughed at myself.Tucker fucker. I was turning into RobertFuckingFrost and becoming a poet.
I was losing my mind.
“When boys are mean to you, that sometimes mean they like you,” I heard Brooke say.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Cheyenne replied.
Brooke gave a sarcastic laugh. “Boys don’t make sense. Look at your dad. He’s having a meltdown because a boy texted you.”
“Yeah, Dad!” Cheyenne called. “It’s just a text.”
I stopped stirring the cream sauce. “What does the text say, Cheyenne?” I barked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Babe.” Brooke stood and walked toward me. “Just let it go. They’re kids.”
I blinked at her. “You have no idea what it’s like. Cheyenne’smybaby.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Brooke stared at me for a beat, and the silence in the kitchen was unnerving. Ringing started in my ears, and I felt as though time was standing still. Her throat moved up and then back down as she took a long swallow. “You’re right.” Her words were barely a whisper and then she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
“Baby,” I called after her and my legs started moving to follow her. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Why is she mad?” Cheyenne asked.
I didn’t stop to answer her.
The bedroom door to our room was shut, and I opened it. Brooke was laying on her side of the bed, and I walked to stand next to her.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
I crouched down beside her, brushing her chocolate colored hair from her face. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know Cheyenne’s not mine—”
“She is yours. You might not have given birth to her, but she sees you as her mother.”
Brooke sat up, tears running down her cheeks. “But you don’t.”
It was as if she slapped me. “What? Of course I do.”
“But you said—”
