Who We Are (The Seafare Chronicles 2)

Otter saves me. “Just over four months.”

She arches an eyebrow at us. “You two move kind of fast.”

“It’s been going on a lot longer than four months,” I say quickly. “I’ve known Otter practically my whole life.”

“And Anna? She said she was your ex?”

I was told a while ago that this whole process would be like having my entire life put under a microscope, so I can’t say these questions are unexpected. But it’s still awkward having to talk to a complete stranger about things I couldn’t talk about with the people closest to me for months.

“She is,” I say warily. “But she’s with Otter’s brother now.”

“Interesting,” Georgia says as she types something else onto her computer.

“Do we get copies of this report?” I ask her, wanting to know exactly what she’s saying about me.

“You do. Worried?”

“Of course not,” I scoff. She looks like she doesn’t believe me.

“And there is no chance of you and Anna trying to… work things out?”

“Over my dead body,” Otter mutters as he crosses his arms against his chest and glares at Georgia.

I roll my eyes. “What the big guy means is no. There’s no chance.”

“And you two are committed to each other?”

He cocks his head at her. “Meaning what?”

“Otter, I—” I start.

He holds up his hand at me. “Let her answer the question, Bear. If she’s going to be asking these things, then it’s our right to find out why.”

“Meaning,” Georgia says, “are you two exclusive with each other? Or are there any other parties involved in your relationship? Together only four months, and yet you live together in a house with a young child?”

I understand the point of her question. I understand the logic behind it as I understand she’s just doing her job. But what I don’t understand is this dark feeling in the pit of my stomach, that senseless thing that had arisen when I’d seen Otter and David Trent shaking hands. That look in Otter’s eye, that knowing expression on David’s face. There was knowledge there, intimate knowledge, and it bugged the fuck out of me, even though the same could be said about Anna and me.

It’s jealousy and I hate it. Otter and I have never discussed exclusivity, and now that it’s being thrown back in my face, it’s not sitting right. I’d just assumed there was no one else. Like we were pigeons (seriously, they mate for life. Now you can’t say I never taught you anything) or something. Too late do I realize that everything I’m thinking is probably spread blatantly over my face. I look up at Ott

er, who grins that crooked grin and shakes his head. You think too much, his eyes tell me. Why are you such an idiot sometimes? that smile says.

“There’s no one else,” Otter says to Georgia. “And there won’t be, either. Bear’s it for me and has been for quite some time.”

Ow, my heart.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice far rougher than I’d hoped it would be. “Otter

’n me. There’s not gonna be anyone else.”

She chooses to ignore the scratch in my voice, but when she turns her back to check locks on the bedroom doors, Otter reaches over quickly and tucks me under his big arm, kissing the top of my head, leaning down to whisper, “Only you, Papa Bear. It’s always been you.”

Yeah, yeah, big guy. I hear you. That doesn’t mean that feeling will go away right now. But he doesn’t need to know that. I internalize now, remember? I smile up at him, but there must be something still there because he sighs and squeezes me tighter before stepping away.

“I met Dominic six years ago, when he was nine,” Georgia suddenly says, distracting me from my idiocy. “Tyson’s age. I’d received a phone call from my boss at three in the morning, asking me to get down to Mercy Hospital, that I had a new case.” She opens the door to Ty’s room, and we follow her in. It’s bright, the open window letting in sunlight and a sea breeze. She pulls a digital camera out of her back pocket and snaps a few photos of the bed and the walls, where Tyson has posters of Einstein (tongue stuck out, of course), Gandhi, PETA. “Vegetarian?” she asks.

“By his own choice,” I say. “That’s what he wanted, so I supported him.”

“He’s not a normal kid, is he?” She asks as she stands in front of a new addition to his poster wall, a large black and white photo of a woman with duct tape over her mouth, the words NO H8 written on her cheek.