The Godparent Trap

Rip set her down.

She ran off, and I immediately grabbed ahold of his crisp white shirt with my dirty rotten hands and tugged him outside, leaving the screen door open so I could at least see the kids. “You get a break the minute you walk out this door in the morning. I haven’t even started my own work today, and I have to post my articles at least three times a week. It’s how I make money, it’s what I enjoy, and I know I need to be here for the kids, but we need to figure something out, because I’m losing it playing fake mom all day, and you don’t seem to care!”

“First off…” He leaned in and flicked a fleck of pink paint off my shoulder. “Before you get that murderous look in your eyes—yup, that one right there—remember why my sister entrusted her kids to you. Why people love you so much in general. You’re the fun one, Colby. Second, don’t you think I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat?” His eyes went completely glassy, like he was holding back tears. “They’re gone. Gone.” His voice cracked. “And those kids are all I have left in this world.” His chest heaved, and I wanted so badly to say, I’m right here. You have me.

But instead I chose silence.

Which meant that as his eyes searched mine for any hint of compassion, all I did was stare back. Because wasn’t that what you did when you were hurt? When you were so exhausted you couldn’t see straight? When your grief felt so overwhelming you had no choice but to ignore it because two small children’s tears were more important than yours and you couldn’t justify your sadness in the face of theirs?

Even when you knew you needed those quiet moments too?

The ones where you screamed silently into your pillow, shattered whatever object you could find handy, and slid down to the floor in a heap of devastation?

“Neither situation is easy,” I finally said, licking my lips, watching as his eyes darkened, as he took a physical step back, putting distance between us.

Rip ran a hand over his head, his jaw flexed tight like he was clenching his teeth as he looked down at the ground. “How much time do you need?”

“Time?” I blinked. “For?”

“Your posts or articles or whatever the hell you do. How much time do you need?”

“This feels like a trap.”

“It’s not a trap.”

“It’s you.”

He smirked despite the heaviness between us, around us, lying at the ready to swallow us whole. “I can take a few days off, work from the house, you can use my office, get away, and then maybe you’ll have some compassion for what it’s like leaving your heart at the door every morning and wondering if you’ll ever make it back to see their faces—and doing every damn thing you can to make sure you do—because you’re it—we’re it, Colby. We’re it.”

A tear slid down my cheek. He probably thought I was the weakest human on the planet, but he’d spoken my fear aloud, and it was terrifying. “You think about it too, then? What will they do if something happens to us? What if something happens to them?”

“Every day.” He swore under his breath. “Every morning, every time I get in my car, every few minutes when I wonder if you’re able to keep them alive…”

“Very funny.” I gave him a slight shove. “I still hate you.”

“Oh, this conversation changes nothing. It just means we’re both helpless and sad—and you’re still a hot mess.”

“That”—I looked down at myself—“I can actually agree with right now.”

He cracked a smile. “You’ll see how hard it is to go to an office and, what did you say I did?” He made air quotes. “Get a break?”

I nearly growled. “And you’ll see how hard it is to keep the cat from eating the goldfish—or to keep Viera from watching Caillou reruns until you want to actually find this magical cartoon person and kill them dead.”

“All right.” He held out his massive hand, and I blinked to get rid of the image of that hand pulling me close, comforting me. “It’s a deal.”

I grabbed his hand and squeezed—hard. “We need to figure out this godparenting thing. We need a plan. Something solid. Something that keeps the kids alive. That keeps us alive.”

“A godparent plan? One that benefits us and the kids?” He was still holding my hand, and I was having trouble remembering why I wanted to punch him.

“Sure.” I tugged my lower lip with my teeth. “The kids are pretty OK at the moment, considering. But we are not. We need to start working with each other, not against.”

He nodded slowly, as if he was humoring me, and I tried not to let it piss me off. Instead I kept going. “Starting tonight. The last man standing after all the chaos gets future time off, whether it’s to go on a date, do a staycation here at the house barricaded in their room, or whether they want to order all the McDonald’s their stomachs can take and fall asleep in the fries.”

He made a face. “I don’t want to even think about how many times you’ve probably done that in your life.”

“Not telling.” I dropped his hand. “Is it a deal?”

“Of course.” He seemed to hover over me, or maybe he was just towering and I was mistaking it as a sexual hover like when you wanted to be close to someone but you didn’t want them to know that’s what you wanted. Ugh. What was I even thinking?