Making It Last (Camelot 4)

“Sure.”

The wrong answer according to Amber’s rules, but the right one in the sense that it might shut Ant up for the three or four minutes it took him to suck the drink down.

Jake’s breath turned jerky and ragged—worse instead of better. He could make himself hyperventilate this way. It had been a while since he did it, but Tony didn’t want a repeat show.

“Breathe, buddy,” he said quietly. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Take it slow.”

“Why—didn’t—you—tell me?” Jake asked, and on every word his breath hitched and his panic dialed up another notch. “You—said—to—get—in—the—van—but—not—that—she—wasn’t—coming!”

“I know. I didn’t mean to spring it on you that way. It was just that we were in a big hurry, and we didn’t make this new plan until the last second. But it’s okay, I swear. Take a deep breath. Please. Breathe through a straw, remember? You’re gonna pass out if you don’t.”

After a few seconds, Jake sucked in a lungful of air.

“Good. Now blow it out. See? That’s better. Do that again.”

Tony breathed with his son, in and out, and waited for the galloping of his own heart to ease up.

He’d often thought, curled around Jake on his son’s twin bed in the darkest hours of the night, that he’d cursed the boy before he was even born. Talked Amber into having a third baby when she wasn’t sure, promised her a daughter, only to give her a son whose fears went as deep as Tony’s own. Whose heart beat in Tony’s body.

They’d done this so many times, the two of them. This synchronized breathing. This backing off from the sharpest

edge of fear.

“Your mom’s coming home,” he said. “It’s only a few days.”

Jake lifted his tear-streaked face, fixing Tony with those big brown eyes, so dark. So exactly like his mother’s. Amber’s eyes, Amber’s cheeks. The same flawless skin that tanned with a few hours’ exposure to sunlight. The same straight, dark hair.

But everything inside this kid was Tony, through and through. The milk intolerance. The fear of the dark, the screwed-up sleep patterns.

The irrational terror that he would lose everything he cared about.

He forgets to breathe, Amber had said once, a few weeks after they had him home from the hospital. Just like you, Tony.

“What d-did I d-do?” Jake asked.

The question rose and broke, and the fear in his son’s eyes filled Tony with more pain than he could deal with.

He didn’t know what he’d done or not done. He had no fucking idea.

All he knew was they’d pulled away from the curb and left Amber there, jeans and tall boots and a bright magenta splash of T-shirt, and even before the van turned onto the road he hadn’t been able to recognize her as his wife.

She’d looked like she was lost, and even though it didn’t make any sense, he knew it was because he’d lost her.

He should have stayed with her, like Jamila suggested. But he had work. Five days off was already pushing it.

He couldn’t stay, so he’d compromised and made it so Amber could stay.

It felt wrong, though. It felt like shit.

“You didn’t do anything, buddy. It’s not your fault. It’s not even anything bad. Your mom needs a break, that’s all. She works really hard, you know?”

Jake braced his palm against Tony’s chest, drawing back. “She says yuh-you work hard.”

“That’s because I work outside the house, building stuff. But your mom works at home, with you guys, and she doesn’t get half as many breaks as me.”

“Weren’t we good?”

“Of course you were good,” Tony said, right as Ant piped up from the aisle seat, “It’s because you ate the chocolate bar, doofus.”