Her All Along

It was a stolen moment. A glimpse into a future I’d likely never have, one where I shared my home and bed with someone, someone I loved and adored. It was ludicrous. I hadn’t played pretend since Finn and I did it as a way to survive. And I’d been a child. I felt utterly ridiculous for fantasizing about lazy mornings in bed, passion, and comfort.

Kissing too. I’d never been a fan. Too intimate. Too close. Yet, it was present in the images flowing through my mind right now.

Fuck it all.

I released a breath and sank into a sense of absolute bliss.

I’d expected there to be awkwardness the next morning when we woke up, particularly considering there wasn’t an inch of space between us. Instead, the contentment flowed freely. At some point during the night, she’d turned to me and tucked her head under my chin. It was how I’d roused from sleep, with her fingers drawing mindless patterns along my back, and it didn’t bother me. If anything, I wouldn’t mind if she went under my beater.

“You’re awake,” she whispered.

“Mm.” I wished I could stay a while longer, but we weren’t the only ones who were up. Grace was cooing and rambling to herself in her room. “You’ll be here for dinner later, right?”

Since Ryan and his girlfriend were returning to California in a few days, I’d invited them over for a barbecue. I’d extended the invite to the others as well, but Lias and Evelina had plans, Ethan had a date, and Willow hadn’t warmed up enough to be verbal around Angel yet.

“Oh yeah,” she yawned and slowly disentangled herself from me. Then she stretched out and groaned and, fuck me, the way she arched her back, perfectly outlining her breasts underneath her tee. It was frustrating how quickly the contentment morphed into want. At least the contentment could be explained. I could blame it on being starved for affection. Yes, it sounded like bullshit to my ears, but whatever. It was still true.

As Pipsqueak rolled off the bed and stood up, I thought I was going to swallow my tongue when I got a glimpse of her ass. The girl wore a black motherfucking thong. Despite that the tee soon fell down and covered her again, those brief seconds had seared the image into my goddamn retinas. Two perfect fistfuls of soft-looking flesh. Black thong. Probably cotton. She was a cotton-type of girl. On the other hand, I’d never imagined her being a thong-kind of girl. Jesus.

“Ryan’s dropping Angel and me off at the mall when they open,” she said, stepping into her tiny shorts. “Do you have everything for the barbecue, or do you want me to pick something up?”

Focus.

“I gotta get more beer anyway, so I’ll do it.” I got out of bed too and stretched my arms over my head. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem. Um, could you get something for Angel and me? Or I can ask Ry…”

I chuckled and stifled a yawn. “It’s fine. Text me a list.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d bought alcohol for her, nor was I the first one in her family to do so. She always wanted hard lemonade or some other soda that had more sugar than booze in it.

Grace decided she’d been patient enough and yelled. “Ba-ba-ba, Dada-ba! Dadaaaa!”

That counted! I locked eyes with Pipsqueak. “That fucking counts,” I told her.

She beamed at me. “It totally counts.”

Fuck yes. I hurried out of the room and into the next, and I couldn’t stop the big grin.

“Dada!” She bounced in her bed and reached for me.

“That’s right, baby. Dada’s here. I’m Dada.” I walked over to her and picked her up, immediately assaulted by the smell of shit. Wonderful. Whatever. My beautiful, perfect daughter had said her first word, and it was me. No amount of shitty diapers could ruin my morning.

“Remember to make a note of it in her baby book!” Pipsqueak called on her way down the stairs. “I’ll make her some breakfast.”

I smiled and Eskimoed Grace. “Dada’s gonna make a note,” I murmured. “Dada’s also a lucky bastard to have Pipsqueak to remind him.”

Grace babbled happily.

With Pipsqueak on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, I could go days without noticing any of her quirks. After all, she was fairly social, eye contact wasn’t the biggest hurdle of hers, and she’d worked hard to face struggles that’d once given her anxiety. But sometimes, of course, she did something that tugged at my chords.

Clothes were an issue for her. The tag in the neckline could be torn off in a fit of panicked rage if it didn’t happen quickly enough, effectively ruining the whole shirt or dress, and she couldn’t wear anything that might get stuck on a chipped nail or scrape over a bit of broken skin. Satin and silk were a no-go.