He nods.

I tighten my grip around him. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He laughs quietly. “Yeah.”

“Just between you and me.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know that there is anyone who is going to be better at this than you.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Bear—”

“I mean it. You’re going to be so good at it, okay? You’ve waited for so long for this. You’ve been so patient with me. And I know you. Okay? I know you better than anyone. You’re going to be good. The best, really.”

“You too, you know?” he says, voice rough. “The best Papa Bear.”

“Knowing my luck, they’ll be neurotic messes who think too much and talk without a filter and end up offending everyone within a two-mile radius.”

“And will make a mortal enemy out of a seagull.”

“Hey! I didn’t do anything to that fucking evil rat with wings. It always came after me. And did you know seagulls have a lifespan up to fifteen years? I learned that on the internet while trying to get ideas for tonight. That motherfucker could still be alive, plotting and planning until I’m completely complacent before it exacts its revenge.”

“Your life is so weird.”

“Right? Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” he says with a hum.

I’m dozing a little while later when I hear him whisper, “We’re going to be good parents. I know we will.”

Right now, here in this moment, everything is fine.

I’m asleep a moment later.

12. Where Bear Faces the Reality of Married Life

IT’S MID-AUGUST when he snarls at me, “You think I asked for this? Jesus fucking Christ, Derrick. It’s hard enough that we’re having twins, but we also have to have your little sister here too. Sometimes it’s just too much, okay?”

And I’m staring at him, my skin buzzing like I’m made of bees, my fists clenched at my sides. I’m angry, so goddamn angry. Otter knows it too, and I can see the moment when what he’s said hits him, and he pales. The blood drains from his face, his eyes wide. He’s on the other side of the kitchen, and for the life of me, I don’t know how we’ve gotten this far. One moment, things are fine. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon, and we’re talking in the kitchen, and then he says that he has a meeting next Tuesday in Portland that could lead to a new short-term contract for him. Some magazine wants to hire him to photograph something, and I offhandedly reminded him that we had an appointment with Megan and the obstetrician. He said he’d have to skip it, and I reminded him that he’d skipped the last one because he’d been busy with a different job. And maybe I said, “Don’t you think Megan needs the both of us there? After all, she’s having our children,” and that set him off. He said things, I said things, both of us trying to keep our voices low because Izzie was upstairs, just having finished her lunch. We’re supposed to be going school shopping for the both of us, given that I go back the week after next to start all the bullshit admin meetings and prepping for the new year, and Izzie starts the first week of September on a Thursday (which might be the most ridiculous thing in the world).

But according to Otter, it’s just too much.

I know he regrets the words. I can see that, the way his mouth is opening and closing, and maybe I can understand it. Maybe I can get why he could say such a thing, because it is hard. We have a lot of plates up in the air, and things seem to be hurtling toward this inevitable conclusion that we started all those months ago.

We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry. It happens. It’s life.

The problem is a thirteen-year-old girl that lives with us makes a wounded noise from the entrance to the kitchen, neither of us knowing that she’d come back down the stairs at some point.

We both turn toward her. She’s standing there, tense, mouth thin. She’s such a little guy, fiery and fierce and oh so fucking smart. She’s a goddamn handful, but she’s ours. She belongs here with us. Not legally, not yet, not completely, but it’s getting there. The social worker visits have gone well. She’s happy and healthy, and yeah, sometimes she wakes up screaming with nightmares that she can’t quite articulate, tiny shoulders shaking, little hands clutching at my back as I hold her helplessly, but they’re getting better. They’re getting less and less, and she’s funny, okay? She’s sarcastic and biting, able to go toe to toe with the Kid any day of the week. And there are moments, strange little moments where I think that maybe she’s starting to love us as much as we love her.

Otter’s right: it hasn’t been easy. But nothing worth having ever is. Our entire fucking lives have shown us that, time and time again. It hasn’t always been fair, but we’ve made it this far, and we’re so close to having everything we wanted, everything we’ve worked so hard for.

This won’t break us. I won’t let it.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed the hell off.

“Izzie—” I start, but she’s already gone from the kitchen, the stairs creaking as she runs up them. Her bedroom door slams shut, and a moment later, loud jazz music starts to echo through the house because my little sister is weird and doesn’t listen to shitty fucking boy band music like all the other girls her age. She’s not like them. She’s like us, and I almost feel bad about that, knowing just how screwed up Ty and I can be. It’s not fair to her that she has to be like us.

Tags: T.J. Klune The Seafare Chronicles Romance
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