My phone rings at the same time I crawl into bed.
To say the day has been exhausting is an understatement. I worked a double before Noah’s game and went to dinner, and then Noah and I watched movies when we got home. Noah crashed on my couch a few hours later, and I carried him to my guest bedroom. He whined as I tucked him in the same way Cohen had the night Noah was sick.
When I grab my phone, I see Cohen is calling.
He called to check in on Noah a few hours ago and told him good night.
Is he that paranoid that he’s calling again?
No way am I waking up Noah.
“Hello?” I answer, stuffing a pillow behind my head and making myself comfortable.
“Hey, Jamie,” he says, his voice sounding off. “How’s my guy doing?”
What’s off about his voice is the slight slur with each word.
“The better question is how are you doing?” I reply with a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. You’re drunk as a skunk.”
He chuckles. “You know, I’ve never understood what that saying means, and I hear it a lot at my job.”
“Yeah, me neither.” I stretch out my legs and fight back a yawn, not wanting him to end the call because he thinks I’m tired. “Did you have fun at your guys’ night?”
“Actually, I did.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve detoured from my two-beer rule.”
“Two-beer rule?”
“Georgia has been swamped with work and school, so Noah has been with Sylvia more. I get nervous he’ll need something or that he’ll get hurt. Not that Sylvia is a bad babysitter. I’m just a nervous-ass dad. So if I grab a drink, it’s two beers.”
“But tonight?” My heart races as I cross my ankles and then uncross them.
“Tonight, I know he’s in good hands.”
Biting away the urge to squeal, I grab the fluffy pillow next to me and place it against my smile.
“I’m sorry for being such a dick to you at first.” An exasperated breath leaves him. “My trust in people is shit.”
I drag the pillow away, still frazzled. “I get it. I’d be protective too.”
“I love that you understand. That you get me.” A light hmm leaves him. “It’s hot.”
I force a nervous laugh and wait for him to tell me he’s kidding.
He doesn’t.
All he does is wait for me to say something.
“Wow,” I drawl. “You really are drunk as a skunk.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“I’m home. Silas was the DD. He’s having issues with his girlfriend and crashing on the couch. She doesn’t like when he has guys’ nights.”
“Lola? Did the girls not crash your party?”
I don’t see Lola being that overprotective of Silas, but if I had a boyfriend that hot, I’d probably want to keep an eye on him too.
“Silas wishes Lola were his girlfriend. Hell, we all do.”
“But he flirted with Lola all day.”
“Lola won’t date Silas, so he has Helena. None of us are exactly sure what Helena is to him—girlfriend, fuck buddy, definitely a pain in his ass, and she’s a nightmare. His dumbass let her move into his place last month. So when they fight, he crashes at one of our places to avoid her.”
“That sounds like a mess.”
“Guys like us”—his voice turns strained—“we’re not built for relationships anymore.”
“You’re not built for a relationship because of Heather?”
“Because of Heather,” he whispers.
“One bad relationship, and you’re done?”
“One bad relationship?” he scoffs. “Jamie, I got fucked over big time.”
For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t want to bad-mouth my sister, but no way am I sticking up for her actions. She did fuck him over big time.
“What about you?” he asks, snapping me away from my thoughts. “You dating anyone? Word is, the Sprinkles heir held your heart.”
Oh, my God.
“The Sprinkles heir?” I bite back a laugh.
“Sally Sprinkles’s son.”
“How do you know about Seth?”
“Noah. My kid is quite the gossiper.”
I’d say so.
How did this conversation go from him to me?
“I dated Seth when I was in med school,” I explain, my heart roaring in my chest. “I was too busy for a relationship, so we didn’t do much of the dating life. It was mostly us, you know, hanging out.”
“You mean, fucking?”
My cheeks turn a bright red, and I’m happy he can’t see me. “I’m so not answering that.”
“Why not?” he groans. “You throw me any question, and I’ll answer it.”
“No, because you’re … you.”
“Heather said you eavesdropped on her talking to her friends about us having sex when you were younger and even listened to us you know a few times.”
“Gross. I overheard Heather talking about your sex life because the girl has a big mouth. Yes, I also heard you banging from her bedroom since we shared a wall.” I make a gagging noise. “Trust me, you and my sister never made sex sound hot. She sounded like a dying bird.”
“And what did I sound like?”
I shut my eyes and remember the vomity memory.
He didn’t sound like a dying bird.
He moaned Heather’s name.
Vomit.
Told her she felt good.
Gag me.
Once.
That was the only time I heard them.
After that, I used my allowance and invested in some quality sound-canceling headphones.
“How long has it been since you had sex?”
My mouth falls open as my skin tingles. “I’m most definitely never, ever having that conversation with you.” I pause and add another, “Never,” for extra measure.
He laughs. “Oh, come on. Give a drunk man some entertainment.”
“I’m sure you have someone in your Contacts you can call for entertainment.”
“What if I don’t want someone else’s entertainment? What if I want yours?”
The hell?
What has suddenly changed with him?
“You’re drunk,” I say sternly. “You need to get some rest.”
“Is that doctor’s orders?”
“That is the doctor’s orders.”
“Dr. Jamie is no fun.”
“Never said I was fun.”
“Noah says you are.”
“Noah says I’m fun because I play with him, give him candy, and buy him pizza.”
“Sounds pretty damn fun to me. Let’s be fun together.”
“Okay, now, this is really when I say good night.”
There’s a brief silence, and when he speaks, all humor has ceased, “Why couldn’t you have been older?” There’s pain in his voice. “Why couldn’t I have chosen the other sister?”
His pain causes me to release an anguished sigh. “Cohen—”
“Seriously, Jamie,” he cuts me off. “The fact that I’m thinking about you is … I don’t know … messed up? But I can’t help it.”
“You need to get some sleep.” I release a drawn-out breath. “Good night, Cohen.”
“Good night, Jamie,” he whispers. “Sleep tight.”
Does Cohen remember last night?
That’s my first thought when I wake up.
It’s what runs through my mind as I make Noah French toast.
Cohen’s words have consumed me.
“Why couldn’t I have chosen the other sister?”
If only I’d been older.
The problem is, all we have are what-ifs.
It’s like a never-ending story.
Crossing any lines between us would be some Jerry Springer shit.
And Jesus, it’d confuse the hell out of Noah.
He’s already telling people I’m his mom.
My gaze moves to the rug rat as he drowns his French toast in syrup. My heart sinks. It has to be hard for him not to have a mother. Anger toward Heather plows through me.
How could she do that to him?
To both of the boys who deserve so much more than being abandoned.
I’m in the kitchen cleaning up when Cohen texts me.
Cohen: Is it cool if I pick up Noah around noon?
Nervousness and anticipation zip through my veins.
A shift is happening between us.
I shut the dishwasher, scurry to my bathroom, and fluff my hair out with my hands while staring in the mirror.
Why am I stressing?
Why am I trying to impress him?
With a groan, I pull my hair into a ponytail.
No looking cute for him.
Bad Jamie.
Hopefully, he sticks with that same rule and shows up, looking like a hungover mess.
My yoga pants stay on, and I pull a loose sweatshirt over my head.
I pour myself another cup of coffee and join Noah in the living room where he’s watching cartoons. The urge to find out why he said I was his mom is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t have the courage to ask.
It’s not my place.
Plus, I don’t want to embarrass or confuse Noah.
I suck down the rest of my coffee at the knock on the door. When I open it, my wish that Cohen would look like a hungover mess isn’t granted.
No, he looks hot—as per usual.
He leans against the doorframe, a smile on his lips. “Hey. How’d everything go?”
“Great,” I say, my voice too chipper, too unlike me. Until you drunk-dialed me and sent me for a tailspin.
I scurry backward before walking to the kitchen. He shuts the door behind him and joins me. I look like I crawled out of the hole I’d wanted him to crawl from since I slept like shit after his little mindfuck phone call.
“How much sugar did he talk you into?”
I laugh. “Not much. The churro gave him enough of a sugar high.”
We hear Noah’s footsteps before he comes into view.
He runs to Cohen and hugs his legs, grinning up at him. “Hi, Dad! I missed you!”
Cohen returns the hug with a tight squeeze, happiness in his eyes. “Hey, buddy. I missed you way more.”
“How was your night?” I ask after Noah runs back to the living room to finish his show.
If Cohen remembers our call, his face doesn’t give it away.
“Good. I had the first relaxing night in my bar than I think I’ve ever had.”
“Did the whole crew show up?”
He raises a brow. “The whole crew?”
“Yeah, your squad.”
“Squad? Who am I, Taylor Swift?”
“Wow, you know Taylor Swift has a squad?”
“Noah digs her.” He smirks. “He’s a Swiftie, so it’s hard for me not to be one too.”
“Who would’ve thought that behind all that hard-ass persona, you get down to ‘Shake It Off’?”
He holds his hands out, palms facing me. “Whoa, whoa. Settle down there. I don’t get down to it. I tolerate it.”
“My show is over now!” Noah says, running back into the kitchen. “I’m hungry.”
“I was going to make some lunch,” I tell Cohen. “Want some?”
He tilts his head to the side. “What’s on the menu?”
“Your options are grilled cheese, pizza rolls, or turkey sandwiches.”
“Ah, such delicacies.”
I shrug. “Shush, or you’ll starve.”
“What are pizza rolls?” Noah cuts in.
“The best food ever.” I whip my attention to Cohen, mustering the most serious look on my face I can manage. “He’s never had pizza rolls? What kind of monster are you?”
“As a doctor, should you be eating pizza rolls?”
I playfully bite my lip before swatting at him. “Listen, pizza rolls and coffee are my main food groups.”
Noah taps Cohen’s leg, looking up at him. “What’s the difference between pizza and pizza rolls?”
“Pizza rolls are like bite-sized pizza,” I explain, preheating the toaster oven, opening the freezer, and pulling out the bag of pizza rolls.
“Ooh, sounds yummy!” Noah says, holding up both hands and separating his fingers. “Can I have this many of them?”
Cohen pats Noah on the back. “Sure. Go have a seat at the table.”
Noah hops to the table while singing the theme song of the cartoon that was playing.
I cut the bag open and drop the pizza rolls on aluminum foil while waiting for the toaster oven to heat. “These will probably help with your hangover,” I comment, patting Cohen’s stomach when I pass him.
“Dad, what’s a hangover?” Noah asks.
Cohen chuckles. “One lesson you’ll learn is that he picks up on everything you say.” His gaze pings to Noah. “It’s what adults say when they aren’t feeling well.”
“Cool! I want to be an adult and have a hangover.”
“You can’t say that until you’re an adult,” Cohen scolds, his tone still gentle.
Cohen leans against the counter next to me. “Who says I have a hangover?”
I drop a pizza roll on the floor, and he picks it up.
“I mean, you were with your friends, so it was an assumption.” I dramatically gesture to his face. “Your face also looks like it was run over by a car.”
“Run over by a car?” He throws the pizza roll across the kitchen, and it lands in the trash can. Show-off. “Thank you for the nice compliment.”
“Always happy to serve them.” I slide away from him. “Do you want something to drink? Water to wash down the Advil?”
“I’ll take a water, no Advil.” He signals toward the pizza rolls. “And be sure to throw me some of those in there for the hungover dude.”
“Nope, none for the haters.” I still add more.
“Pizza rolls were my jam when I was twenty and ate like a kid in college with no priorities involving a healthy diet.”
I elbow his stomach, and he lets out a, “Humph.”
While the pizza rolls bake, Noah tells Cohen about all the fun he had here last night, and as they talk, I make our plates.
We sit at the table like one cute, dysfunctional, will-never-happen family.
“These are delicious,” Noah says, licking sauce off his fingers. “I want to have them every single day, okay, Dad?”
“Yeah, not happening.” Cohen pops the last one in his mouth.
Noah’s attention shoots to me as a mischievous look comes across his face. “Jamie will let me come over and eat them whenever I want.”
I laugh and poke his shoulder. “Not if I eat them all first.”
He hugs his belly while cracking up in giggles.
Noah is munching on a cookie he bribed out of me when Cohen stands to help me clean the kitchen.
“Can we talk about what happened yesterday?” he asks, close into my space.
“Sure,” I drawl, uncertain of which situation he’s referring to.
“I don’t know why Noah told people you’re his mom, but I’ll talk to him about it.”
“Oh, right.” I sigh. “My guess is, he doesn’t want to be the odd one out.”
“Mine too.” His face falls. “It sucks because I can’t do anything to fix it. Any other issues, I find a way.” He runs his hands through his hair. “When he has school events, I’m the only one there for him—Georgia, too, sometimes—and I see the look in his eyes when he watches his friends with their mothers. He wants that, and fuck, I want that for him.”
I work to keep my voice as soothing as possible. “I know it’s hard, and I wish Heather would get her head out of her ass.”
He recoils, stumbling back a step, and his stare turns cold. “Heather will never be Noah’s mother. She has no place in our lives, period, Jamie.”
I shuffle my feet on the floor. I opened the box, so I might as well explore some. “You’ve never wondered …?” I abruptly stop, questioning if I’m about to make the right move before asking, “What if she returns and wants to know Noah?”
“Nope.” His voice is rough. “She signed over her rights and isn’t shit to him. It’ll stay that way.” He shakes his head, torment on his face. “It’s bad enough she saw him at your parents’, and her behavior further proves my point. Hell, she didn’t even want to see Noah. She was afraid her fucking boyfriend—”
“Husband,” I interrupt.
“Husband,” he grinds out. “She doesn’t deserve any of that boy’s love.” He jerks his head toward Noah.
“I understand.” I offer him a comforting smile—or at least, I hope it appears that way.
My question has changed the mood of the room.
No more pizza roll jokes.
Talk of Heather has ruined that.
His shoulders slump. “I wish I’d chosen a better mother for him.”
“Why couldn’t I have chosen the other sister?”
My head spins, and I step closer, rubbing his shoulders. “Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself. He’s lucky to have such a great father.”
“That’ll never fill the need for a mother’s love. Obviously, look at what he told his teacher.”
“Eventually, you’ll find a woman who can be that figure for him.” And I’ll hate her.
“We have Georgia”—his eyes lower, sorrowful but with a hint of hope in them, and then they meet mine—“and you.”