Chapter Forty

Michaela

 

After one of my recurring nightmares, I sat up.

Lincoln slept on his back none-the-wiser, snoring like a kitten with a tiny whistle on the exhale. I grabbed my old teddy bear off the nightstand and silently left the room.

Plenty of other beds to sleep in.

Or be tortured by memories.

Not all that late here, so a reasonable time of night in California. Continuing down to the living room, I sat in the dark and brought up the messaging app on my phone.

Hey.

Hey! Who was at the door? Moira asked.

Are you with the boyfriend?

Tomorrow. I’m currently sitting in front of the TV eating last night’s leftovers.

Nice. It was Mr. Howell. Lawyerly stuff. Then Lincoln came back.

Why are you talking to me when you have a hot drummer?

He’s asleep and I’m not.

Uh-oh. What happened? Impeccable best friend radar.

He asked about my scar and I told him everything.

O_O Everything-everything?

Enough.

But he’s still there! Yay!

No yay. Somehow I told it wrong because he thinks the Aceros stole my baby.

They didn’t.

Thank you!

You gave up.

MO!

I get it. You went through physical and emotional hell. But you let them mow right over you, Mic. You could’ve retaken control when Matthew was one or two.

I can’t believe you said that.

Leaving the phone on the cushion, I strode to the window.

The phone buzzed with her reply.

It wasn’t true.

Yes, I regained an emotional equilibrium, but a baby couldn’t have moved in with us. Mo and I only made rent because of her college aid for room and board. I had a minimum wage job at Auntie Anne’s Pretzels before applying for Mr. Strawbridge.

Sighing, I finally looked at her text.

You know I’m not trying to hurt you. But you let them dictate your relationship with your son. Then it got easier to not rock the boat.

I had nothing to offer him in his most formative years. He’s got a good life.

Like Jonny did.

He calls you Mamacita like it’s a joke. Who taught him that?

Little boys are jerks past age five. It doesn’t mean anything.

Look, the Acero’s house was a nice place to hang out in high school, but they’re possessive over Matthew like he’s Jonny reincarnated and it’s not fair to him or you.

I didn’t know you felt like this.

Yes you did. You just don’t want to hear it. What did Lincoln say?

That it was fucked up. In so many words.

Was I right about him not judging you?

Yes…so far. Let’s see what morning brings.

Mic, the man hasn’t failed you yet.

So what? Say you’re both right. Matthew is nine. How am I a good mom if I rip him out of the only life he’s known just because he came out of me? He doesn’t deserve a family war.

Jonny would haunt me if I hurt our son.

Mo’s reply was fast. Ever consider they might bend if you stood up for your rights? They treated you like a daughter once. Try an honest conversation.

Mr. Howell said it could take a year or more to settle the trust.

You don’t need an inheritance to spend more time with your son.

Maybe not, but it could help. If I wanted to open this can of worms.

Matthew knew intellectually I was his birth mother, but the relationship had developed like an open adoption without all the paperwork. The Aceros were always polite, but there was a certain wariness like they expected me to fall apart at a moments’ notice because I was depressed most of the first year of his life—a condition that wasn’t my fault.

They were old school and believed when life got hard, you dusted yourself off and worked harder to recover that lost ground.

If I hadn’t needed medication, maybe they would’ve trusted me more. Their daughter’s drug abuse had left lasting scars on the family. My pain medication after the C-section was carefully doled out at the prescribed intervals and hidden the rest of the day, then I was on antidepressants, which they translated into crazy person, so I think they were relieved when I moved back to Moira’s and my apartment.

Anyway, what could I do without disrupting his life? Take him on weekends?

He plays soccer on Saturdays, I texted to Mo.

His games are what, an hour? Pick him up Friday night and drop him off Sunday night like divorced parents do. You’re going to be able to afford a bedroom for him soon.

I sighed. This is a bunch of crazy what-ifs brought on by Lincoln stirring the pot.

Doesn’t mean he’s 100% wrong, Mic.

I like you better when you’re just lifting my mood.

LOL now you’re sulking, I know you’ve run out of arguments.

No. I’m tired.

Okay.

Don’t ‘okay’ me.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” a sleepy-lidded Lincoln asked. He’d come down as he slept, in only his underwear.

“Nothing much,” I replied.

He wiped his fingers across his eyes, clearing crusties. “You didn’t sleep long.” He came closer and sat on the same sofa.

I shrugged. “Normal for me.”

“Michaela, I—”

“It’s okay, Lincoln.”

“Is it?”

I clicked my phone off and tucked it under my right leg. “I’m not going to ask you to apologize for your feelings.”

He slid closer. “I can’t imagine the pain you endured, but I also think you don’t have to accept the status quo forever.”

“Why does it matter to you?”

Moved Muffy onto my lap so my hands had something to do.

“Because you matter.”

More than I should. “I appreciate you sticking up for my honor.” Which he seemed genetically incapable of not doing. “But you don’t know all the players. It’s a complicated situation.”

“What does he call you?”

“Michaela. Mamacita when he’s sassy.”

“Little punk,” he grumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“My college roommate was Latin. That moniker is never used to describe an actual mother.”

I shook my head. “It translates to ‘little mother’.”

“Spanish slang isn’t literal like that. Unless you have an intimate relationship with someone, mamacita is the equivalent of a catcall. Use it on a Latina you’ve never met and you’ll get slapped.”

“Are you pulling my leg?” I asked suspiciously.

He held his hands up. “I spent a year with the guy, so I swear it’s what he taught me. He was an Anthropology major, so we clicked because of history, and he filled in my formal Spanish with colloquialisms.”

“I took French and German.” They were more applicable toward my music degree.

He rubbed my shoulder. “Sorry.” About the unfortunate truth. “Look, unless your in-laws are uncouth, which I wouldn’t imagine based on your description, he picked it up on the playground, or maybe from a song. He’s nine, so he can’t know what it really means.”

I groaned. “Probably. You’re right. We’ll have to talk about it.”

“When do you see him next?”

“Sunday night unless the flight is delayed. Family dinner every Sunday.”

He smiled. “Good Catholics.”

I nodded. “He attends a Catholic school.”

“Do you mind showing me a photo?” he asked softly.

I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, clicked on the photos section, and scrolled back to the last time Matthew posed for me, on Christmas morning. He held up an Avengers t-shirt.

Lincoln leaned in. “Aw, cute. Got a canine missing.”

“First one left this year.”

“Loves superheroes?”

“Yeah, but he’s only allowed to see cartoons so far. His abuelos are strict about content he watches, which is probably not a bad idea these days. We had the Disney Afternoon as little kids and now they have the internet.” I shivered.

“Wow, I forgot about that. I loved TaleSpin.”

I called up my favorite line. “’Fire at will! No, do not fire at Will, he is my second mate.”

He laughed. “Yes! ‘Spigot!’”

“Anyway, he can’t wait to see the Marvel movies, though it’s going to be a while before he gets to the ones with cuss words.”

“PG-13 does allow a few.”

“Yep. I’m looking forward to Agent Carter. That might be kid-appropriate since it’s network TV and set in the ‘40s. Agents of SHIELD season one was okay until the Hydra reveal and people died, so maybe a year or two before we start that.”

“Spoiler!”

My eyes widened. “They’re months into season two!”

“I’ve been busy!”

“That was in April!”

He laughed at our silly argument. “I was touring last spring. I’m still working through my DVR, let alone the movies I missed. I will catch up.”

“Except you go on tour this April, too.”

His nose wrinkled up. “Yeah…I’m gonna need a portable video library.” He propped his head up with his fist. “Got three months to binge, though. And kudos to Hayley Atwell for getting her own show.”

“Another brunette for your hot actress list.”

He sent me an eye-roll. “Yes, I have a type.” Then tapped the tip of my nose. “Including you.”

“But I’m not older than you.”

“Numbers don’t matter.”

“Says the man with an accounting degree.”

Lincoln cupped my chin. “Come here, brat.”

Our faces met for a lazy yet stirring kiss.

I licked my lips when we parted. “I might be willing to watch Agent Carter with you.”

“I would be open to that.”

“And you’ll have no excuses because it’s only eight episodes.”

“January and February?”

“Yep.”

“Lucky us.” His face was barely visible in the dark, but I knew the desire I’d find in his eyes by his vocal tone by now.

“I still make no promises beyond what I’ve offered.”

“I know. You have shit to work out. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I come with a lot of baggage.”

“And it doesn’t scare me.”

Touching my forehead to his, I sighed. “You’re nuts, you know. So much could go wrong.” And probably would.

He moved me onto his lap. “I look forward to proving you incorrect.”

“With your penis?”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “No, sweetheart.”

But he’d distract me with it in the meantime.

A new kiss had a specific goal.

Would I ever not feel a rush and stirring in my core from the contact of our lips? Every single time, my body cried more please.

His hands slid down to my ass. I pressed my breasts into his chest. His mouth opened and I angled my head to deepen the kiss, teasing him with my tongue. The solid length in his boxer briefs said he approved.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he said huskily.

We hurried for the stairs and I plucked up the forgotten backpack. “What’s in here?”

“Clothes and stuff for tomorrow.” He took it from my hand.

“What if I’d kicked you out after I got what I wanted?”

“Then you’d miss out on morning shower fun.” Already close, he nuzzled my neck. “Did you forget already?”

My pulse sped up. “No.”

He grabbed my hand. “Then let’s be dirty enough to earn it.”