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“The twins. Desi and Dante. They’re a little older than me.”
“So you automatically assume they’re my nephews because they’re your age?” I ask with mock indignation.
“Jackson said they’re your family,” she says, all innocent, a smile in her voice.
“I’m teasing. They might be cousins. I didn’t interact with that side of the family outside the diner. The eyes would’ve given me away, you know?”
My mother’s side lived in East Harlem. I wasn’t close with them either, choosing to spend my time at school or the park. I learned to skate in a Harlem hockey program. Our apartment was between Central Park and Morningside Park on the Upper West Side, where I could play hockey, baseball, or basketball.
Sports kept me out of trouble, and I figured sports would be my ticket out of the city.
“That’s sad. I hope our baby has your eyes.”
She brings me back to the present, her words an ax to the sternum, cracking it wide to steal my heart.
My chest swells with so much love, it hurts.
That, or I’m having a heart attack.
“Jesus, I miss you. How are you feeling? Are you eating? What’d you feed my son today?”
“Yourcousinsordered pizza.”
“And you actually ate?” I highly doubt it. Her devotion to healthy food may rival her devotion to Jax, and she doesn’t eat meat unless I feed it to her...
That’d be a great joke if Jackson wasn’t part of the equation.
“I ate a margherita pizza with mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, and basil.”
A grin spreads across my lips, although she can’t see it. “Of course you did.”
Clothing rustles as she shifts around. “When will you be here?”
“Why? You miss me?”
“Yeah...”
Her apprehensive tone has me sitting up. “What else, love?”
“I heard Jax and Ricky talking. You want me to stay in New York, don’t you?”
“I want you to be safe.”
“Is this aboutus? Is this about the whole marriage and commitment thing?”
She pauses, and I remain silent. I feel an anxious ramble coming on.
“I know you don’t want to get married, and that’s fine…”
Certainly doesn’t sound fine.
“…you told both Jax and me that, but...are we still broken up?”
I stare down at my phone. “Say what?” Is this what it’s like dating a twenty-two-year-old? “I thought we talked about this?”
She scoffs with theatrics. “We didn’t talk. That was pillow talk, if anything.”
I rub my eyes and take a deep, calming breath. “Let me get this straight. In your mind, we were not okay when you left LA? Because in my head, we talked, we fucked, and everything was peaches and cream or cum and cupcakes, whatever it is you kids say nowadays.”