Page 71 of Mr. Brightside

“I do not, Fifi!”

“Hey, hey, hey. Be nice,” I scold, trying to keep a straight face as I point from one to the other. After two seconds of silence, they both start laughing.

That’s fair. I’m not exactly the stern disciplinarian type.

“The joke’s supposed to be—what’s a pirate’s favorite type of sweater?” Amelia explains.

Oh. Argyle. That makes more sense.

“Then for their favorite pants, it’s supposed to be ‘carrr-go shorts.’”

“Cargo shorts?” I exclaim, rising to my feet and spinning around with Amelia’s towel-clad body in my arms. “I’ve never seen a pirate wearing cargo shorts! His peg leg would stick out!”

Both girls are laughing while Amelia squeals at a deafening pitch. She’s screaming so loud I almost don’t hear the words spoken over my shoulder.

“What the hell is this?”

It’s low and haunting. A voice that instantly inspires dread in my gut.

“Daddy!”

Amelia is squirming out of my arms as Fiona shoots past me at a sprint. I watch, horrified and frozen, as my older brother stands menacingly on the edge of the sidewalk.

Fiona leans in to hug her dad, but Julian takes a long stride back, lengthening the space between them and holding out one arm. “Stay back, please. You’re soaking wet, and I’m wearing three-thousand-dollar Italian leather loafers. You’ll ruin them.”

Asshole. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling defensive on Fiona’s behalf. It’s not until I feel a little tug on the hem of my T-shirt that I realize Amelia’s still by my side.

Her eyes are as wide as saucers, none of the glee from earlier left in her expression. I squat down on instinct, unsure of what she needs but ready to soothe her.

“Uncle Jakey.” As soon as we lock eyes, her bottom lip quivers. “Did I ruin your woafers?”

She’s focused on my sneakers now, which are, in fact, soaking wet from spinning her around and chasing them through the splash pad. I grind my molars so hard I wince as I try in earnest to keep from reacting.

“No way, Mimi,” I tell her cheerfully, booping her on the nose so she has no doubt about my answer. “You couldn’t ruin anything, even if you tried. You make everything better.”

She grins down at me, then skips over to join her sister near their dad.

I rise, sobering once again, and face my brother.

“Where’s Ashleigh?” Julian demands, looking from me to his kids, then back again.

Damn. This sucks.

I choose my words carefully, knowing that no matter what I say, it’ll rub him all the wrong ways.

“She had a lunch event at Archway, so I offered to watch the girls.”

His brow furrows just a hair. “You’rewatchingmy kids?”

Fuckin’ A.

I don’t know if it’d make this better or worse if I admitted to my brother that I’ve been spending time with his kids on an almost-weekly basis for the last four years. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret. He just never cared enough about their lives to ask.

“I am. I try to help out Ashleigh when I can.”

I trace the outline of my phone in my pocket. I’m itching to pull it out, to text her, towarnher. She needs to know that Julian knows. I’ve got to talk to her before he does.

“I didn’t realize you knew I evenhadkids. I was driving to the office when I passed by and saw Ash’s van. No way in hell did I expect to find my children here withyou.”