Page 100 of Reckless Hearts

“You’re welcome,” she says with a grin. “Remember how you used to cry every single time Jack died?”

“I did not cry. I had something in my eye.”

“Every time we watched it?”

“If you want to talk about tear production, remember how much you cried when Rose threw the necklace into the ocean?”

“That was different! It was a waste of a perfectly good piece of jewelry.”

I laugh, and Saskia grins as she reaches for the next gift, a beautifully wrapped present from my parents. She unwraps it to reveal a royal-blue sweater.

She holds it up.

“Oh, it’s beautiful, thank you.”

“I thought it was a good style, and the knit is stretchy,” Mum says.

Saskia raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Are you trying to imply I’m putting on weight?”

“I’m just saying you never know what the next year might bring. Maybe by next Christmas, we’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet around,” Mum says.

I know my parents are driving Saskia mad by dropping hints that a big part of the reason they moved to Auckland is so they can help out with potential grandchildren.

They’ve never said that to me, which offends me slightly on behalf of all gay men. We can build families too.

“I’m not sure if the math checks out,” I can’t help pointing out. “Unless Saskia is already pregnant, the oldest her child could be next Christmas is three months. I don’t think even Saskia and Tom would have such a precocious child to be walking at three months old.

“Oh, for god’s sake, I’m not pregnant,” Saskia snaps. “Nor am I planning to be in the near future.”

My parents’ eyebrows fly up at her tone.

Dad suddenly becomes very interested in arranging and rearranging the presents under the tree, while Mum’s smile freezes in place like she’s posing for an uncomfortable family photo.

Mum is on tenterhooks around Saskia for the rest of the present opening.

I’m hoping that the deliciousness of the Christmas feast Mum has prepared will give us something to do besides tiptoeing around each other, but I’m not sure even Mum’s signature pavlova can sweeten this particular family moment.

“I love your earrings, darling. Are they new?” Mum asks as we settle at the table.

Saskia’s hand flies up to her ear. “Yes, they’re new. Marcus sent them to me for Christmas.”

“Oh, that’s so lovely. How’s he doing at the moment?” My mother’s attempt to move the conversation past the awkwardness has my gut clenching.

Saskia brightens.

“He’s continuing to live the dream. He’s just signed on to do a movie with Universal. And get this—he’s going to be on the cover ofVanity Fairnext month. I’m so proud of him.”

The eggnog turns sour in my stomach.

It feels wrong to act like a benign spectator while Saskia talks about Marcus.

Actually, Saskia, he found theVanity Fairinterviewer to be quite condescending, so he’s nervous about what the article will say.

How do I know? Because I spoke to him this morning. Right before we had spectacular phone sex because that is something you’ll never be able to do with him.

Shit. The competitiveness rising inside me is unfamiliar.

But Marcus is mine. He belongs to me.