Ursula gives a snorting snore and Wilder’s giggle pulls my attention.
“I’m surprised she’s sleeping after eating all that junk.” I frown over at her. “Could be a diabetic coma, I suppose.” We both turn and look over at where Ursula is dozing in one of the orange armchairs, the rug at her feet littered with all kinds of chocolate and candy wrappers. “I bet you’re glad she brought her own. Maybe you’d be even happier if she’d offered you a bit.”
“I have candy,” he replies with a shrug, returning to his stroking of Moose, the Brillo pad dog.
“When I was a kid, I had to hide my lollies in a gumboot. That’s what happens when you have greedy older brothers.”
“But if I had brothers, I’d be older.”
“So you’d be pinching their lollies.”
“No!” he says with a laugh, then adds, “What’s a gumboot?”
“Like, rubber boots you wear in the rain. What do you call them here?”
“Rain boots?”
“I guess that makes more sense.”
“Dad, can I tell you something?”
I turn to face him, those stones growing a tiny bit heavier. “You can tell me anything, son. Anything at all.”
“Drew doesn’t like Moose.”
Relief floods my veins because this is something I can deal with that—something right at my paygrade, so to speak. As the youngest of four brothers, flinging shit is something I’m an expert in. “What makes you say that?”
“I think he’s scared of her.”
“That little fuzzball?” I answer easily, almost shoving the word darling in as a prefix. Laying it on too thick, I silently censure while also wondering if I should take this opportunity to play it as ‘him versus me’. You know, Drew being the pussy and me being the strong, confident dad.
Is it playing if it’s true?
Anyway, the thing is, Moose is just teeth, an arsehole, and a bad attitude. Though I suppose the nicer thing to say would be that she’s just ornery because she’s old. But I’m not in the mood to be nice. Not when he’s wining and dining my woman. I feel myself frown. She would be my woman if she’d only let herself.
“Yeah, because she growls at him and won’t let him sit down. Plus, he’s kind of jerky around her.”
“That sounds like Drew,” I mutter, kicking my legs out under the coffee table. Wilder frowns. “Jerky, I mean.”
He bites back a smile though he doesn’t agree, but only because he’s been raised by a nice woman. I mean, my mum was nice, but those arseholes brothers of mine . . . “It sounds like Moose doesn’t trust him.”
“You think so?”
“I do. And you know what I think? Always trust a dog’s opinion. They’re intuitive.”
“Wait, so if a dog doesn’t like a person, they can’t be trusted? What about when a person doesn’t like a dog?”
“There’s a name for a person who doesn’t like dogs, but I think your mum wouldn’t be very happy if I told it to you.”
“It’s a swear?”
“Only one they deserve. I think we’d better keep an eye on this Drew fella. What do you think, Moose?” I ruffle my hand through her wiry fur, breathing a sigh of relief when she lets me. She thinks about biting me, though, I can tell. “Did this happen when he came for dinner?”
“Yeah.”
Sliding my hand across the back of the couch, I turn to face him. “Does he come around often?”
“Not really. Not since they dated a long time ago.”
“Before? Before he was invited to dinner?”
Wilder’s mouth turns down on one side. “Before you found us. Momma thinks I don’t know she went out on a date with him, but I do. Ethan heard it from his sister, and Ethan is my best friend, so I know he was telling the truth.”
“I see.” Except I don’t really. Because, what the fuck. Have I been fooling myself? “So this happened a while ago?” I keep my expression pleasant despite something dark and ugly twisting inside as he nods. “Lots of times, or just once? Or once or twice?”
“Just one time, I think.” Again with a decisive nod. “But I know she doesn’t like him, not like that.”
She likes him enough to date a second time, whispers an unhelpfully vindictive voice in my head. “How do you mean?”
“You know, like kissing and stuff,” he replies, turning squirmy. So much so that the dog jumps from his knee with a huff and a dirty look. I might find it funny if I wasn’t so fucking annoyed. “She also doesn’t laugh like she does with the people she likes. I watched at dinner. I even counted how many times she laughed at the things Drew said. Wanna know how many times she laughed? Really laughed?”
“I absolutely do,” I reply solemnly because it’s the truth.
“No times. She didn’t laugh once, not properly.”
“Must’ve been a very boring dinner.” Sausage pasta, as I recall. Might’ve been worse. Might’ve been a sausage-fest. Nah. Didn’t happen, I think, finding myself shaking my head. But what I don’t say and what I try very hard not to dwell on is by Wilder’s strictures, his mother doesn’t like me very much, either. There are obviously other ways I get her, so to speak. And there are plenty of times she looks at me like she wants to throw her arms around my neck. Hands. Arms. Same difference, right?