“You have drawings all over your body,” he blurts, pointing out the ones on my hands, the outlines on my arms that you can see through my shirt.

  “Wow, they look awesome. Hey, Mom, when can I get a tattoo?” Matty reaches back to tug at Sera’s shirt, pulling down on the sleeve enough that it slips, and her hot pink bra strap is shown to the room at large.

  “When you’re eighteen, and not before then. And you have to prove to me that you’re gonna like it forever and ever,” she says, leaning down to kiss the top of his head, and Matty’s not at the age yet where being shown affection by your parents isn’t embarrassing or a fate worse than death.

  It’s adorable.

  “Maybe we’ll go together, huh?” She ruffles his hair, and I’m not sure who lets who go first, but it’s a mutual decision before the kid slides over to the side and looks up at his dad.

  “Hey, Dad, when can I get a tattoo?”

  I’m looking at the back of Matty’s head, and I can totally tell that the kid’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Get outta here, little man, or you’re going to have to hide from me, soon,” Hunter tickles his kid along the ribs, and the kid giggles, hunching over right away to get away from those hands.

  “Go, play with the dogs. I’m sure they’re smelling every inch of the place.”

  Matty waves goodbye to both of his parents, and Sera tugs on Hunter’s sleeve, too. “When can I get a tattoo?” she asks, making him laugh by poking at his belly and ribs, and they’re so cute I could cry.

  It’s only when I look around the room to find Russia, do I notice that he’s resolutely looking away from the two of them, the sight of him making my heart practically shrivels up in my chest.

  Unrequited love sucks, and it sucks hard.

  I move towards Russia, reaching out to touch his forearm, to squeeze down on his skin. I sort of know how he feels. His blue eyes cut to me, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something, anything.

  “Sophie, what did you want to ask me in the car?”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. I have my answer.”

  My name’s being called, and I move over to see that Alex is showing off his tattoo to Josh and Elias, and they make the appropriate noises, but Alex is beaming like you’ve gone and put a glow worm up his ass. It’s cute, and no one’s been rude to me so far, and everything’s going great.

  “Can I do anything to help?” I ask Alex, looking over at him, leaving Russia to compose himself somewhere off and out of my peripheral vision. “I’m very happy that your son’s home.” I stifle the urge to hold my two thumbs up, like I would be trivializing the little guy’s hardships and all that he’s had to do to get home to his parents.

  “Thank you,” Alex says, head bowing down, glancing down at our toes. He sniffs hard, and my own eyes start to get wet, and when I look up, Theresa’s moving towards him and hefting the baby up, hiking him up higher on her chest.

  “Hold him,” she says. “It’ll make it feel more real that he’s home, that he’s with us.”

  “S’agapo,” Alex says, the language unknown to me, but he leans close to his wife and kisses her softly on the lips, the cheek, and the forehead with such intimacy that I have to look away, like I’m seeing something that I really shouldn’t be seeing, shouldn’t be gawking at and longing for exactly the way I actually am.

  “All right, all right. I need to sit down somewhere and tell the boy the ways of the world,” Russia says, more boisterous now, putting on a façade that I can’t hope to understand.

  Don’t I do the same thing, though? Get louder to drown out the silence?

  Russia and I are more alike than I’d like to admit.

  He comes closer to Alex, and the pair of them move off to the living room, just off the kitchen, settling down onto a couch.

  Alex holds his son close to his chest, and they discuss “manly” type things, but I can tell from all the way over here that both of their eyes are shining with unshed tears.

  I’m out of my element with all these strangers around me, and I really can’t have Russia bailing on me, too.

  “Yo, Sophie,” Katie’s voice calls out, coming out of an alcove somewhere with Dean in tow. “Ah, shit, sorry, the baby,” she whispers, but baby doesn’t say a peep, and when I glance over, Alex is holding him half-upright in his hands.

  The baby boy’s reaching for his beard, his hands slapping at his face, the exact moment in time that would make a fantastic tattoo, a memory that could be kept like this forever.

  “Yo,” I say, waving at Dean who’s walking behind her, Pongo the Dalmatian, trotting behind his dad, eyes pinned up to Dean, tail wagging, nails not even rapping against the kitchen tile.

  “Pongo!” Matty yells from somewhere in the house, voice distant enough that we all freeze and swing our gazes to the baby, but the kid’s not scared. Pongo’s ears go up, his head cocking from side to side, glancing between where Matty’s voice came from and where Dean’s standing next to him. Pongo plops his butt down, vibrating on the spot.

  “Pongo, come and find me!”

  “Okay, boy,” Dean says, and Pongo’s off at a trot, like he knows there’s a tiny, defenseless human in the mix that isn’t used to his presence yet, and Pongo disappears around a corner.

  “Hey, Sophie,” Dean says, running a hand across my undercut at the back of my head, the shaved parts over my ears, too.

  “Sweet,” he says, grinning at me, and really, is it really hard to believe that Dean Carter is one of my favorite people in the entire world? “Looking good, Sophie Kincaid,” he says, tapping at my shoulders. “Shit, look at these pumpkins. Babe, why don’t you have these pumpkins?” Dean laughs when Katie jabs him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “I’ve got pumpkins elsewhere, and you’ve never complained about those,” she says, the grin she gives him straddling the line of innocent to lascivious that has me looking away with a blush.

  Only Katie, only Katie.

  “No, but Sophie’s looking like a tank.”

  “I know, right? I have to or my posture’s going to be shit by the time I’m thirty-five,” I say, flexing my arm a little for Dean, who fawns over my biceps because he’s that kind of person, a golden retriever in human form.

  “Hey, did she give you permission to touch her like that?” Russia says, teetering on his crutches he moved so fast into our conversational circle, making Dean turn to him and grab a hold of him before he succumbs to gravity. “Thanks, man.”

  Dean frowns at him, pointing a finger at Russia’s nose. “Sophie and I are friends, man. Relax, relax. I’m sure all that stress is bad for your foot.”

  I shake my head. “Uh, I don’t think it works that way, Dean.”

  “Sure it does,” Dean says jovially, smacking Russia on the shoulder, upsetting his balance for a split second. “Look at him, all stressed and tensed up. Sophie’s like my little sister, the one I never had, yeah?”

  My cheeks burn at the implication of what Dean’s saying, what he’s implying.

  “Uh, Dean, it’s okay,” I wave my hand at him, waving the whole situation off, like it’s a bad stink I can dissipate even if I’m sure I’ve stepped in it now. “I’m just Russia’s tattoo artist,” I say, laughing it off, but it sounds hollow, even to me.

  Katie’s eyes narrow on me, crossing her arms over her chest, pulling all her inner bitch at her core, and turning her head to glare at Russia with all the force behind that stare.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that? What did I do?”

  “Did you do what I told you to do? What we discussed the last time?” Katie asks, an edge of danger making my heart thrum in my chest, like a plucked guitar string, vibrating over and over.

  “I’ve gotten around to it, yeah,” Russia says, rubbing the back of his neck, keeping his stare pinned on Katie.

  “Do you know what they’re talking about?” Dean stage whispers, covering the side of his mouth with one hand, and all I can do is stifle a nervous giggle and shake my head from side to side, having no idea what’s going on.

  Matty’s giggle pierces the room, and we all swing our heads back to the mouth of the hall, finding Pongo trotting beside the kid, practically skipping over to his parents, face red and eyes almost fever bright.

  “Hey, Dad, I’m feeling kind of off. Can we check?” Matty asks, pressing his entire face into Hunter’s stomach, Hunter’s hand going to the back of his neck, his face in agony as he looks down at his little boy.

  “Yeah, I’ll get Sera’s bag,” Katie calls, heading towards the entrance, and Pongo sniffs at Matty’s neck, sticking his nose into his throat, towards his mouth, tail not wagging anymore.

  “Pongo, here,” Dean orders, pointing down at his feet, and the Dalmatian looks between the two of them, his dad, and the kid he’d been playing with, until he finally relents.

  Katie comes back with a purse that looks like a backpack, unzipping it already and holding a small pouch of sorts towards Sera.

  “All right, kiddo, take a seat,” Hunter says, carrying his boy to the kitchen stool. Matty nods slowly, seemingly out of it, like he’s gotten into a bottle of beer and it’s hitting his nine-year-old body hard. But that can’t be what’s happening, right? “Does it feel high or low?”

  Matty shrugs, and Sera rips open the pouch, taking out a little machine, pressing it against the kid’s upper arm, the buzz of the machine loud enough that I can hear it over here. She glances down at the machine, then starts pulling more things out of the pouch, making the kid bleed.

  I’m about to say something, and I find myself moving a half-step forward, but someone’s gently grabbing around my arm, jarring me out of the trance I’ve been in.

  When I turn to look, it’s Russia who’s holding onto my upper arm and he just gives me a slight shake of his head, his blue eyes dark and sad.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper, my heart pounding hard against my ribs, worried, afraid because I don’t understand what’s going on.

  “He’s diabetic, Matty. Hunter, too.”

  “Oh,” I say, not really understanding, not getting the full implications. I swing my gaze over to the trio of them, as Sera and Hunter’s face, tight with worry now, glance down at the machine on the kitchen counter.

  “Good news, buddy, you get to have some of that strawberry juice that Aunt Theresa likes so much,” Sera says, glancing over at Theresa, getting a nod. Sera’s clearly been here before, knowing her way around the kitchen, and sets out the glass for Matty and Hunter, the kitchen island separating them.

  “Here you go, kiddo,” Hunter says, holding the glass for him.

  “Dad,” Matty sighs, eyes fluttering like he’s exhausted all of a sudden. “I can do it by myself. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ll always be little to me,” Hunter says, the forced inflection that everything’s okay running hollow.

  Matty sucks back the juice, drinking it down like it’s water even though I’m sure it’s terribly sweet. “Even when I’m bigger than you?” Matty asks, smiling at his dad.

  “I’m gonna be bigger than Mom soon, too,” he says, nodding to himself, then finishing up the glass completely, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, stopping himself after the fact to frown down at his shirt. “Aw, man.”

  “Clothes are meant to keep your body warm and not for cleaning yourself up. We have napkins for that, buddy,” Hunter says, leaning down a little, bracing his weight against the kitchen island, keeping his eyes pinned to his son. “Let’s just take a breather for a few minutes, all right?”

  Matty nods, and Sera turns away, putting the jug of strawberry juice into the fridge, but even from this distance, even just looking at her profile, I can tell it breaks her heart, seeing them both like that.

  And for some reason, I decide to play superhero.

  “Hey, Matty,” I say, coming closer to the kitchen island, hiking myself up on the stool, feet dangling when the kid looks over at me. Hunter’s eyes sharp and predatory, like he’s allowing me to come closer, and I nod to him, getting and receiving the unspoken message.

  “Let me show you a couple of my favorite tattoos and how I got them. Would that be okay to tell you that story?”

  Matty nods, swinging his stool towards me, and I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, the kid’s face adorably surprised and shocked, pointing down at my skin, but not touching.

  “This one,” I say, pointing down to the hummingbird I have on my left forearm. The hummingbird isn’t as bright as it was when I got it when I was nineteen and will need touching up before I hit my thirtieth birthday probably, but every single time I look at it, it makes me happy, and I think that’s what tattoos should do—they should make you happy.

  “The hummingbird is my favorite animal in the entire world. Did you know that they’re the only birds that can fly backwards and upside down?”

  Matty looks at me dubiously, his eyebrows pulled down in a questioning frown. He doesn’t believe me.

  “If I didn’t see it, it didn’t happen,” he says, leaning his head against his hand, elbow to the kitchen island.

  The answer is one I’d expect from a teenager, but I was like that at his age, too. I think Matty’s an only child, just like me.

  “Easy there, Matty, there’s gotta be videos everywhere online. Have your parents show you sometime. Let’s go to the next one,” I say, pointing to the one on top of my left hand, a series of interlocking honeycomb structures, one of the strongest structures the natural planet has to offer.

  And we go like that for the next ten minutes, me losing track of time, and when Sera and Hunter finally check Matty’s blood using that little machine thing, nodding at him that he can go play but not to run around too much, I catch a glimpse of Russia looking at me, head cocked to the side.

  Like he’s trying to figure me out.

  TEN

  Dinner goes by quickly, and I don’t actually do anything absolutely hideous like drop my food in my lap, and I apparently get the seat of honor next to Matty. The kid’s been asking me a ton of questions about my tattoos, harping on the fact that they hurt when you get them and then going around and asking everyone else if they have tattoos.

  Hunter has some, Sera no, Katie not if you put a gun to her head, Dean yes, Alex yes, Theresa, no, and Josh and Elias just shake their heads, Elias admitting that he has a phobia of needles to the table at large.

  Everyone’s drinking beer or wine with dinner—lemon chicken and roasted potatoes, apparently Greek-style which I find out is delicious and I want to have this particular dish always.

  I didn’t know little kids would talk this much, but Matty sure does talk a lot, chatting with everyone in the room, and it just puts my sneaking suspicion that he’s an only child further to the test, and makes me believe I’m right.

  It’s cute, though, and the way he talks to Russia and Dean, like he reveres them, right up there with his dad. He’s a little cooler with Josh and Elias, so I guess he doesn’t get to see them as much.

  “How come you don’t have long nails, like Aunt Katie?” Matty asks, glancing down at my hands currently over my belly, knowing I need to save room for dessert, trying to convince my body and my will that we’re aligned in wanting to eat dessert when it shows up at the table.

  “Huh? Oh, because I tattoo, and it’s hard to tattoo with really long nails. They’re pretty, though, huh?”

  Matty’s cheeks go red, and he nearly fumbles his glass of water, making a pained wheezing noise as he rights it, nearly sloshing it all over the place. He looks at me quickly to see if I’ve noticed, and I make sure to keep my gaze pinned to my empty plates, biting the meat of my inner cheeks so I don’t do something stupid like laugh in the kid’s face.

  “So how’s the tattoo going, Russia?” Hunter asks, rubbing a hand through Matty’s hair, the length of his head, just a gentle pet that the kid loves and follows the pressure against his dad’s hand.

  Russia carefully wipes his face in that way he does, squaring up the linen, using one side to wipe, then folding it over before dabbing it delicately at his mouth, placing the dirty side up on the table, to be used again. “Ah, good?”

  “Yeah, tell us, did he cry from the pain?” Josh asks, holding up his beer for me as if we’re going to cheers but I don’t have anything to cheers with, so I pretend I’m holding an invisible beer bottle, not wanting to leave him hanging.

  “Uh, no. The upper back’s painful. I know so.”

  “What? You have tattoos there, too?” Matty yells, and everyone shushes him, and he puts a finger over his lips, hiking his shoulders up to his ears, glancing left and right with his blue eyes—like his dad’s—covering up his mouth with both hands.

  Cute.

  I glance up to look at Russia, sitting across from me, a smile on his face as he watches me and Matty interact, hands steepled in front of his mouth so I can’t see the lower half his face, just have to infer by the rounding of his cheeks that he’s smiling—or maybe it’s a pained grimace, I just don’t know.

  “I’ve got tattoos pretty much everywhere, buddy,” I say, nodding at him.

  “How come so many? You have like hundreds!” he waves his arms around, nearly socking his dad in the mouth. “Oh, sorry, Dad, sorry. Hey, Mom, when I’m eighteen, which is forever from now, can I get a hundred tattoos, too?”

  I keep my grin in place, not wanting to open up that can of worms.

  “Hey, Sophie, please explain to my kid here how tattoos are done,” Sera says, wrinkling her nose at Matty, whose neck nearly cracks when he turns his head to look back at me.

  It’s Russia who answers though, my mouth hanging open on a terrible would-be answer. “Sophie has to use needles to get the colors in your skin,” he says, voice a little rough, a little thick.

  “Aw, man. Needles? More needles? Ugh.” Matty leans his head back, glaring at the ceiling like it’s gone and betrayed him. “How can you like needles, Sophie?”

  I shrug my shoulders, knowing I have to be careful here. I mean, the kid’s not eighteen yet, and most shops won’t let you get a tattoo without parental consent if you’re under eighteen, so it’s not like he’s going to get tattooed tomorrow, but still, but still.