As I walk back to my room with Johnny in hand, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’m sorry, Johnny. Let’s never fight again.
Chapter Three
Max
My leg bounces hard and fast under the dining table.
I’m nervous.
I sip at my coffee as my eyes dart from Nik to Tina. I watch them eat their breakfast, wondering how the hell I broach this subject. Tina eats her oatmeal; she must feel my eyes on her, because she looks up at me mid-bite. Her eyes widen and she mutters slowly, “What?”
I quickly avoid her gaze and shake my head. “Nothin’.”
Sip your damn coffee and keep your eyes down.
And that’s what I do. I avert my gaze so much that I look directly down into my coffee cup.
Nik’s foot nudges me under the table. Brows raised, I look up at him. He carefully folds the newspaper before putting it down, eyes narrowing at me.
Uh oh.
Nik leans back in his chair, when suddenly, he starts to smirk, his dimple, almost identical to mine, cuts into his cheek.
And I sweat. “What?”
He jerks his chin at me. “You’re acting weird. I mean, you always act weird, but now you’re acting weirder.” Tina looks over at me and nods gently.
“Am not.”
“Are too,” my brother argues.
“You’re going senile in your old age.”
Nik’s eyes widen. He’s a little sensitive about his age ever since he found a grey hair. I know it’s not a big deal. It’s natural. People eventually go grey. But the hair…
It wasn’t on his head.
He leans over and snarls, “Yo’ mama.”
I grin. “She’s yo’ mama too, and I’m telling her you said that.”
He opens up his arms, taunting me, “Do it. I’ll tell her the real story about the dried basil leaves in your sock drawer.”
The motherfucker. “It was yours! I was hiding it for you!”
He shrugs. “She don’t know that.”
I reach over the table to slap him—he hates that shit—when Tina speaks up. “Nik, stop it.”
My bird flips him a hello, then Tina’s on my ass. Gently, of course. “Max, honey, do that again and I promise you won’t get any cupcakes for a year.”
I gasp. She wouldn’t! But the look on her face says she would. I sink back into my chair. “Holy shit, you’re mean when you’re breeding.”
She smiles sweetly then rubs her rounded belly. “I guess I do get a little cranky nowadays.”
I add, “And emotional.”
Nik grins. “And horny.”
Tina yells, “Nik!” at the same time I screw up my face and yell, “Dude!”
I love Tina, and she’s a total fox, but I don’t want to think about her in the sack. Especially not with Old Man River over there. I can’t help myself. I turn to Nik and smile cruelly. “So, how’s your grey pube? Lonely?”
A chair screeches, then I’m on the floor with two hands wrapped firmly around my neck, choking the shit out of me. “Shut your mouth, punk!”
I gasp, “Never!”
Tina chuckles sweetly, completely ignoring the fact her husband is roughly feeling me up. “Oh, honey, it’s not that bad. Just pluck it out. It’s okay. I love you and your grey pube.”
Nik’s hands still as he looks up at her. “If you pluck them, more come!”
She shrugs. “So more will come. I’ll love those grey pubes too.”
Looking at her, he roughly shakes me, choking me and making a point at the same time. Nik is a multitasker. “No you won’t! No one loves grey pubes!” he exclaims.
She looks him dead in the eye then smiles softly. “I will.” And she means it too.
Tina seriously is the shit.
Nik throws me down. My head hits the floor with a dull thud. Panting, I rub the back of my head and mumble, “That hurt, fucker.”
He stands, then holds a hand out to me. I take it, but before I can get him into a headlock and show him how you choke like a man, my reason for living comes out from the hall.
“Daddy, I can’t find my school bag.”
I smile, even though she sounds frustrated, and turn to her. Her long, reddish-brown hair has been brushed and tied already. “You did you hair,” I frown, “on your own.” I’m sulking; I know it, but I don’t get to do a lot for my little girl anymore. And I like doing shit for my little girl. I’m her daddy; I’m allowed to like being useful. Tina clears her throat, and I’m sure if I were close enough, she’d kick me. I quickly change my pout for a proud, fatherly smile. “Which is great. Good for you, baby.”
Ceecee looks down into her lap, hiding her blush. She gets embarrassed easily, my baby does. She doesn’t take compliments well. It sucks for her that I compliment her all the damn time.
My daughter’s name is Cecilia, but being that she’s named for her grandma, we like to call her Ceecee. She was born a healthy baby. She wasn’t planned or nothin’, and I gotta admit, finding out Maddy was pregnant was one of the scariest things ever, but I soon got used to the idea of being a young dad. In fact, soon, I loved the idea, and I couldn’t wait to hold my baby in my arms. Maddy, Ceecee’s mom, was very much the same.
But once we brought Ceecee home, things changed.
Maddy was constantly unhappy, getting annoyed at Ceecee for crying, not wanting to hold her, feed her, or change her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out my Maddy was not bonding with Ceecee, and not long after, she was diagnosed with postpartum depression.
I didn’t really know what to do, but that was okay. My family decided for me. Mom moved us into her house. I always felt like a burden there, taking up her space, but I had to work to make money to clothe my woman and baby, so while I worked my ass off, Mom and my sisters kept an eye on my girls, helping out where they could. More like where Maddy would let them.
I don’t pretend to be a saint in all this. I was young and on-edge myself. I can remember getting angry and yelling at my girl to get the fuck out of bed and look after our child. I remember throwing her in a cold shower after spending days in bed. I remember crying from confusion, frustration, and helplessness. I just couldn’t understand why she hated our kid. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see the beauty that was our baby girl.
Truth is, depression looks black and white, but depression is a fuck load of grey. It’s so easy to think things like, Why can’t she just… or She should just…, but it’s not that simple. I spent all my free time researching the causes of depression, ‘cause if I found the source, I could fix it. Turns out, the triggers are different for each person.