Page 42 of The Write Choice

“Same,” he says on a moan. Then, he pulls away to look at me again. “You say the word, Cat, and I will worship your body the way it’s meant to be worshiped. You’re a goddess, Katie, and I’m your devoted follower.”

I laugh-groan, partly delighted and partly embarrassed. The comment references an old joke from a visit to the Met. I was feeling down about my body, but he stood me in front of a statue of a woman, naked in all her glory, her ample hips and breasts on full display. “That one,” he had said. “You’re a goddess, just like her.”

Brandon huffs in a mix of nostalgia and frustration. “But as much as I want you, I need it to be right for you.” He presses a chaste kiss to my nose. “I love you, Katie.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes for tears to prick my eyes.

Why do I keep crying? I’m such a fucking mess.

I take a deep breath, then let it out. Mercifully, the tears don’t fall before I roll out from underneath him. Just in time, too, because the door to our bedroom bursts open, and Mason comes barreling in, shouting.

“It’s my first day of school!” He punches the air in excitement.

“Keep it down. You’ll wake your sister,” I hiss.

He just grins at me, practically bouncing on his toes, and that’s when I notice he’s already fully dressed in a t-shirt featuring his latest favorite superhero and ripped jeans.

Brandon must notice it at the same time, because he smirks. “Excited to wear something other than a uniform, bud?” He gets out of bed and walks past Mason to the bathroom, mussing up his hair on the way.

“Dad, don’t! I just did my hair,” he whines.

Brandon tilts his head, squinting at Mason. “Huh. Doesn’t look like it.”

“Well yeah, not anymore,” he grumbles as he makes his way back to his own bathroom, presumably to fix whatever Brandon undid.

I half-make the bed and follow Brandon into our bathroom. “He’s excited,” I note, catching Brandon’s reflection in the mirror. He puts his toothbrush in his mouth and winks at me. He brushes while I use the toilet in a little side room, then join him at the sink next to his. Our apartment in New York was nice, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get over the size of this bathroom.

Brandon spits out his toothpaste and rinses his mouth, then splashes water on his face. “I think you’re excited, too. I can’t remember the last time you were out of bed before Christine.”

I give him the side-eye while squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush. “I’m always out of bed before Christine when they have school.”

Brandon tilts his head back and forth. “But that’s because you had to drop them off. You don’t budge from that bed when you don’t have anything to do in the morning.”

I pause with the toothbrush almost to my mouth. “Right. It’s almost like I have to drop them off at school today or something,” I say sarcastically as I start to brush.

Brandon frowns at me. “Pretty sure I said I’d do drop off from now on.”

I brush for a while, then spit in the sink. “Oh, you meant that?” I put my toothbrush down on the counter.

He comes behind me, bending down to wind his arm around my torso. I lean my head back against his chest and look at us in the mirror. We don’t look like we fit together—he’s so tall and I’m so short. He has his hipster man bun and beard, while I have an edgy haircut and hair that has been bleached so many times, I’m probably the only one who remembers what color it was originally. He doesn’t spend much time at the gym, but his dad bod still has some edges, whereas I’m curvy and soft. He carries himself like someone who has never had to worry about money a day in his life. I was barely making rent on my studio apartment until I met him, and I still pour over our bank statements every month until he reminds me that we actually pay someone else to do that for us.

He’s never cared about any of our differences, even though it still nags at me occasionally. It took him the better part of the year after we met, as my belly was growing rounder and rounder, to convince me that I could fit into his life. That we could fit into his life. His parents, of course, weren’t as convinced as he was, but I think they were just so glad he wasn’t in and out of rehab like his older brother that they were willing to let this transgression slide. Provided I could behave myself at their fancy parties, of course. They were even happier when we made it official. And legal.

He presses a kiss to my temple, watching himself in the mirror as he does it. “Where did you go?” he whispers in my ear.

“We’re so different.” I lean further into him.

He smiles indulgently, like he’s thinking, This again? “Not that different.” Another kiss. “Aside from you being grouchy as hell while I’m an absolute ray of light.” He moves to kiss me again, but I swat his bicep and try to break away. His hold on me tightens, and I giggle.

“I am not grouchy,” I insist, laughing and still trying to break free of his hold.

“You are the very definition of grouchy,” he insists, puckering his lips and trying to plant more kisses on my cheek. “If I looked up ‘grouchy’ in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of you.”

Finally, he releases me, and I spin around to face him, my face twisted into a frown. “I am not. I’m a delight,” I insist.

He laughs deeply, and the sound lodges itself in my chest and spreads its warmth out into my limbs. “You are a delight,” he agrees. “But look at your face.” He turns me to the mirror, where I can fully see what he’s talking about. I’m frowning so deeply, I’m probably etching new lines in my skin. But I can’t help deepening the glare as he grins over my shoulder.

He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “That’s a grouchy face.”