“You wanna be like Dr. Seuss?” I cross the room and lean back against the counter so I get to study those whiskey eyes. “He’s pretty awesome. His rhyming books are fun.”
She nods and reaches up to push my inch-long hair back off my brow. “Except I’m going to be better than him. There’s no point being only the same. He already did that.”
“You’re so smart.” I pull her in for another noisy kiss. “Do you wanna move in with me, baby? I miss you like hell when I have to go home without you.”
Her lips drop into a pout. “I can’t move out yet. Daddy wouldn’t like that.”
I bark out a laugh. “Where is your daddy, anyway? And where’s Miss Brooke?”
She shrugs. Then, because she’s not silly, she blushes. “They went upstairs for a second.”
I purse my lips and try my damnedest not to think of what Miles “Iowa” Walker might be doing to my sister right now.
“Gross.” I bounce my shoulders and make Lyss giggle. “Here, sit down.” I place her back on the stool, then head across to the pantry and swing it wide to find boxes of cereal.
I should be eating something nutritious, something full of protein and vitamins. Instead, I take out a box of Lucky Charms, snatch a bowl from the open, clean dishwasher, and, swinging by the fridge, I snatch out the carton of coconut milk, since my girl is allergic to six billion things, and if I want to continue to snuggle with her, I have to toe the line.
Dropping my things on the counter, and snatching a spoon from the drawer, I slide it across the smooth marble surface until it hits Lyss’ elbow and she giggles, then I run around the massive counter and slide onto the stool beside hers so her shoulder rests against my arm.
“Uncle Bry?”
I pour my cereal until it overflows and drops onto the counter. “Yes, beautiful?”
“Did you know that this,” she lifts a hand, raises her pointer finger, pinky finger, and thumb, “means I love you in sign language?” She grins, and flashes that hand in front of me that translates to the fact she loves the shit out of me. “Did you know? I learned it at school on Friday and forgot to tell you.”
“I did know.” I take her hand, flip it open to reveal her palm, and when her curiosity almost sends her vibrating through the roof, I rush forward and press a kiss to the palm. “When I was in middle school, there was this boy who was deaf.”
Her eyes widen. “For real?”
“Uh huh. His name was Caden, and because he was deaf, our whole grade learned how to sign.”
“No way!”
“Way!” I laugh. “We learned all the basics. We learned how to communicate with him so he wouldn’t be all alone. And when we had to do concerts or whatever, we often signed our songs.”
“No way.” Her voice takes on an air of awe, instead of “get the fuck out!” “So you know how to do it?”
I shake my head and shovel a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. “Not anymore. Middle school was a long time ago, baby. Uncle forgot most of it. But some, I remember.” I flash her sign back at her. I love you. “I remember this one. I remember the alphabet and how to count. I remember a couple little things, but I couldn’t have a conversation anymore. It was too long ago.”
“Can you teach me?” she whispers. I’m not gonna lie, impressing this seven-year-old is the coolest shit I get to do these days. “Can you teach me the alphabet?”
I lift my right hand, closed fisted, then move it in a nodding motion. “Sure, baby. I can teach you what I remember. Why are you learning ASL at school now?”
“There’s a girl in my class!” she squeaks. “She’s new, and she can’t hear us.”
“No way!” I ham up my excitement, and soak up her beautiful smile. “That’s the same as me!”
“I know!” She giggles. “Her name is Alannah.”
“That’s nearly the same as your name.”
She excitedly nods. “Uh huh. She has yellow hair, though.”
“Blonde,” I laugh. “That’s called blonde.”
She goes back to her cereal when Twain taps his nose against the outside of her bowl. The crazy thing is, I don’t think he’s threatening he’ll eat her food. He’s mothering her, reminding her to eat, unlike her immature and irresponsible Uncle Bry.
“So, you have a new girl, she’s deaf, and now your class is learning how to speak to her?”
She chews her cereal with an open mouth, and spits pieces out when she smiles. “Uh huh. I’m going to ask her to be my best friend. Because she’s really nice, and her name is nearly the same as mine.”
“You’re the kindest, sweetest girl in the world.” I press a kiss to the top of her head and go back to my cereal. “I wish I could be your best friend.”
She giggles and shakes her head. “You are my best friend, Uncle Bry. And Daddy is too. And Miss Brooke. And Charlie, too.”
“Charlie needs to sit his ass down,” I snap. “And not get up again until you’re twenty-five.” Charlie is my nine-year-old cousin. “I don’t like how he looks at you.”
“How he looks at me?” She turns to me and tilts her head. “Like with his eyes?”
“Don’t answer that.” Brooke comes bustling into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe, with her hair tied up in a high bun. Her face is bare, when she normally wears dark makeup around her eyes; her lips bare, when she normally enjoys wearing lip gloss. “You’re going to confuse her, Bry.” She swings around to our side of the counter and presses a noisy kiss to the back of my head, then she moves to Lyss and does the same, but longer, noisier, until Lyss bounces in her seat and cackles.
“I’m going to confuse her?” I turn to my sister. Lift a brow. “Really, Brooklyn?”
The kitchen door opens again, this time Iowa walks through with wet hair.
I turn back to Brooke. “Really?”
“Shut up.” She pushes away from Lyss and makes her way to the fridge, but not before she smacks the back of my head. “Mind your own business.”
“Lyss?” I lean a little closer to my niece and faux-whisper, “Why is Daddy’s hair wet?”
She shrugs. “Must’ve had a shower.”
“Hmm…” I bring a hand up to cup my cheek. A finger to my lip in thought.
“Bryan… Quit it.”
“Lyss…?” I push. “Why is Miss Brooke’s hair wet?”
Her sweet, chubby cheeks pinken. “Must’ve had a shower too.”
Then I look to Iowa and glare. “At the same time? That’s crazy talk, Lyss. He wouldn’t dare.”
“He would,” he ignores my expression and laughs when Brooke walks by with a filled coffee mug. He snatches it from her hand, places it on the counter, then he dips my sister back and makes out with her right in front of me like he’s not afraid of dying. Releasing her with a gasp, he smacks her ass when she only stands in dazed shock. “Trust me, Kincaid. He would dare.”
I use my rusty sign language and threaten him with death.
He stares at me. “I don’t know what that was. What did you just say?”