“Liv?” Ben leans closer and tickles the fat rolls under his son’s chin. “Dinner, drinks, cards. You’ve been working too much lately. You make me worry about you.”
I give a dainty little shrug and act like I have better things to do. “Who else is going to be there?”
He scoffs and tries to pass it off as offense. “What? I’m not enough for you?”
Smiling, I lift Wes a little higher and blow raspberries against his cheek until he giggles. “I’m gonna need a little more than the sasquatch to pry me off my couch and into real pants.” I meet Ben’s electric blue eyes – a replica of mine – and grin. “I could be drinking apple cider and wearing sweatpants while I binge-watch something on TV, and I’m just saying, fat girl pants sound awfully appealing after the day I’ve had so far, so if you want me to forgo that kind of luxury…”
“Bean and Mac will be there.”
I grin at the mention of my half-sister and the man who adores her. “Go on.”
“Chuck and Nora. Pretty sure Bry and Iowa, too.”
I frown and lean back against the wall. “You mean Bry and Maddi, and Iowa and Brooke?”
“No,” he snorts. “I mean Bry and Iowa. You didn’t hear they’re a couple now?”
I burst out in little piggy laughs that send Wes into a brand-new meltdown.
He’s almost forty pounds of butterball fat and Michelin man rolls. He’s heavy, solid, and adorable as hell, and when his mother – Evelyn Kincaid – is busy at the same time Ben is, and the other five hundred people in line who want to hang with him are busy, I get to tickle one of his thirty chins and rack up some solid auntie time.
“Who else?” I ask. “Because maybe I want to call Brenten.”
I smile when my brother transforms from doting dad back into his usual sasquatchy self.
“Brenten Pierce can fuck a dead palm tree. You call him, and I’ll break his neck.”
“He’s nice!” I laugh and brush away the threats that would make most men lose their bowels. My brother is a champion fighter, a heavyweight, a world title holder. He’s solid, and he holds a mean grudge. But as his baby sister, I’m duty-bound to send him crazy as often as I can. “If I want to date a nice guy, I can.”
“He’s too old for you.”
“He’s twenty-eight!”
“That’s basically thirty!” Ben blusters. “And thirty is basically forty. I’ll be damned before I ever allow my sister to date a forty-year-old.”
Nobody ever accused Ben of being rational. Or… you know… normal.
“He’s respected in this town,” I counter. “He’s smart, wealthy, holds a prestigious job.”
“Wow!” Ben exclaims. “Since when did you start digging for gold, huh? Plus, Aunt Jules calls him a fuckstick,” he whips right back. “She literally said that at dinner the other night when you mentioned him.”
I roll my eyes and lean back against the wall. “Aunt Jules can’t be trusted to give an unbiased opinion. She’s the Shredder to Brenten’s Donatello.”
Ben merely arches a single brow, studies me with an air of ‘what the fuck?’ then shakes his head. “You’re too smart to be so dumb. I’ll admit he’s book smart… kind of. But he’s a fucking moron when other humans try to speak to him. He lacks any kind of common sense, and,” he adds with a lifted fist, “he’s ugly.”
“He’s not ugly!” I laugh. “He’s handsome, and his eyes are nice.”
“He can’t fight.”
“The vast majority of the world’s population can’t fight, Ben. I know we live amongst a million people who can, so the numbers feel swayed, but most people don’t have pro fighters chaperoning their every move through life. He’s allowed to not choose a sport where he’s awarded trophies in exchange for teeth.”
“First of all,” he fires up with the arm-swinging way of speaking, “back when Mom and Oz started dating, I was the one who said no. You were the goodie-goodie ‘I love my Latino daddy soooo much’ weirdo. So your chaperones?” He leans closer. “Your own damn fault. And second, I haven’t lost a single tooth yet, so your argument is invalid and offensive. Also, Jamie and Quinn are gonna be at the house tonight too.”
“Oh yeah?” That changes things. That changes everything. “I like Jamie. He’s a sweetheart.”
“Great!” Ben throws a hand up in exasperation. “Deal. See you at seven, bring dessert.” He snatches his son from my arms, and plops the baby on his hip. “Don’t be late.”
I scowl and mourn the loss of the chunky baby. “You’re bossy.”
“Are you going by Mom and Oz’s place after here?”
“I wasn’t.” I push off the wall. “But I can. What’s up?”
“Nothing, really.” He looks into his son’s eyes and smiles. The Conner genes are strong between father and son. Dark hair, bright eyes, chubby cheeks. The fair-skinned, fair-haired Evelyn Kincaid may have carried my nephew in her stomach, but I’m not sure she got anything else out of the deal. “I haven’t had time to get over there this week,” Ben continues. “I feel bad.”
“So you want me to go over as your… proxy?” I laugh. “Sure, that’ll fix it, dummy.”
“I see Mom here every day,” Ben gestures along the hall. “But this is work. Hugging her at work isn’t the same as hugging her at home.”
“I guess you’d better make time then, huh?” I tap his chest and smile when he scowls. “I’ll head over to their place in a bit. I’ve been meaning to grab something from my old bedroom anyway, so I’ll hug Mom, and I’ll tell Daddy he’s a fuckface. That covers just about everything, right?”
“Give Lachlan a kiss for me, then oink on your way out the door. That oughtta do it.” He waves when Evie passes and slows at the end of the hall. “I have to go, but I’ll see you tonight. Love you, Livi.” Stepping forward again, Ben presses a noisy kiss to the middle of my forehead, then turns away and leaves me all alone.
I stand in the hall in yoga pants, a tank, and sneakers. Fighters pass me by; many of them smile, a few even slow and wait for me to smile back. My mom works here, as do my brother, my sister-in-law, my aunt. I have dozens of uncles, aunts, cousins – perhaps not family by blood, but certainly by heart. So many connections inside one building, but still… something is missing.
When a fighter who has a history of extra friendliness with me – when Ben isn’t around – skids into the hall and smiles like he just won some kind of prize, I turn away and head into a training room just a few feet away.
I’m not interested in dating a fighter, and I’m not interested in acting like the attention of another man is welcome or cute.
I step through the doorway and pause at the sight of the hanging bags, the rubber mats on the floors, the single wall covered in more rubber, and the opposite wall filled with mirrors that look back on me. This isn’t exclusively my space. I run just three classes here a day, which translates to a mere three hours of work, so other than that, it’s a communal space I must share with my mom and other trainers.