or the girls. With his honey inside with mine and Topanga, Bronco takes Carina in his arms and holds her close.
“Lately, I find myself worrying that my past will come back to destroy me,” Bronco mutters while studying his daughter’s face. “There was Lana’s connection to the club that shot Summer. Then, this shit with John Marks, who I figured was dead or living as a beach bum somewhere. By the time the Killing Joes showed up, I felt as if every sin from my past would rear its ugly head.”
Lowell doesn’t offer any wisdom, and I certainly don’t have any. My past is something I keep locked in a box filled with bad memories and bigger regrets. Lately, I’m more worried about my future.
The little boy with that name waddles over to me and lifts his arms to be picked up. I do so without thinking. I’m such a follower that even a two-year-old boy can boss me around.
“Apples?” he asks, pointing at the food.
“They’re pineapples. Do you still want some?”
Future’s face does a thing where he’s considering whether to cry but hasn’t decided yet. I see it most often when he’s hungry. The boy waits until he’s hurting before asking for anything. Then, he looks prepared for the disappointment of hearing no.
I reach over and take a slice from the plate Bronco’s using to make shish kebabs. I put the pineapple in my mouth and then get a smaller one for Future. He watches me very intently, waiting to be denied what his little body needs. When he tastes the food, he gives me one of those “cherub smiles,” as Topanga calls them.
The boy rests his head on my shoulder and gnaws at the pineapple while watching the girls play. Still underweight, he feels so tiny in my arms. Yet, I’m accustomed to Future climbing on my lap. He doesn’t notice my size, and he rarely seems scared of me. Even when I yelled at DeAnna’s large, barking dog as she walked it very slowly past our house, Future’s shocked expression seemed more “wow, you can get loud” than “get me away from this mean motherfucker.”
“How’s living with a houseful of people?” Lowell asks as Bronco calls his daughters over to help him put together the shish kebabs. Dove joins the girls who show her what to do.
“We’ve got a routine already. The ladies love watching movies in the media room. We do that a couple times a week.”
“We figured they’d drive you crazy,” Bronco says, smirking at Lowell.
“They sometimes do. Fairuza and Pixie argue loudly at times, and Future decides those moments are good for screaming at the top of his lungs,” I say, and the boy smiles at the mention of his name. “If it gets too loud, I ride around for a while. Sometimes, Pixie will run out and jump on the back of my Harley. She’s gotten the hang of holding on, but she still forgets shoes half the time.”
“You’re outnumbered,” Bronco says and grins at his middle daughters. “All that estrogen will drive a man insane, but I’d rather have a million girls than one Wyatt.”
“Ooh, Daddy, I’m telling,” Sidonie says and then giggles with Desi at how Bronco’s in trouble.
“Baby, he knows,” Bronco says, smiling too. “It’s why he hasn’t shown up unannounced for dinner in weeks. Well, that and the life-size cardboard cutout of Pixie that I keep in the front window.”
“Oh, no, I think you hurt her feelings,” Desi says and points at where a teary-eyed Pixie exits the house with Lana and Topanga close behind.
“Leggings!” Lowell’s wife announces dramatically. “That’s the solution. She can wear dresses and shorts without having to shave or wax.”
That’s when I look down to see a section of Pixie’s leg is now hairless. Only that part, though. Based on her teary-eyed expression, she wasn’t a fan of the process.
“Going hairless isn’t natural for some people,” Lana adds and gives Pixie a side-hug. “Everyone is different.”
“I’m shaving my legs,” Desi says, leaning down to touch the hairless spot below Pixie’s right knee. “But never my armpits.”
Lana and Bronco share a smile while Lowell admires Topanga’s sleek legs. My honey inches closer to me. She grins at her brother munching on a slice of red pepper. Then, Pixie rubs her partially hairless leg against me and holds my gaze. She wants reassurance that I’m not angry that she nixed the shaving thing. When I smile, she returns it two-fold. Right then, I see myself through her