But something was up with Billy.
He stuck to one, the other or both of us like glue. He was often asking Mitch to toss a ball with him (and Mitch did). He asked Mitch or me to help him with his homework every night. He asked me to teach him how to do the laundry. He did the dishes. He helped make dinner. He kept his room tidy. He dragged out the vacuum and vacuumed the entire house. He inventoried the cupboards and wrote stuff on the grocery list. If you were at the store, he’d dash through the aisles to grab stuff so you wouldn’t have to push the cart down each one. If Billie started to get tired and irritable, he fawned over her. If I was tired, he offered to read her to sleep.
If he was with me and Mitch wasn’t around, he asked about Mitch all the time. Where was he? What was he doing? When was he coming home? Didn’t I think Mitch’s hamburgers were the best? Wasn’t it cool how Mitch could do multiplication questions in his head without writing anything down?
After our first date, four times in one day he asked when he and Billie could go back to Penny’s house to spend the night. Then, two weeks later, when Mitch and I had another night on our own with Sue Ellen looking after the kids, when he got home the next afternoon he asked twice when they were again going to Sue Ellen’s.
Then, three days ago, Mitch and I were having an inconsequential tiff in his SUV, about what, I didn’t even remember. The kids were with us and I felt something rolling through the truck that made me feel weird. I turned to look into the backseat and I saw Billy staring out the side window, his profile hard, his teeth clenched, his hands in fists, his shoulders bunched but his lip was trembling. He looked terrified and near tears.
It alarmed me and I immediately quit having terse words with Mitch, gave him a look and jerked my head toward the back. Mitch’s eyes went to the rearview mirror then they went to the road and his jaw got so tight, a muscle jumped there.
Later, in bed, Mitch pulled me on top of him and stated, “You get pissed, I get pissed, we have our words private, not in front of the kids.”
“You saw it then,” I whispered.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
I told him something I guessed he already knew considering he was a cop and very insightful, “He’s not right, Mitch, something is wrong with him.”
“You live bad, sweetheart, you taste good, you’d do anything to keep it. You know that.”
I really did.
I nodded.
Mitch continued, saying softly, “He’s terrified.”
I bit my lip. “Yeah,” I agreed then asked, “Should we talk to him about it?”
Mitch studied me but he did this thinking.
Then he said, “Don’t know. He thinks we cottoned on, might cause more anxiety. We play it cool and give him day to day good and steady, he might relax.”
“I’m going to talk to Bobbie at work about it,” I told him and it was his turn to nod.
“I mentioned it to Slim,” he informed me, surprising me. “Slim caught on when we played catch, though it was hard to miss.”
Slim was Brock, Mitch’s partner’s nickname.
Brock was good. Brock had two boys. Brock probably had a wealth of experience.
“And what does he say?”
“He says if he thinks we cottoned on, it might cause more anxiety. If we play it cool and give him steady, he might relax,” Mitch said on a grin.
“Great,” I muttered and Mitch’s arm gave me a squeeze.
“Our play, we give him two weeks. He doesn’t settle in, we talk again and decide who talks to him. You with me?”
I smiled and whispered, “Yeah. But if you ready, break me, I’m going to protest the play.”
His head tilted on the pillow and his lips twitched. “Why’s that?”
I pressed my body into his and told him, “Because I’m comfy.”
“Sweetheart, you can’t sleep on me,” he pointed out.
“Who’s talking about sleeping?” I asked and his eyes flashed.