Family therapy sessions were no fun.
He was better at talking through them than I was, but most of the work fell on Cyan’s shoulders which wasn’t as bad as all that because she was a Chatty Cathy when the therapist asked the right questions.
We’d learned all kinds of hellish things from her that way.
How London had talked to her, what he’d wanted from her. How he’d sneaked electronics to her so he’d always be there for her when she needed him.
Just the thought made me want to puke.
Constant access to my baby.
Today, she’d even admitted that he’d asked for pictures.
The desire for pie abated, and the need to vomit increased.
A hand moved to the back of my neck, and though I tensed at first, I softened when Storm’s thumbs dug into the knot right between my shoulder and throat.
"You know why she headbutted that girl?" I muttered.
"Why?" He didn’t sound angry, more amused at her antics.
Was I the only normal person in this car?
Stupid question.
"Because Aunt Giulia," I mocked, "says the best defense is offense."
He didn’t have to laugh for me to know he was doing it inwardly. "She has a point."
"No," I hissed, "she doesn’t." I rolled my head to the side to glower at him. I’d have shoved his hand off, but it felt too good and it kept the nausea at bay. "Cyan can’t keep doing this." After she’d gotten into that fight at the clubhouse, I should have known we’d have problems when she was at school. "She’s going to get expelled."
"Mom says I can do Kraft Madag."
"It was Kraft Magad a minute ago," I grumbled.
"You mean Krav Maga?" Storm asked and, this time, he sounded more than tickled, he laughed outright.
God, how long was it since I’d heard that laugh? So carefree and light. Not since before we’d split up that was for sure.
"Yeah!" was Cyan’s enthusiastic cry. "Krav Maga. That’s it. Dad, can we go? Please?"
"I don’t see why not," he said with a shrug. "The next time some old creep comes near you, I think I’d like it if you could break him in two."
A soft silence fell inside the car, and I rocked my head to the other side to see what Cyan’s reaction was to that.
She stared at him, all big eyes, and though her bottom lip quivered, she nodded slowly. "I think I want that too."
Trust Storm to see something I hadn’t. To understand something I hadn’t.
Cyan wasn’t being aggressive for the hell of it. To rebel. She was defending herself. Protecting herself now where she hadn’t before. She was just being a little ‘exuberant’ with it.
I eyed the bandage on her forehead where there was a nice round goose egg, and murmured, "Only think?"
Her head wobbled from side to side. "No, I know."
"Then we’d better make it happen," was Storm’s cheery retort. "What with your gymnastic moves, you’ll be able to beat the crap out of me in no time at all."
She giggled. "Daddy, I couldn’t do that!"
"Why not? That’s how I’ll know you’re ready for the big bad world, ladybug. The second you knock me on my ass is a day I’ll be proud of."
"Really?" was our kid’s eager retort.
Before the conversation could get any more disturbing, I muttered, "I seriously need this pie you were talking about before."
Storm laughed. "Me too."
"Me three!" Cyan chirped.
For the past week, she’d been surprisingly cheerful. I assumed that was because her dad was staying with us, and to be honest, I’d appreciated the stay of grace.
I knew I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed having a man around the house either.
MaryCat had calmed down a ton since Digger had arrived, and while I didn’t doubt he wasn’t a cure for postpartum depression, he made her happy. It was clear to see.
When she cried, he didn’t chide her, just held her. When she got angry, he talked her down. And when Maddox fussed, he took control, and she watched, a little less despairingly than each previous time I’d seen her staring down at him like she didn’t know him, as if he were a stranger to her.
As I watched her, I’d admit to being grateful that I hadn’t gone through that. Cyan and I had always been close. Until recently. I just hoped MC and Maddox would get over this hiccup too.
"Mom? You coming?"
I blinked when I realized Cyan had hopped out of the SUV and knew why I’d zoned out—Storm was still rubbing the back of my neck.
Tilting my head to the side, I stared at him, and murmured, "She’s definitely your daughter."
His lips curved. "Don’t blame me. I remember a certain someone who, instead of giving the mugger their purse like she should have done, hit him over the head with it."
I grimaced. "I forgot about that."
His smile deepened. "I haven’t."
"I’m surprised you remembered."
He arched a brow. "Why would you be surprised I remembered that? Anyway, I had someone take care of that guy shortly afterward…"
Mouth gaping, I whispered, "Taken care of?"
"Yes." Totally unapologetic. Holy crap on a stick.
Seeing as that was more disturbing than my kid mimicking Giulia, I decided that a change of subject was required. "How come, when you were high, you always remembered things like birthday parties and class events?"
"Because I have a phone and a reminder app," he drawled. "And I wasn’t high all the time."
"Lots of other men have them too but they forget."
"You two were a priority. Even if it was a skewed priority."
I knew what he meant.
Storm was, in a word, weird.
Why was it that I was only just figuring that out for real?
I mean, I’d always known he was James Dean reborn. Had half suspected and been terrified by the idea of him dying before he reached his fortieth birthday. But I was only just coming to accept how strange he was, how unusual his ideals were.
No wonder we’d struggled as a couple.
He thought I was perfect.
I believed I was to blame for everything he did wrong.
What a pair.
"You know, we’d have had a better chance of making it if you’d been honest with me from the start."
His smile was sad. "You’d never have let me inside if you’d known the truth."
He squeezed the back of my neck in a move that I thought was supposed to soothe but, instead, made me wish he’d haul me into him.
Very inappropriate.
But still. It was Storm.
All of my adult life was entangled with him, and he was showing me a side of his nature that I’d craved for so long.
"Come on, before Cyan bursts."
I shot the front of the diner a look, saw my kid standing there hopping up and down like she needed the bathroom. "You know ‘pie’ is her magic word."
He smirked. "In this, she definitely takes after me."
I laughed when I thought about the three pumpkin pies I made at Thanksgiving, which I never ate because I hated it, and which always disappeared because these two were pie fiends. Especially for my pastry.