Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Now if I can only convince him to start staying over at mine at night . . . I get his hesitation. My family. Enough said.
Kneeling away from me, he sits back to rub the back of my leg. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. You’re not wrong. That is what families should do. Instead, mine is more divided than ever.” Do I drag our business out into the open? It’s not something I’ve ever done before. The Dovers are vaults when it comes to family secrets. It’s probably why we know so little about each other. So freaking sad. Another reason to be so thankful I have Savvy in my life. We can tell each other anything. Though I haven’t talked to her about my brother and his plans. No particular reason, other than I was waiting to hear from him again. He doesn’t seem to be making plans to jump ship yet, so I’m not rocking this boat by bringing it up.
“Orange,” Jacob says, getting up from the grass and running to grab the can. He hands it to Griffin. “Show me.” He’s having a ball. I’m just happy for the distraction.
Griffin clips something to the nozzle and hands it to Jacob. “You squeeze this handle with both hands, and it will spray paint everywhere. Remember what I told you when we came over here?”
“Keep the paint on the canvas. What’s the canvas?”
“The wood.” Griffin taps it. “This is the canvas. Okay?”
Jacob squeezes, hitting him right on the arm. “Not the canvas,” he says, his mouth flattening as he turns slowly away as if Griffin won’t notice.
Looking up at me, Griffin says, “It’s just an old undershirt.” But he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me. He moves next to Jacob again and says, “This time, paint the wood. Not your da. . . not your friends.”
“Not my friends.” I don’t like the devious look I get from Jacob before he puts both hands on the lever again. “Not your friends. Not your Mommy.” Oh no. I grab his hat, not wanting it ruined by paint, and rush to the porch to set it down. I don’t mind the distance when paint is involved. He squeezes, spraying orange paint exactly where it should go—on the wood.
“Good job, buddy,” I say, moving in a little closer again. He doesn’t stop, now getting the hang of it and letting his creativity flow.
Griffin joins him with royal blue on his side of the wood, but instead of a design, he writes Jacob’s name. The paint sputters on the C and sprays air after he gets a barely readable O. He stands and steps back next to me. “It’s old paint. I’ll just use another . . .”
I watch as he walks up to the wood again, standing with his hands planted on his sides. Jacob’s having way more fun, especially since no one is monitoring the situation. He’s doing just fine, so why ruin the good time?
But Griffin, on the other hand, dips his head down and rubs the bridge of his nose. I move in behind him to rub his back with my hand and quickly place a kiss there. “What’s wrong?”
“His name.” He turns back to face me.
Jacob drops the can. “I want a new color.”
Griffin’s eyes are set on mine when he replies, “Pick any color you want, Champ.”
“You named him Jacob.”
I don’t get it. The question is lost in translation between us. “Yes.” Ohhhh. My eyes dart to the wood where his name remains unfinished. JACO.
When I look back at him, he says, “You named him Jacob for Jaco Beach.”
“The details sometimes slip away from me.” It’s not a reason to be upset, and he’s not, but I do feel the need to explain myself. “I was . . . alone. I felt so alone. Even with my cousin by my side at the hospital, I wanted you there. I was running every moment we shared, every word you said through my mind. I had your hat sitting on my belly when they were wheeling me to the birthing room. When they asked me what his name was, I said Jaco but corrected myself. His name is Jacob. Jacob Justin.”
Jacob is tugging on Griffin’s jeans so he’ll put the lever on the can of yellow paint. He bends down and swaps out the contraption, but I see him stop to look at Jacob, to really look into his son’s eyes. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” His voice is sweet, but it was how he looked at Griffin, a bond already formed, that has my heart racing. I love them together.
“You should tell him, Griffin.”
He stands, the minutest shake of his head backs the confusion populating his eyes. “Tell him what?”
“Who you really are.”
His gaze whips back to our son before it meets mine again. “Are you sure?”