You are the Story (The Extra Series Book 7)

by Megan Walker

Axel looks down his nose at Ty, like he doesn’t like being in the same age bracket. “But you said your dad isn’t really your dad, right? Someone else was your biological dad. Did your mom find him in a book?”

  Ty wrinkles his nose. “I still think you’re confused,” he says. “They don’t even keep books at the bank. They’re at the library. Or the bookstore. Or—”

  “The bank is for the sperm,” Axel says.

  I close my eyes. Clearly I’ll be explaining this later. I never thought to include sperm banks in my son’s sexual education, which, to be fair, mostly comes from his many, many questions on the subject.

  “You can keep sperm at the bank?”

  Ty looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. “Kinda.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Axel says, “is how they get it out of the penises.”

  “I think that’s something you should ask your agent,” I tell him, mostly because I feel Josh should share in the misery of this conversation. Though as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I remember what happened with the kid’s last agent, and I have deep regrets. “And I really need to see some bowing happening, or it’s going to be time for Ty and me to head home.”

  Axel lifts the bow so fast he almost hits me right in the crotch with it. I dodge, and he holds it up and pretends to play, producing some choked whining sounds. I silently apologize to the cello, which may not be as nice as June, but was clearly made for better things.

  “You should pay careful attention,” Axel says to Ty as he butchers the very concept of music. “And then maybe one day you can be a star.”

  Ty looks dubious. “I don’t want to be a star. I want to be a motivational speaker.”

  “Really?” I say. This is the first I’ve heard of this passion for public speaking, but he sounds pretty confident.

  Then again, Ty tends to sound confident about everything.

  “What’s a motivational speaker?” Axel asks.

  “It’s someone that people pay to come speak. And then they talk, and everybody listens while the speaker tells them what they need to know about life.”

  Axel squints at me. “Is that true?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Pretty much. When did you decide that’s what you want to do?” Not that I think he can’t change his mind, but Ty once more or less declared that we should be a family and then it became so. I’m inclined to believe the kid when he makes pronouncements about the future.

  “Last week,” Ty says. “My teacher asked what I want to do, and I said that I want to do something where people have to listen to me when I talk, and she said I should be a motivational speaker.”

  Ha. Of course she did. “I think you’d be good at that,” I tell him.

  Axel looks less convinced. “Do motivational speakers make lots of money?”

  “I don’t know,” Ty says. “But my mom says it doesn’t matter if you make lots of money if you’re doing what you want to do.”

  Axel leans toward Ty, and the cello dips precariously forward. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Ty says.

  “So you get to do what you want,” Axel says, “even if you’re not a big star and don’t make lots of money?”

  Of all the strange places this conversation has gone, this one concerns me the most.

  “Axel,” I say, “maybe we should—”

  “Yeah,” Ty says. “Don’t you?”

  Axel looks at Ty, and then down at his hand holding the cello.

  “You don’t want to be an actor?” Ty asks.

  “Hey,” I say. “Let’s see that form, okay?”

  “I can’t quit,” Axel says. “I’m a star.”

  My stomach drops. I open my mouth to stop what I already know Ty is going to say, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

  This is what I brought him for, wasn’t it? To teach Axel Dane what it’s like to be a kid?

  “That’s not true,” Ty says. “My mom was a big star, and she quit her band because if she stayed she couldn’t marry my dad.”

  “She quit?” I don’t know whether Axel is more amazed or appalled. “Wasn’t her mom mad? Wasn’t her agent mad?”

  “Lots of people were mad,” Ty says. “But she said it was worth it, because she was doing what she wanted, which was being with my dad.”

  Axel blinks. He lets go of the cello and I catch it by the scroll. “Really,” he says.

  “Axel!” the kid’s mom calls, and throws open the door to the dressing room. “I have finally procured a smoothie that is not ninety percent carbohydrates.”

  The smoothie is suspiciously brown-colored, but Axel doesn’t seem fazed. “Mom!” he says. “I want to quit!”

  Oh, no. “Okay,” I say. “Good practice. Come on, Ty!” Ty is reluctant to go, but I all but haul him off the couch and out the door of the dressing room, past Axel’s stunned mother.

  “What?” she says.

  “Where are we going?” Ty asks.

  “Out of here.” I lower my voice as I hustle Ty away from the imminent nuclear explosion. “Because I think you just convinced Axel Dane to quit his job.”

  “Of course I did,” Ty says. “You told me to teach him how to be a kid. Kids don’t have jobs.”

  This logic is irrefutable, so I don’t even try to argue. I just get us out to the car before anyone from security can hunt me down and make me answer to the director about why I let my kid both give Axel Dane a class in sex education and talk him out of wanting to perform in the film that is already underway.

  When we get out to the car, though, I pause to call Josh.

  Because he’s probably the one who’s going to have to clean up this mess.

  Twenty

  Jenna

  Rachel is finally sleeping again, and I’m making my classic apple pie, Felix’s favorite. I know he doesn’t want me working any harder than I need to, but our date the other night was so incredible—connecting with him like that, both physically and emotionally—and I really want to have something special for him when he and Ty get back from the set.

  And, really, there’s something soothing about the familiar motions—cutting the apples, mixing, pressing out the crust. The scent of sugar and flour and home. I haven’t touched the piano in weeks, haven’t written a single melody, have barely been able to function as a wife or mother or human being, but I can bake a damn pie in my sleep.

  I finish the pie and put it in the oven, glancing at the baby monitor. Rachel’s still sleeping, and the relief I feel at not having to take care of her right now is intense.

  And once again, the guilt.

  I haven’t told Felix that part yet. What would he think of me then, if he knew how desperate I am to avoid our baby? Our sweet, beautiful baby girl I wanted so desperately. Our daughter. I see him with her, and his love for her is so natural, so deep, so instinctive. Like it was with Ty.

  It’s like Felix is made to be a father. And I thought that my problems connecting with Ty when he was so young were because of how young I was, and maybe the trauma of that whole situation. But none of those are the case with Rachel, and this still doesn’t come naturally to me.

  Maybe I was never meant to be a mother.

  I try to push the dark thoughts away; I was so happy the other night with Felix, being held in his arms, feeling his love for me. Showing my love for him. Feeling like maybe everything would be all right, with us, with me, with our family. I want to keep that feeling of contentment, of peace, at least for the rest of the day, at least—

  There’s a rustling sound, and dread squeezes my heart. I glance at the monitor, but the lights aren’t flickering like they do when there’s sound from the baby’s room.

  And then I see Rocket walking into the kitchen . . . wearing a long cape?

  I bend down to look closer, and Rocket’s ears tuck back in that guilty expression he
gets when he knows he’s done something wrong, and I very quickly have an idea of what that might be. Because he’s not wearing a cape. He’s got his head through a hole he’s torn in the Superpope robe Ty wore when Felix proposed to me years ago. And there are crumbs around his mouth.

  “Oh no, what have you done?” I tug the Superpope robe off so Rocket’s no longer trailing it like a bridal train in the world’s most elaborate terrier wedding. Then I run down the hallway to Ty’s room, hoping it’s not going to be as bad as I’m expecting—

  I swear. Ty’s costume trunk—which he must have left open—looks like it’s been caught in some kind of Hurt Locker-esque explosion. Or maybe a small dog with a major chewing problem explosion. Harry Potter robes lie scattered about with their sleeves ripped off, next to a shredded kids’ police uniform and bits of red and white fluff from a certain pair of tearaway Santa shorts Ty bought with my parents two years ago that he still doesn’t realize is part of a stripper suit.

  I groan, picking through the pieces of costumes. Finding granola bar wrappers from a hidden stash Ty must have had in the trunk—he’s been kind of obsessed with these peanut butter ones lately, but how many granola bars did he think he needed? Was he stocking up for the apocalypse? Rocket must have discovered these, along with a whole trunk full of delightfully rippable fabrics.

  Ty’s going to be so upset. He loves these costumes, and not just for Halloween. He loves playing dress-up, and coming up with new characters—Police Santa! Gryffindor Astronaut!—and even though he probably needs a good lesson in not hiding food in places the dog can reach, the thought of how devastated he’ll be when he sees this makes me want to cry.

  I take a deep breath and grab a few of his favorite costumes. I can fix this. I’m not great at sewing, not like my mom, but I know the basics. If I can repair at least a few of them before he gets home, then he’ll know I can fix the others.

  He’ll know his mom can still be there for him, can still make things better.

  I take the handful of costumes out to the living room, passing an abashed-looking Rocket along the way. “You’re lucky they have a policy against selling animals on eBay,” I mutter to him as I pass. Rocket’s tail thumps hopefully against the carpet.

  I dig out my very-rarely-used sewing machine from the back of the closet in our bedroom, creeping as quietly as possible by Rachel’s room so as not to wake her, and start setting it up on the kitchen table. First I have to push aside a basket of laundry and last night’s Twinkie science experiment—one Twinkie which has been soaking in a bowl of water and is now a bloated, soggy sponge filling nearly the whole bowl. And the other, the “control” Twinkie, which has sat out for comparison after each experiment.

  This science project has been Felix and Ty’s domain, so I’m not actually sure if they use the same control Twinkie for each experiment or get a new one each time, but Ty’s obsessed with taking measurements of it every time—though I can’t imagine they change much.

  The sight of those make me smile, thinking of how cute he and Felix are, doing these little experiments together. Laughing at each mutilated Twinkie. Ty growing serious, that little furrow in his brow as he takes his notes and debates whether the texture of the Twinkie dropped from the roof could still be described as “springy” if it didn’t actually bounce when it hit the concrete.

  Felix has tried to get me to join in, and part of me desperately wants to, but lately it’s just felt easier—safer, somehow—to watch it all from the outside, like I’m viewing my family through a window, pressing my fingers against the glass. Like that will protect me from that tidal wave I feel bearing down on me.

  You have to feel it sometime, Felix said. You can’t hold it back forever.

  But I’m afraid I’m going to drown, and afraid most of all I’ll take my family with me.

  No, I tell myself. I try to remember how much I was able to feel the other night, with my husband. How we were able to connect again like we used to, how safe and alive and good that felt.

  And I’m still here, and so is he.

  I can do this. I can be what my family needs. And right now, that means I can fix a few damn costumes.

  It takes me longer than it should to get the machine threaded—the stupid needle only decides to pick up the bobbin thread after I threaten that Ty’s next science project will be to see what happens when he drops a sewing machine off our roof. But eventually it works, and I get to sewing. I patch up Ty’s Gryffindor tie, as well as a fringed suede vest that he found at Goodwill one day and thinks makes him look like a cowboy but is really only a persistent pot-scent away from making him a young Willie Nelson.

  I’ve gotten partway through the Rocket-head-sized hole in the Superpope robe, when I hear a wailing sound from the monitor.

  No, no, no. I need to get so much more done, I need to—

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I need to be a good mom, one who can take care of her baby, and love her wholly, like she deserves.

  I force my clenched fists to loosen and head upstairs, even as each wail from Rachel feels like a live wire to my nerves.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I say, walking into the darkened nursery.

  Rachel’s wails only seem to get louder. The light switch has a dimmer, so I ease on enough light to see, not wanting to add to her unhappiness by blinding her.

  Rachel has wriggled free of her blanket, her chubby little legs kicking out. “It’s okay, baby,” I say, reaching over the crib sides to pick her up. “Mommy’s here.”

  She seems as unconvinced by the helpfulness of Mommy being here as I am; her flushed face scrunches up for another scream. And as I hold her close, I notice her skin feels warm. I press my lips to her forehead, just under a swath of fine dark hair.

  Definitely warm. And I feel an icy fear in my gut.

  Is she sick?

  I’ve certainly had lots of experience taking care of Ty when he’s been sick, but not as a baby. Not when he can’t tell me what hurts, and what kind of mom cure—chicken noodle soup and cuddles in front of cartoons, for instance—is going to make it better.

  Rachel cries and cries, and I sway with her in my arms, holding her close. Fighting panic.

  Take her temperature, you dumb bitch, Grant’s voice says in my head.

  I cringe, but the advice is solid.

  I set Rachel on the changing table and unsnap her onesie, holding her carefully so she won’t roll off while I dig around in the basket next to the changing table for the baby thermometer. “It’s going to be just fine, sweetie,” I say, my heart skipping with every strangled cry of Rachel’s.

  Please let it be fine, I pray. Please let my baby be okay.

  If she is sick, it’s probably just a cold, just a little nothing virus. But she’s so tiny . . .

  Where is the damn thermometer?

  Rachel’s wails have started to trail off into sad little hiccups by the time I finally find the thermometer. She looks up at me with those big dark eyes of hers, glistening with tears, and it pulls at my heart.

  “I’ve got you,” I say. “I’m just going to take your temperature.” I sigh, pulling the diaper off. “Sorry, but this is going to feel pretty dang invasive.”

  Rachel lets out a pitiful little cry.

  I hold her legs up and insert the thermometer, and she seems to find something interesting enough about one of her fists that it distracts her from the misery of possibly being sick, and definitely having a thermometer up her butthole.

  The thermometer beeps after a moment, and I let out a breath, my racing heart slowing.

  “99.6,” I say. “So a little bit high, but I don’t think—”

  And suddenly, after a little warning grunt from Rachel, a huge gush of liquidy poop shoots out of my daughter’s ass like a confetti cannon on New Year’s Eve.

  “Ahhhggggghhh,” I say—or something possibly even le
ss profound—looking in horror at the slick of goopy poop dripping down the front of my t-shirt and along my right arm. I have a terrible feeling I even have some in my right eyebrow.

  I’ve never in my life had so much shit spewed at me, and I work in the music industry, so that’s saying something.

  Rachel coos at me. At least she feels better about herself.

  I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” I’m like a record hitting a deep scratch. Then I get to work with the wipes, cleaning Rachel off first, at least enough to put on a new diaper and set her on the carpeted floor, where she can’t roll off and hurt herself. She gurgles at her fists while I strip off my t-shirt and finish off the nearly-full container of wipes cleaning off the changing table and my arm and yes, my eyebrow.

  I’ve just shoved the whole mess of wipes into the Diaper Genie and thrown in my shirt as well—it’s an old Ramones t-shirt, and I love it, but I don’t think there’s a laundry detergent in all of the world that can save it now—when I see Rocket come in the room. He’s drawn by the delightful smell, I’m sure, and starts sniffing at Rachel, who bats at him and tries to grab his nose.

  She smiles at Rocket, which even after being covered in her poop makes me feel so much better to see. She’s got to be feeling okay. She’s just a little warm, and needed to poop out half her body weight, so of course she was cranky, and—

  Wait. What’s that around Rocket’s mouth? Little flecks of yellow crumbs and white cream. Is that—

  “Nooooo,” I say, scooping up Rachel and hurrying downstairs to see what I feared. I’d left the chair by the sewing machine scooted out from the table, and my sewing box on the floor next to it. Providing the perfect step stool for a ravenous dog to get from the floor to the chair to the top of the table.

  Ty’s beloved Control Twinkie is gone.

  “Rocket! You damn—” I yell, and Rachel startles, crying again.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say, bouncing her in my arms. “Please stop crying. Please.”

  She is immune to my begging, and I don’t think the tears pricking at my eyes are going to make her less so.