Page 133 of Bound By Blood and Lies

“Really? We want to go there?”

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Nix…”

“No, don’t fucking Nix me, Felix. I am not interested.”

“You know what?” he sighs. “Fine.”

He turns and walks straight back out of the kitchen again. Robyn stares down at the bottle in her hand like she is already regretting the entire conversation whilst Riggs slowly looks toward the ceiling before side-eyeing me.

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “True love.”

I bite back a smile before starting on the icing again. The new house still doesn’t fully feel real yet. There are boxes stacked in corners we still haven’t unpacked, baby clothes draped over radiators and enough people constantly wandering in and out that Roman’s slowly starting to look one inconvenience away from committing an unsanctioned homicide, but there’s something warm about it too.

It’s chaotic and loud.

It’s alive.

Survival has been the only thing any of us focused on that sometimes moments like this still catch me off guard. Riggs reaches over and steals a finger full of icing before immediately grimacing.

“That tastes like shit.”

“Well maybe that’s because you made concrete frosting,” I tease before swallowing the gag as I taste it myself.

“I was trying to honour Mumzy actually,” he says defensively before his voice catches as he looks at me. “Fi always made the icing from scratch.”

The kitchen falls quiet as pain twists sharply through my chest. My eyes drop toward the bowl in front of me. Fiona always used to say people deserved sweetness when the world was so sour and somehow, she always knew exactly when one of us needed it most. I hear Robyn choke out a sob and my head snaps up toward her. Her face crumples as she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“Come here,” I say softly, opening my arms.

She crosses the small distance between us immediately before folding herself tightly into me.

It’s been four months and I wouldn’t say it’s easier, but we made a pact to talk about her as much as possible because none of us can bear the thought of her becoming something we avoid. Fiona deserved more than silence after everything she did for us. She died trying to save the people she loved and there’s something unbearably cruel about letting her love turn into silence. So now… we speak about her constantly. Sometimes it ends in laughter. Sometimes it ends in tears. Sometimes one of us has to leave the room entirely because the loss still hits too hard. But we do it anyway. Because forgetting her would hurt far more than remembering ever could.

Beside me Riggs sniffs aggressively before clearing his throat loud enough to break some of the heaviness settling over the kitchen.

“Well,” he mutters, gesturing toward the bowl of ruined icing. “This icing is shit but I think she’d still be proud of me.”

A laugh escapes me as I open my arm toward him and he comes bouncing towards us before folding himself into the hug alongside Robyn. The three of us just stand there clinging onto each other in the middle of the flour-covered kitchen. My bump gets awkwardly squashed between all three of us and I grunt as the baby immediately kicks in protest.

“What in the fucking Kumbaya is going on here?” Victor growls from the doorway.

All three of us separate instantly. Victor looks between our faces, then toward the flour covering the counters before his eyes slowly narrow with understanding.

“Ah,” he says quieter this time. “Fi was mentioned, wasn’t she?”

“She was,” Robyn sniffles before quickly taking another sip of her drink.

I force myself to smile as I reach toward the whisk only to freeze halfway there when I notice the enormous box balanced on top of Victor’s shoulder. A frown immediately pulls at my face. He looks proud as punch as he shifts it onto the other shoulder like he’s just returned from war instead of whatever shopping trip he’s clearly been terrorising the local population on.

“…What is that?” I ask cautiously.

Victor’s chest puffs out slightly, “it’s for my nephew.”

I stare at the box. Then at him. Then back at the box again.

“Victor,” I say slowly, “why does my unborn child need something the size of a small vehicle?”