“Come on, all of you.”
“It’s simply how men are.”
“Every guy on that ship does it.”
“It’s the job.”
“You’re all acting like I committed a cr*me.”
He swept a hand toward me.
“And look at her.”
“Look at what I’m supposed to come home to.”
“Spit-up on her sweater, no makeup, hair in a clip.”
“Natalia looks like a woman.”
“Giselle looks like a woman.”
“This looks like a laundry basket.”
He said it in front of all of them.
He said it in front of our daughters.
My face went hot, and then it went cold, the way it does at three in the morning when the monitor starts to alarm.
I opened my mouth, and nothing came out.
Then a man’s voice spoke from the rope line.
It was low, and it carried.
“Not this man.”
Dillon turned.
A tall, weathered man in a Seaborn engineer’s jacket stood with a toddler on his shoulders and his wife’s hand in his.
