Harley
“He looks like us, doesn’t he?” I whisper to Justice as we sit on the screened-in back porch at Grandma and Gramps’ house.
“He does,” she coos. “Those eyes and the set of his chin are one-hundred percent Walker. His little wisp of blonde hair. Are you going to let yours go back to blonde?” She asks, lifting up a lock of my still-dark hair.
“I don’t know, I kinda like it. Not that I want to be different than you, but it sets us apart.”
“It does and I understand. You should do whatever you want.
“His lips are Bishop’s, though. Full and plump, always ready for a smirk or a smile. I think he’s got his forehead too.”
Grandma walks in. “Give me that baby. He looks so much like Drew did when he was his age.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t give Dad any more bragging rights than he already has. He’s been almost unbearable to put up with. You’d think he pushed this kid out of his vagina.”
“He doesn’t have one,” Justice points out.