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The danger of it all.
His hand splays on my thigh, and I sip a spoonful of milk with this lovesick grin. He tosses a strand of my blonde hair into my face. I smile more, but he’s not cracking just yet. I pass him the bowl, and he scrapes at the bottom.
We keep pulling closer to each other, only a few inches between our chests. Like nature intended us to be entangled, crazy things. I’ve never been happier. Never felt brighter.
Never loved my life more.
The longer my smile grows, the more his lips struggle to remain in their brooding place. I watch, so keenly, as the corners of his mouth slowly but surely rise.
Until the next bite of his cereal comes with a full-blown, effervescent smile. Unleashing all the light he wields inside his core.
Many chips had to fall in perfect place for this moment, not just us sharing a bowl of cereal, staring intently at each other, or Sulli cooing by our sides. Many facets had to go right for something simpler.
All three of us, together, existing in the world at the exact same time.
It could have been fantasy. While I love the idea of swimming with mermaids, climbing aboard a pirate ship, being the last beings on Earth—there is nothing better than my reality.
I can’t think of a greater, more magnificent adventure.
Than this one.
TEN YEARS LATER
RYKE MEADOWS
On a narrow, dirt path between dense spruce trees and the call of the mountains, I run.
My legs pump and carry me. I pound the fucking earth with each step, dark skies cloaking the woods. Lights strapped around my knuckles illuminate the trail, but so does the person in front of me.
Three strides ahead, my brother runs with similar flashlights. Eight, hilly miles through the Rocky Mountains—this is our routine when we visit the lake house.
This is the way we always go.
I recall the area where trees no longer squeeze the path tight. It’s coming up towards the end. So I lengthen my stride, sweat beading along my bare chest. Muscles coiling with each controlled breath. Closing the gap between him and me.
Just as I fall in line beside my brother, he picks up his speed. Our legs stretch at equal fucking distance.
Easily, I keep in step with him.
Maybe the only difference between us now is the scar that stretches from my thigh to calf. And the dull ache in my right knee. Reminding me of a day. Of a time. And a person.
Like a whisper or a fucking dream.
We both slow to a walk as the cherry red lake house pulls into view, only a few lights on inside. Around 5:39 a.m., almost everyone should be asleep.
Lo is also shirtless, his muscles as lean as mine. His cheekbones still sharp, eyes still daggered, but his feet a little fucking lighter. Right by me.
“I’m digging up that fucking root.” I break the quiet, thinking about the path four miles back. I comb a hand through my thick, damp hair as we approach the lake house.
“The root didn’t commit murder, it just fucking tripped me,” Lo says. “Why don’t you worry about more important things like your constipated face.” He turns to me, just to flash a half-smile.
I flip him off.
He laughs like I’m predictable. And he’s happy about that.
You know what I’m happy about—my brother, my little fucking brother—he’s thirteen years sober.
Thirteen years.
After all we’ve been through, this is what bowls me over the most. He had a lot of chances to turn to a bottle, but he didn’t. I know it was fucking hard. I was there, but as Lily said, “He’s ice in the winter now. He won’t melt.”
I believe it every day.
I mess his hair with a rough hand, and he tries to mess mine, for a fucking change. I shove him back, and then he shoves me.
We’re both smiling.
Nearing the side of the house, we reach the grassy hill that overlooks the dock and rippling lake. Red Adirondack chairs situated close by, one of the kid’s sippy cups staining a ring on the armrest.
Lo stretches his quads, and I’m about to stretch mine out when the backdoor flings open in fucking haste. We both shine our lights on the wraparound porch, and a tall ten-year-old girl quickly fits on her sneakers, her dark brown hair in a sloppy pony. She missed a long strand on her neck.
She mutters, “Fuck,” and hops into her sneaker on her way down to the grass.
“Careful, Sulli!” I call out.
Lo turns off his light and pats my shoulder hard. “Good luck with that one.”
I roll my eyes.
“Wait up!” Sulli says, running over to us. Her limbs long and slender like Daisy. Truth is, she looks like both of us. Skin tanned from being out in the sun, constantly. Dark hair like mine. Harder jaw. But lips like her mom’s. A delicate nose. Green, soulful eyes.
My daughter skids to a stop and notices our damp hair and sweat. Her face falls. “Dad,” she says in a heavy breath. “You could’ve woken me. I was in a half-sleep, and I could’ve been ready really, really fast.” Before I can answer, she says, “Uncle Lo, tell him.”
Lo turns to me with crossed arms. “Yeah, Ryke. Why didn’t you wake her up?” He’s near laughter. He knows why.
She knows why.
“We’ve been through this, sweetie,” I say, my tone almost always fucking gentle with her. Last summer, at Camp Calloway, she told me that she was glad I didn’t kick her ass about swimming or climbing or running. That I let her do her thing.
She’s seen my tough love routine at camp when I give the older teenagers climbing lessons.
Thing is, Sullivan pushes herself hard enough. She doesn’t need any motivation from anyone.
“Sleep is so fucking boring,” she says with a woeful sigh. “Why can’t I just use an alarm clock and wake up earlier? Just one hour?”
Lo shakes his head at me. “Only your kid, man.”
Daisy and I have strange fucking sleeping patterns, and Sulli mimicked us. Now she relies on naps, and she slept through all the classes she didn’t like (fourth grade social studies). So this summer, she has to turn off her alarm clock and get at least seven hours straight of sleep.
Which means, I’m not fucking waking her up anymore to
go run. It kills me a little bit because I know she wants to.
I put my hand on her head and she looks up at me with big doe eyes. “Go to bed fucking earlier, and you can run with us tomorrow morning.”
“Will you wake me?” she asks. “Please.”
“Seven fucking hours,” I tell her.
She nods like yeah, I know. “Seven fucking hours. I’ll do it.”
The door opens and another kid comes out, only he’s already in running gear, plus a backwards baseball cap with a Spider-Man logo.
Twelve-year-old Maximoff Hale quickly jogs over to us, his thirteenth birthday in a couple months.
I bend down to tie Sulli’s untied fucking shoe.
“Dad,” she says like she’s not a little kid anymore and I need to stop worrying about her—never going to fucking happen. “I can do it.”
She squats to tie her shoe but as she does, she meets my eyes, a smile in them. I mess her hair that’s already a fucking mess, and her lips rise.
I love my daughter. More than the fucking world.
When I stand back up, Moffy is already talking to his dad. “I can run the trail with her. We’ll bring bear spray and lights.” We don’t let the kids out in the woods alone when it’s dark. Though Moffy sells it fucking well, not just by his words.
He stands like he’s in his twenties, exuding quiet maturity that makes you pause. Makes you think, you can carry the fucking world, Maximoff Hale. Problem is, no matter how much he likes responsibility and being treated like a grown-up, we can’t forget that he’s still a kid.
Lily and Lo don’t want him to carry the world. They just want him to be twelve and have fun.
Lo nods to Moffy. “Apparently there’s a murderous goddamn root on the trail right now, so think of this as me saving your life.”
Moffy has the same jawline as Lo. Same sharpness. Almost identical features except his green eyes and his dark brown hair. But he’s not Lo.
He laughs, dimples on his cheeks. “Alright, I don’t want to die yet, especially not by the Murderous Goddamn Root.”
