"Good luck with that," Jax grins. "Now, what else is in the mail?"
"Right," Luke says, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. "A postcard. From Costa Rica."
He places it on the table. We all lean in.
The photo on the front is... visually aggressive.
It shows Alistair and Miguel standing in front of a half-built aviary. Miguel is looking effortlessly gorgeous in white linen. Alistair, however, is wearing a neon green mesh tank top, a sarong patterned with pineapples, and a hat made entirely of palm fronds. He is holding a large macaw on his shoulder.
Both of them are smiling so hard it looks painful.
I flip the card over. Alistair’s scrawling, chaotic handwriting covers the back.
My Dearest Boys and their Cherished Romantic Entanglements!
Hola fromPapagayo! The construction goes well! The parrots are loud, but Miguel says they are just expressing their passion! I have learned three words of Spanish: "Cerveza," "Amor," and "Aglet."
Miguel bought a yacht. We named it 'The Hypoglycemic'. We are sailing to Ibiza next month to DJ a foam party.
Your mother sent a fax from Frederick's island. She says the Wi-Fi is excellent and she has taken up spearfishing. She seems... lethal. But happy.
Love you all! Don't work too hard! Life is short! Wear the mesh!
Love,
Dad & Miguel (and Captain Beaky)
There is a moment of silence at the table.
"He named the yachtThe Hypoglycemic," Preston whispers, horrified, still eyeing the baby socks nervously.
"He’s DJing a foam party," Luke adds. "With a billionaire."
"He is wearing mesh," Jax notes. "Neon green mesh."
I look at the photo again. My father—the Chairman, the titan of industry, the man who wore gray suits for forty years—looks ridiculous. He looks absurd.
He looks happier than I have ever seen him.
“It would seem that he is living his best life,” I say, putting the card down.
"He really is," Preston admits, taking a sip of wine. "And Mother is... spearfishing?"
"Frederick won't survive the year," Jax predicts. "She’s going to hunt him for sport."
"Probably," I agree. "But that is a variable for anotherfiscal quarter."
Dinner is over. Preston and Luke have wandered off down the beach, hand in hand, presumably to discuss methods of hiding from the spectre of Mama Ortiz.
I stand by the water’s edge with Jax. The stars are out. The Southern Cross is visible on the horizon. The universe is vast, cold, and mathematically precise.
But down here, on the sand, it is warm.
I look at Jax. The moonlight catches the silver band on his finger. My husband. The Trauma Cowboy. The man who saw the human beneath the algorithm.
I look down the beach at my brother—my "Spare"—who finally became the lead.
I think about Alistair in his mesh tank top. I think about Catherine with her spear gun.
