“Where’s Holden when you need him?” I squeal in protest, flailing around and pretending to put up a fight, though it’s not very convincing.
He hauls me around the pool toward the house, striding along a path of bluestone pavers, and from my upside-down vantage point I’m able to spot a pair of teak loungers and a set of Adirondack chairs clustered around a fire pit. A row of palmettos line the fence, a striped hammock strung between two of them swaying gently in the breeze. I’m obsessed with every last detail. If I wasn’t already in love with the man, his backyard would’ve sealed it.
When we reach the patio door, he sets me back on my feet, steadying me with his hands on my hips. He leans in to kissme, his palms moving up to cradle my face, and when I sigh contentedly into his mouth, I feel his smile against my lips.
When he pulls back, his eyes are so full of love, it nearly knocks me over. He opens the door with a flourish, his face lit with happiness.
“Welcome home, Scarlett.”
Epilogue
Ryder
Ten Years Later
“One more, Daddy!”she squeals. “Justonemore!”
I groan, feigning exasperation. “You said thatfivecharades ago.”
Eleanor’s eyes go wide in exaggerated innocence. “We really will go to bed after this one, we promise! Won’t we, Hayes?”
Like a puppet on a string, my three-year-old son nods his head, thumb firmly planted in his mouth, his threadbare stuffed koala gripped tightly in his other fist.
I let out a long-suffering sigh, like this isn’t the millionth time we’ve played out this particular script and we don’t all know exactly how it ends—with my precocious, headstrong daughter getting her way. “Fine,onemore. But this really is the last one.”
Eleanor beams and bounces gleefully on the mattress, her gap-toothed grin of victory making it clear I never stood achance. Springy blond ringlets fly in all directions, her curls a mirror image of her mother’s, and I’m reminded justwhyI can’t say no.I’m powerless against a five-year-old.
Charades is their favorite part of our bedtime routine—or perhaps more accurately, the most effective tool in their procrastination arsenal. On the bright side, if I ever decide to quit acting, I think I’ve got a real future in miming. The only problem is, I’m running out of ideas. I can only pretend-dribble a basketball, pirouette like a ballerina, or trip and fall over some invisible hazard so many times. Sometimes I switch off the light, close the door, and pretend I’ve left the room, only to pop out of their closet wearing one of Ellie’s frilly dresses on my head. They love that one.
By the time I’ve performed one last charade—a dog digging a hole in the sand and then peeing in it (anything with bodily functions is an instant winner)—I’ve somehow managed to get the two of themmoreriled up, not less. They’re now lobbing stuffed animals from bed to bed, their gleeful shrieks loud enough to be heard from space.
I adopt my sternest dad voice. “Alright now, it’s time to quiet down and go to sleep. I don’t want to hear a peep coming from this room.”
Their squeals only get louder, the toy tossing continuing unabated. It’s pathetic, really; I’ve never been able to inspire an ounce of fear in my children. It might be because I’m a total pushover and they’re all so ridiculously cute.
“Fine,” I say casually, affecting a nonchalant air. “If you don’t settle down, I’ll have to send Mom up.”
The animal tossing abruptly ceases, and I have to fight to keep a straight face. I wish I knew how to command theobedience Scarlett manages with a single look, but I guess what she says is true: I’m as soft as a stick of room-temperature butter, and like animals, kids can sense weakness. In my defense, their adorable faces are my kryptonite. They’ve got me wrapped around their chubby little fingers.
I close their door with an ominous look that fools no one, then stop into my older son’s room. Noah’s cocooned under the covers, the telltale halo of a booklight glowing beneath the sheets. “Don’t stay up too late, bud.”
“I won’t,” his muffled voice says, and I hear the soft rustle of a page turning. “Just a couple more chapters.”
I chuckle quietly to myself; I know better. He’ll read until sleep wins, until the book slips from his hands and lands on the floor. Later tonight when Scarlett and I head to bed, I’ll sneak in to switch off the light and set his book on the nightstand. Noah is our serious one, earnest and inquisitive. He’s a classic firstborn, responsible and diligent, forever trying to keep the other two in line.
I make my way down the stairs, moving through our quiet house, gathering the day’s debris along the way. I loop through the family room, depositing an abandoned blanket in a basket, sweeping Hayes’s toy trains into their assigned bin, letting out some choice words when my foot finds a rogue Lego. When I’m done, I survey the space, my eyes skimming over the matching Oscars statues gleaming from the mantle.His and hers. A stray Nerf bullet is wedged between them, an ironic metaphor for the two worlds we straddle. I pluck it free, and into the toy bin it goes.
I step into the kitchen and listen for a moment, hearing nothing but the low hum of the dishwasher, so I glance outside. Thepatio swing is swaying gently, her feet dangling off the side. Our Indian summer is slipping away, school just around the corner, and we’re determined to savor every last moment of it.
I slip something into my pocket before going out to join her. “Room for one more?”
“Took you long enough,” Scarlett teases, but she’s smiling as she lifts her head, and I take my usual place on the swing, resettling her head in my lap.
She smirks up at me. “You finally escaped. How many did they take you for?”
“I lost track at five.”
She sighs. “Hopeless. They’ve completely broken you.”
