Page 45 of Sterling Stone

“Hudson,” I shout as I stand in the kitchen leaning against the island counter.

The pattern of mailed postcards has picked up pace, arriving at least once a month, typically right in the middle. I’ve learned not to anticipate one any sooner, and I anxiously await the one that might come later.

Heavy feet thunder down the upstairs hallway and then thud down the staircase.

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding breathless despite being an athletic kid. He’s learned that I do not tolerate resorting to a text or phone call to get his attention within our own house.

When I call out for him, he needs to answer.

“Yeah?” I scoff, mocking his teenage tone, then offer him a slow smile.

I love this kid so much, and I feel him slipping away from me. Not only because of Cort’s recent involvement in his life but also his age. He’s on the cusp of being a teen, starting middle school next fall.

Another Sylver boy growing into a complex man.

“What did you need, Uncle Stone?”

“Right.” I shake my head and stand taller. “Can I use your Instagram?”

“Why?” He tilts his head.

I tilt mine. “Got something to hide on yours?” He better not.

“No. I just . . . are you looking for something?”

I pause a second, weighing whether I think my now-twelve-year-old nephew is guilty of hiding something from me. Deciding he probably isn’t, I explain myself.

“I actually want to look up an account.”

Hudson lifts his phone, taps the screen, and waits.

I stare at him. He stares at me.

“Tell me who to look up,” he says, holding in his exasperation.

“Oh. Um . . . T2urbanartist.”

I wait as he types with his speedy thumbs, then turns the screen toward me. “Since when are you into art?”

“Since mind your own business,” I tease, reaching out for his phone. He doesn’t relinquish it at first, and I give him another look. A warning glare that if I believe he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing on that device, I’ll be getting his mom involved.

Hudson and I have a pact. We’re pals. But I’m also the only father-figure he has. I’m good cop to his mother’s bad, but I’ll be turning him in if I need to. In twelve years, we’ve never had a problem.

Reluctantly, he hands me the phone, and I stare at the images on the grid. Slowly, I scroll through the account, landing on an image that stops me.

Among the photos of her artwork and some initial sketches is a singular graphic.

A dark-haired man in a cowboy hat. Head tipped forward. Sly smile on his lips. Large mustache.

The caption reads: Cowboy kryptonite. Leaps mountaintops. Melts hearts.

I stare at the image, re-reading the words over and over like they aren’t already imprinted in my brain.

At the top of the screen, a notification pops up, interrupting my thoughts.

Amelia, reads the name. Three heart emojis follow.

I glance up at Hudson, knowing his secret and giving him a gentle grin. His first experience with love.