Page 116 of That Rush

Aiden lowers his paperback. “Things you can ask Paige about when you’re thirty.”

“Questionable,” I correct.

“I stand by my answer.”

Josie shrugs and returns to her book.

A comfortable quiet falls over the porch. Pages turn. Wind moves through the pines. Aiden’s boot rests close enough to the hammock that I can nudge his knee whenever he gives my book another judgmental look.

I spend my week being available. Every child needs help, every parent wants an answer, and every task waits for my attention. By Friday, solitude usually feels like shutting a door on the noise.

Today, no one asks me to entertain them.

After a chapter, I close my book around the bookmark. “Trail?”

Josie is out of the chair before Aiden can answer.

The easy loop slopes through the pines toward the lake. Josie walks between us, narrating every unusual pinecone, then darts ahead just far enough to feel independent while Aiden keeps her in sight.

He matches my pace without trying to lead. When the trail splits, he waits for me to point left.

“You’re being remarkably obedient,” I tell him.

“I was given clear instructions.”

“No, you were told there would be a trail.”

“And unlimited books.”

Josie turns around while walking backward. “He likes rules. You have to be specific.”

“Face forward,” Aiden says.

She spins around. “See?”

I laugh, and his arm curves around my hip. He draws me close enough to kiss my temple before letting me go.

At the lake, Josie removes her shoes and socks and wades in until the water reaches her ankles. Aiden rolls his jeans and follows after applying enough sunscreen to protect her through winter.

“Daddy thinks the sun is dangerous,” she tells me.

“The sun is dangerous.”

“So are horses, but you bought me riding boots.”

I sit on a flat rock and watch Aiden search for an answer that will satisfy both logic and his daughter. He looks at me for assistance.

“I’m staying out of this. I support sunscreen and riding boots.”

“Traitor,” he says.

We take turns skipping stones. Aiden manages four. Mine sinks. Josie’s splashes once, which she counts as two because it touched the water before going under.

On the walk back, her hand slips into mine. She keeps talking about rocks and bunnies, asking whether fish get cold, while Aiden walks on my other side, his fingers brushing mine whenever the trail widens.

By the time the cabin appears through the trees, I expect to crave ten quiet minutes alone. I search for the familiar depletion and find warm skin, tired legs, and the surprising urge to keep both of them exactly where they are.

Josie swings our joined hands. “Can this be a Friday thing?”