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Daisy is bringing the oars near the river. And closer to where the river meets the sandy bank, Ryke straps dry bags to each paddleboard.
His wife smiles over at him, “Hubba hubba, you’re one handsome stud. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
Ryke’s smile seems brighter in the sun. “Is that so, Calloway?”
She mock gasps. “And he knows my name!”
He reaches forward to the river and splashes water at his wife.
She splashes back, laughing.
He wipes water out of his face, watching his wife stand back up and go help Winona rub sunscreen on her shoulder blades. Daisy makes a crude gesture to Ryke with her tongue, and I pretend not to notice.
Ryke mutters something lovingly about Daisy being trouble.
He’s still smiling.
God, I wish I could bury this news in the dirt. Never let it out. Ryke doesn’t just appear happy. He is happy, and no part of my soul wants to snuff out that light.
But I’ve got to.
I bend down to help him with the dry bags. “Before we get on the water,” I say, “Akara and I wanted to tell you the bad news.”
“Fucking forgot about that,” he grumbles and nods towards a canteen. “Can you—?”
I grab the canteen and pass it over. He says a quick thanks.
“What bad news?” Winona asks, tying off a messy braid.
Before I can take one for the team, Akara chucks some sunscreen in a dry bag and announces, “The Jeep was stolen from the parking garage at the penthouse.”
“While we were in L.A.,” I clarify, just in case they think we didn’t do our jobs. Akara isn’t responsible for this fuck-up.
Ryke rakes an aggressive hand through his hair. His face coiling in a look I know well. It’s the look of someone battling an onslaught of grief. “It’s fucking gone?” He shakes his head, darkened confusion rolling over his hardened features. “How? When?”
Akara explains the details.
Break-in at the parking garage.
One week ago.
One guy.
He hotwired the Jeep. Sped off. Instagram has no clues as to where he went. Paparazzi didn’t catch him. Press wasn’t staking out the parking garage. We were at the Olympics.
The thief knew that. The whole world did.
Ryke sits back on the bank of the river. In shock, I think.
Akara and I exchange hesitance. Not sure if Ryke needs space or reassurance. Daisy meets him on the sand and sticks her toes into the water. They’re quiet together, and Winona also takes a moment to herself. She wanders into the river with her paddleboard.
Sulli is pacing behind us.
I mouth, it’s alright.
Wide-eyed, she motions to the backs of her parents.
I’m still tying this motherfucking dry bag, and Akara goes to Sulli, whispering, “They’re not mad at you, Sul.”
She replies to him against his ear, then she mouths to me, they should be. Her eyes redden, trying to restrain tears, and Akara wraps an arm around her shoulders while she hides her face.
A pang clenches my heart. I hate seeing Sulli cry. My instinct is to go hold her, but Sulli suddenly drops her hands. “Dad?” Her voice cracks. “I’m…so fucking sorry.”
“No,” Ryke says firmly and fast, swerving around and picking himself off the bank. He brushes sand off his hands while approaching his daughter. “This isn’t your fault, Sul. You hear me?”
Akara lets them have a moment and comes over to me, his nose flaring and Adam’s apple bobbing. So as soon as he sits beside me, I tell him quietly, “It’s not yours either.”
He’s disbelieving.
Just like Sulli, who says to Ryke, “It is, though. You trusted me—”
“You have a bullseye on you the size of fucking Mars.” He places his hands on her shoulders. “It’s not your fucking fault.”
Sulli hangs her head.
I pry my gaze off Sulli as Akara whispers to me, “Her safety and belongings are my responsibility.”
“They’re mine too.”
“You’re my responsibility.”
He’s always throwing down the hierarchy card like an ace of spades. Hushed, I say, “I might be beneath you in security, but I’m beside you in our lives—and one of these days, you’re gonna let me unburden you.”
Akara searches my gaze. “You want more responsibility?”
Is that what I’m saying?
I think it is.
I’ve always been dependable. Someone to count on. You need me, I’m there. But I’ve never sought after more responsibilities.
I think that I know the kind of man I want to be. The one who expects more out of himself. Who people can come to expect more from, and not less.
Not just with my job, but in life. What Akara said in the van—about being parents together—I know despite my fears of being a shit dad, I want what he’s advertising. Sign me up.
But to say that I can handle the responsibility of being a parent on the level of Akara fuckin’ Kitsuwon is one thing. To actually be tested is another.
“Yeah,” I nod once, accepting the challenge. “I want more.”
