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“I can’t believe it’s you…” he whispers.
“Me either,” I say, through sobs of my own. “I thought I lost you.” I kiss his fingers.
“What happened?” Florence asks the officers. “Where did you find him?”
“We found him floating a few miles from where we discovered his boat. He had the sense to wear a life jacket and, at some point, he found some driftwood to hold on to. It’s a miracle, frankly,” one of the officers says, grinning at me.
“Are you real?” Blake whispers, holding my face with one hand.
“I’m real,” I cry. “And you’re real. This is real.”
“I won’t…believe it”—he struggles to sit up—“till I get a kiss.” The officers chuckle, looking away as I lean forward and press my lips to his.
“I love you so much.” His warm, salty scent fills my nose, and I never want to let him go again.
His eyes close as he leans back onto the sand again, and a single tear streams down his cheek. “Very, very real.”
He’s home.
We’re together.
He holds my hand as two paramedics appear and begin looking him over. I can’t let go, and they don’t ask me to. If it’s up to me, I’ll never let go of his hand again.
Somehow, we made it through this. Against all the odds, he came back to me, just like I came back to him.
That’s all that matters to me. The rest is background noise. As long as we’re together, everything else will be okay.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
MARTHA LEIGHTON
THREE YEARS LATER
“Are you ready, Mom?” Mae asks as we walk into the tiny room in the prison where my son awaits. My heart thuds in my chest. It’s the first time I’ll see him outside of a courtroom since he was eight years old.
He’s grown into such a man.
I never thought I’d see him again. Certainly not under these circumstances.
I can’t believe he’s still alive.
When he comes into view, no amount of preparation could’ve ever made me ready for this.
“Mom.” He stands from behind the table they’ve seated him at. He’s in prison but is allowed certain privileges for helping the FBI bring down the trafficking ring he once ran. My husband, also in prison, did not receive such privileges, nor should he have.
“My baby,” I cry. It’s the only phrase I can muster. I reach for him, but the guard at the door stops me.
“No touching.”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” I say quickly. Why is it easier to apologize to this stranger than it is my own flesh and blood? “You look so grown up,” I whisper as we sit.
“So do you,” he says.
“Your hair…” I touch my own hair. “It got darker. It looks nice.”
When he smiles, I spot the evidence of the life he’s lived. A scar near his mouth, a once-broken nose. My beautiful boy is nearly unrecognizable, but of course, I do recognize him. How could I not? He looks just like his father.
“I’m probably a lot skinnier than the last time you saw me. Less hair,” I joke.
