I just grunt, but it’s enough. He laughs again.
“Bet you never thought we’d end up here,” he says. “Me, the model husband. You, a king of the motherfucking Board.”
I grunt again. “It’s temporary.”
He throws the stick ahead, watches it bounce into the black.
“Everything’s temporary, Bam. What matters is what you do when you have it.” His voice is low, almost wistful. “They’ll try to rip it out of our hands. The old guard, the new money, the out-of-state vultures. But if we hold on—if we play the game just right—maybe we can leave something behind that doesn’t suck for once.”
I listen. I always listen, even when I pretend not to. Rhett’s the only one who gets it. The only one who doesn’t flinch from my ugly, or try to change it.
He lights a smoke, shielding the flame from the wind. “You ever think about having kids?”
I stop dead.
Rhett walks ahead a few paces before realizing. He turns, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes green fire in the moonlight.
“I mean, not now,” he says, reading my face. “But someday. You and Dahlia.”
“Never thought about it,” I lie. “Seems like a shitty life.”
He sees right through me. “Sure,” he says, voice amused.
We keep walking. The woods thin, and in the break between the trees, I see the lights of the cabins. My cabin, farthest from the rest, smoke already bleeding from the chimney. The sight makes something coil and uncoil in my stomach.
Rhett follows my gaze. “She’s a good one, Bam. Better than you deserve.”
“Fuck you,” I say, but there’s no bite.
He claps my shoulder. “Go home, lover boy. Tell your girl I say hello.”
I watch him vanish into the dark, smoke trailing like a ghost.
Dahlia brought the home into my cabin. She made it less of a den, made it a place I can’t wait to come home to. There’s a scarf over the lamp, a tangle of dying flowers in a vase, her boots in a pile by the door.
She’s in the kitchen corner, bent over something on the counter. She wears a T-shirt of mine, sleeves cut off, hair up in a mess of pins. She’s humming. I know the song but can’t place it.
I stand in the doorway, just watching. My hands shake, so I grip the frame until the knuckles go numb.
She senses me, turns, and her whole face lights up. Not a word, not a question—just this look, wild and soft, like she’s seeing the ocean for the first time.
“You gonna stand there or come in?” she says.
I step inside. The warmth is real, not just from the stove.
She wipes her hands on a rag, then tosses it aside. “How was the meeting?”
The Board, their cowardice, the way they tried to pretend I was just another meathead.
Colton, somewhere out there, waiting for his chance.
I think of my own kid, not even real yet, but possible. My blood, my bones. My legacy.
“Fine,” I say. “They’re scared.”
“Good.” She crosses the room, stands in front of me, arms folded. “You hungry?”
I look at her, and it’s like being shot point-blank with a flare. Her skin is bare at the collar, bruises almost gone now, hair falling in her eyes. She smells like cinnamon, and dishsoap, and her. My mouth waters.
