“And you’ll survive.” She adjusts Roman’s little Hawkeyes beanie—the one Isla had made in her new athletic wear line for this year, which saysRookieacross the front. With so many of us now having kids, she’s putting together a bigger kids line, and Roman has two of everything. “We’re almost home.”
The word slams into me, the way it always does when she says it, when it’s not just Montana or Seattle or some faceless hotel in a road city.
Home.
Wherever she is. Wherever this kid is. Wherever my parents are now that my father can do things he hasn’t done in far too long.
The plane dips lower. Mountains fade to fields. The landing gear thunks down.
Roman squeals like we’re on a rollercoaster. I laugh. Katerina squeezes my hand over his wiggling legs.
Yeah, we’re home for Christmas, and four nights before, I have to get back home for an away game.
Deplaning with a one-year-old and two carry-ons should count as a cardio workout, especially the way that Kat packs.
By the time we make it through the tiny Kalispell airport, Roman has tried to kick off both socks three times, wave at everyone in security, and flirt shamelessly with a college girl in a red beanie who told him he has “dangerous eyes.” I’m not sure whether I’m flattered or offended.
We step out into the cold, and my lungs immediately remember what Montana’s freezing air feels like. It feels sharp with an inhale, but I like the way it’s scrubbing the city off my skin a little.
Roman sucks in a gasp and clutches at his mom.
“Yup.” I tug his little coat tighter. “That’s winter, bud. It’s supposed to be cold.”
He looks unconvinced.
The rental car is a truck because, of course, it is. Kat gives me a look when she sees it.
“Subtle,” she says. “Very restrained, Easton.”
“This is restrained,” I protest. “Wait until you see what my cousins drive.”
We’ve talked about buying a cabin here, just for the off-season, and she’s excited about the idea of our future kids getting to spend more time with their grandparents and have a little timeoutside of the city every summer, so she’s going to have to get used to this.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and while she buckles Roman into his car seat, I take a second to look at them both and just… let it all settle in.
Three years ago, I picked up a Russian ballerina from a plane in a fur wrap and a glacier stare.
Now she’s in thermal leggings, fur-lined boots that reach up over her calves, and a big winter ski jacket to cut through the cold. She sings softly in Russian, a Christmas song that I know well enough about ‘Ol Saint Nick, while she double-checks our son’s seat straps like she’s been doing it her whole life.
I climb behind the wheel. The road from the airport to Whitefish is so familiar I could probably drive it blindfolded, but today every mile feels different.
“Think he’ll remember this?” I ask once we hit the highway, glancing at Roman in the rearview. His eyes are wide, following everything.
“Probably not,” Katerina says, leaning her head back against the seat. “But I will.” She looks at me. “And you will. And your parents definitely will.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Yeah. They will.”
“He’ll remember the next one… when we come back,” she assures me, and then reaches her hand on the sleeve of my jacket, to remind me that this is just the start.
Fields turn into tall pines, then into glimpses of the lake, slate gray under a pale sky. Whitefish Mountain looms off in the distance, dusted in powder.
Katerina presses her palm to the glass. “It’s more beautiful than I remembered.”
I reach over and lace our fingers together over the console. “Welcome back, Mrs. Easton.”
Her lips curve. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you call me that. If feels brand new every time you say it.”
“Good,” I say, pulling onto the familiar gravel drive. “Because I plan on calling you that in front of everyone we know until you’re sick of me.”
