“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do.Yolko Ono, I saidno.”
“Bad dick-dick,” a small voice drifts down from an open window of the house.
“Sing ‘America’s Sweetheart,’ Bash,” Emma says softly, jolting me back in time a few years as I realize she’s talking about an old Bro Code song that I haven’t heard in forever.
There’s a long pause, but then he does as told.
With the words all wrong. The melody very off. Pitch off too.
Pretty horribly, actually.
Even for a kid young enough that you’d expect him to be off-key and off-melody.
And it’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.
The song fades to a stop about halfway through.
But the soft smile on Emma’s face lingers longer while she stares up at his window.
Birds chirp. Chickens cluck. Something rustles in the forest behind us, the breeze almost chilly against my skin as deeper shadows fall across the yard.
Emma keeps gently pushing the swing.
Her one-legged chicken keeps hopping toward my shoe.
“Mama, nigh-nigh,” a little voice whispers.
“Night-night, Bash,” she replies softly.
I’ve set foot on all seven continents. Starred in movies my whole life. Gotten critical acclaim for my more recent projects. Met the world’s objectively most beautiful people. Eaten at the best restaurants money can buy. Stayed in the plushest resorts on the planet.
And all of those places have never given me the kind of peace I feel here.
The kind of peace I feel when I’m justme, hanging out with Hayes and Begonia or Keisha and Millie and simplybeingpart of a family with no expectations and a safety that comes with knowing they’d forgive any of your fuck-ups.
Even with the overwhelming longing to be a bigger part of my son’s life. To be a part of Emma’s life.
To fit in as one of the family she introduced me to today.
To have my friend back.
I still have that peace despite everything that’s up in the air.
“You changed my life,” I tell her. “I haven’t thanked you for that either.”
She glances at me and pulls her legs up to her chest, letting the swing sway on its own.
“In Fiji,” I clarify. “When you told me to quit being a chicken shit. I needed to hear that.”
“That’s what friends were for.”
Were. “I’d like to be your friend again.”
“I’m not the same woman I was in Fiji.”
“I can see that.”
