I tilt my head. “She does have it all going on, I guess. Saving the world while growing one.”
Anton nods, smiling, and turns back to washing dishes.
I contemplate his body language now that he’s mentioned his brother. Anton doesn’t talk about his family much. I know his brother is the only one left. “Do you ever think about talking to your brother again?”
“’Course. More now that the little one’s on the way.”
His voice is casual, but there’s a weight to it.
I’m an only child, and we don’t live near everyone, but when the Johnsons gather, it’s loud; my mom’s one of six. When we reunite, cousins pack into backyard parties, aunties claim babies like prizes. In my family, there are more arms than any one baby knows what to do with. I could hand this kid off and not see them for six months straight.
I bet a few of the women would want me to pass Anton around, too.
I don’t say anything more, but his expression stays with me all the way to the truck.
He would love to find his brother. He’s tried. I can’t imagine being held against my will, reported missing, and eventually, having my only living family member believe I was dead. Because I’m sure Alex Easton would have assumed that at one point while Anton was in captivity.
Alex is out there somewhere, in the Brazilian jungle, thinking he’s alone in this world, too. It’s sad because he not only has a brother who cares about him, but he’s about to be an uncle.
We settle into the truck, and Anton blasts the heat, already warm because he started the engine before we got here. He’s so damn thoughtful.
For the first time, my big family feels like not only agodsend for the baby, but it’s something Anton could belong to, too.
And I want him to. Last night felt right.
But wanting something and defending it are two different things.
My mother wouldn’t outright object to Anton and me being together. She’d cross-examine. Every concern about us would be framed as care, and every question an invitation to explain myself—until I’m standing there, defending a choice that has no evidence to support it except that it feels right.
My mom is practical. She believes in proof, in foresight, in decisions that can survive scrutiny. She didn’t hesitate to cut my father loose when the facts were ugly and the trust was gone. Feelings didn’t factor into it then, and they won’t now.
This choice doesn’t fit neatly into her framework.
And Faith Johnson has a way of making people second-guess decisions they were sure of five minutes earlier.
I don’t know yet whether what feels right will survive once it’s put on the stand.
The driveto Mount Hamilton isn’t long, and we ride in silence for at least twenty minutes, listening to a talk radio show with a surprisingly compelling interview about the Galapagos Islands.
I welcome the buffer—it gives me time to shake off domesticity and slip back into cop mode.
When the show finishes, Anton presses a button on his steering wheel. “Hey, Siri, play Cat Burns.”
Music fills the cab. It’s a soft, alto voice, soothing but very cool at the same time.
“This doesn’t sound like your usual British indie rock,” I tease.
“Well sheisa Brit.” He smirks. “I thought Cat was a happy medium for us.”
It’s such a small thing, picking a playlist. But it says something about him wanting to always meet me halfway.
I tip my head toward him. “I actually like your British stuff, you know.”
His eyes flick to mine, dark and amused. “You get riled up, do you?”
I sip my coffee like it didn’t just make me think of his tight buns last night. “Sometimes.”
He grins, then thumbs the volume down just a notch. “Have you heard her music before?”
