Mason holds his hand out for the gift, maybe seeing something fun in it after all. I set the ball in his hands. It looks so large in his small grasp. Then, raising the ball over his little head, my brother chucks the regulation-sized soccer ball right at our father.
“Heads up!” I yell, but Dad is slow to duck. Clearly, I didn’t get my reflexes from him. The ball smacks him square in the face before bouncing off his nose and onto the end table next to me. A frame on the table crashes forward, landing on its face with a thud—a family photo of Dad, Felicity, and Mason.
I juggle the ball back into my hands and right the photo. Stella’s fingers cover her mouth, while Felicity’s right hand flattens against her chest with the riot. But Mason giggles beside me.
“Sorry about that,” I say, more to Felicity than my father. I’m not the one who hit him in the head. I just provided the weapon.
“Heads up,” Mason says with another giggle. He points at Dad. “Heads up!”
My father rubs his nose, scowling. But to his credit, he doesn’t bark at the boy.
“Do you have a backyard? I could take him out back and play.”
“He doesn’t want—” Dad begins.
“Heads up!” Mason yells through another bout of giggles.
“Do you want to kick the ball around?” I ask my little brother.
“Roman,” Mason says, his small voice suddenly serious. “Do you think crabs like soccer?”
“Uh.” I scratch my jaw. “You know, I bet some of themdo.” I stand and hold out a hand to him. “Do you want to try?”
Mason sets his little claw in my hand and pinches—he’s so small, so determined, so infatuated with crustaceans.
And I already love him.
Forty-Nine
Over the next two days,Mason and I spend time in the yard, in the cool, humid weather. I successfully teach him to kick a soccer ball, and he teaches me to walk like a crab. We’ve gone to the Georgia aquarium all decked out for Christmas. And we’ve eaten no less than a box and a half of Goldfish crackers. The only kind of fish Mason dares eat.
We are officially best friends.
At least, I think we are. Maybe Mason’s like this with every person he meets. But it feels like we’ve bonded. Stella has been right with us, sometimes sporting a crab walk and sometimes watching from the sidelines, but always beaming.
This was her idea, and it was spot on. It was needed. She knows it, but mostly she’s so truly happy for me to know my brother.
We leave in the morning, and while I’m ready for my own home, I already miss my brother. I sit with my back against the headboard of this king-sized bed in my father’s guest room, legs out, watching as Stella washes her face in the guest bathroom.
Her hair is up on her head, her face clean of any makeup, and her short legs bare. She is natural in every sense and she’s utterly beautiful. While our relationship is still progressing bit by bit, slow in some ways, fast in others, I get to sleep next to my wife every night. And I’m telling you, this bed is entirely too big. As long as Stella will have me, I will never own a king-sized bed.
She turns, her bare feet and pink toes padding along the hard floors, until she’s standing on the other side of this ocean-breadth bed. “You had fun today,” she says, more statement than question.
“I did. Mason’s a sweet kid.”
“He’s half in love with you already.” She grins at me, pulling back the covers and climbing into bed.
“It’s a mutual affection,” I say, keeping my eyes on her.
She lays her head against the pillow, on her back, arms over her stomach, her head turned, and her eyes on me. “I can tell. Man, I am so smart.”
“You are,” I say, resting on my side and propping my head up in my right hand.
“Your wife is the smartest wife,” she sings.
“She might be.” My heart thumps in my chest with her closeness, with her easiness.My Stella, it pulses.Mine. I rest my left hand over hers, folded and together on her front, and lean a little closer.
“You should probably tell the world that your wife is brilliant and beautiful, and you’ll do whatever she tells you to do.” She’s teasing. She has no idea how much truth rings in her words.
