“You’re talking about gambling, right?” Max asks, looking up from the boys’ elaborate, in-progress sandcastle kingdom. Beckett’s down on the ground with them, helping Blakey carve out some fake windows for one of the towers. “Tina says her dadlikes to gamble. Except he doesn’t win very much, and now her mom says she won’t be able to go to college anymore.”
Denise blinks at him, like she’s never seen a kid blithely airing someone else’s family’s dirty laundry before, and I can’t help but chuckle at the look on her face.
“I’m sure Denise is much more responsible about her gambling than Tina’s dad,” I offer.
Blakey sidles up to Denise’s side conspiratorially and whisper-talks up into her ear. “That’s code for ‘you better watch it’.”
Denise snorts. “Oh, I will, don’t you worry, big guy.” Then she resumes packing up her beach bag. “Besides, I’m plenty responsible with Lucky Lulu. I’ve even got a spreadsheet!”
Babs doesn’t budge. She’s reclining sleepily on her lounger, sunglasses on, floppy hat tilted just so, giving off retired Bond Girl energy.
“I’m good right here,” she mumbles.
“Enough sun for me,” Mom says, scooting to the edge of her chair with a sigh. “And I’d bet money these two little Avengers need naps.”
“Grandmaaaa…” Max groans, still focused on shaping a slightly crooked turret.
“Can we get ice cream first?” Blakey asks.
At that, Babs stirs. One eye peeks open behind her sunglasses. “Did someone say ice cream?”
The boys nod vigorously. Babs sits up, throws her legs to the side and begins searching around for her bejeweled flip flops. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Sure hope they still have some butter pecan.”
Mom’s already rounding up everyone’s towels. “All right. Water bottles, shoes, hats—let’s move. Next shuttle to port leaves in… eight minutes.”
Then she glances back at me and tilts her head.
“You and Beckett should stay. Relax a little. The ship doesn’t leave until ten.”
“What happens if someone doesn’t get back to the boat in time?” Max asks.
“They get left behind,” Beckett answers, watching the boys stuff towels into their backpacks, pointing meaningfully to Blakey’s wayward baseball cap.
It reminds me of something else he’s always been good at—encouraging the boys to learn, but not stepping in until they need help.
And I’ve missed this.
This past year, sure—he made it to a few games. But most nights, he got home late. Too late for anything more than a quiet glance into their rooms and a kiss to sleeping foreheads.
Blakey interrupts my thoughts by giving me a stern reminder: “Don’t be late then, Mom,” he says.
“Mom is never late. I mean, never, ever, ever…” Max slides his little feet, smooth and white from the sand, into his flip flops (Hulk green and purple, of course).
I feel Beckett watching me, a quiet question in his eyes.
Since my parasailing adventure earlier, we’ve settled on an unspoken kind of truce.
More than a truce. It feels too much like how we used to be.
It’s scaring the hell out of me.
Because Beckett being here, like really here, bodyandmind, doesn’t erase a year of… hurt.
Still…
“What do you say, Ash? Dinner by the beach?” He isn’t just assuming. He isn’t taking it for granted that I’m going to fall into his plans.
“Sounds good.” My nod is stiff, but I deliberately soften as I turn to my boys. “We won’t miss the boat. I promise.”
