Good health insurance plan. Employer-matched 401k contributions. Grown woman shit.
Fragments of the future I built for myself for fifteen years that is now so close I could reach out and touch it.
I should be running towards it.
My feet feel like concrete.
By seven in the morning it's already eighty-three degrees and climbing. Dry heat that feels different from humidity but isn't any kinder, the sun coming down flat and relentless on the ranch with nowhere to hide. Oven-baked kind of heat.
Daryl shows up as planned anyway, fishing rod in each hand, undeterred.
“Jonah,” he calls, as Walker welcomes him through the front door. “You and me. Creek. Let’s go, my man.”
Jonah materializes from the hallway at a dead sprint, already asking about worms.
Walker intercepts him before he reaches his grandfather.
“Hat,” he says, steering Jonah back toward the hook by the door.
“I’ve got your sunscreen and water here, sweetie,” I tell him. “Let me make sure I get your cheeks. They always burn first.”
Daryl grins at the two of us from the doorway, me with the sunscreen, Walker with the hat, both of us moving around each other in the small hallway to tend to Jonah.
“Look at the pair of you,” he says. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”
Walker’s jaw tightens at the observation. I’m looking at him but he won’t meet my eyes.
He looks at his dad over Jonah's head instead. “It's supposed to hit ninety by afternoon.”
“I know what a hot day is, son. I've lived here longer than you’ve been alive. Sunscreen, hat, water bottle, I know.” Darylputs his hand on Walker's shoulder. “We'll stay in the shade of the creek bank. I'll have him back before the hottest part of the day.”
Jonah is vibrating with impatience, fishing rod already in hand. “Sadie, can we make lemonade when I get back?”
One week from now he'll be asking someone else that question. Or no one.
I wonder at what point he’ll start forgetting about me. Kids are like that, which is good. Which is healthy.
But I know I’ll never forget him.
Or the gorgeous, grumpy cowboy that made him.
“Only if you promise to share with your grandpa,” I say.
He looks affronted. “Of course.”
“Don't let him get overheated,” Walker tells his dad. “And make sure he actually drinks the water. Put on that sunscreen every two hours. You stay in the shade too, old man. Heatstroke gets the children and the elderly.”
Daryl raises an eyebrow. “Who’re you calling elderly, son? Go enjoy your day, you two.”
A few minutes later Jonah is in Daryl's truck with his tackle box and a paper bag of snacks, sunscreened within an inch of his life, water bottle full, hat firmly on. Walker stands in the drive watching them go with his arms crossed until the truck disappears around the bend.
Then he turns and finds me leaning in the doorway watching him.
“They’ll be fine,” I say.
“I know.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile at the way he worries, the way he cares so deeply.
