Everything isn’t fixed. He still lied to me. My father is still my father. We have just agreed to something that could destroy both of us.
But I don’t feel alone in it anymore.
Terrified, yes.
But for the first time in my life, not alone. And not powerless.
31
LUCA
I findthe fire pit on the side of the house, half-buried under sand and dead beach grass, behind a stack of plastic Adirondack chairs. Prefab metal bowl on legs, rusted at the rim. Good enough.
I drag it out to the sand and spend twenty minutes scrounging driftwood and old newspaper. The wind kills my first three attempts at a flame. On the fourth, I hunch over the pit like I’m shielding a state secret, and the fire finally grabs.
Natalia’s inside. After everything earlier, I gave her some space. She goes quiet when something big hits.
I borrow her car and drive to the mini mart two miles up the road. Graham crackers, marshmallows, two chocolate bars, a bottle of red that costs less than the gas I used getting there.
By the time I get back, the fire’s burning low and orange, shadows jumping across the sand. I grab the gun from where Natalia left it by the back door and tuck it into my waistband before settling into one of the chairs. Just in case.
My eyes sweep the dunes, the edge of the deck, the dark stretch beyond the house. Nothing but wind and surf.
She steps onto the deck a few minutes later in an oversized sweater, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and I lose the thread of whatever the hell I was thinking.
She sees the fire and stops.
“What’s this?”
“A fire.” I hold up the grocery bag. “And supplies.”
She comes down the steps slowly, and when she’s near enough to see inside the bag, her brow furrows.
“Are those marshmallows?”
“They are.”
“Why?”
“We just agreed to do something that might get us both killed. I figured that earns us a snack.”
A small smile touches her mouth. She drops into the chair beside mine, and the firelight catches the wet ends of her hair and turns them copper.
I hand her a marshmallow and one of the sticks I snapped off the driftwood pile.
She eyes the marshmallow like it might require instructions. I spear mine onto my stick and hold it over the glowing embers.
“The trick is patience. You want it golden, not charred.”
Natalia copies me, leaning forward a little, eyes narrowed in concentration.
The fire catches hers almost immediately.
“Shit.” She jerks it back and blows on it, eyes wide. The marshmallow is a charred lump, smoking on the end of her stick.
I bark out a laugh.
“Oh my God, don’t laugh.”
