Chapter Thirty
Grayson
Three years later.
The afternoon light off the back lawn is soft gold, late September that’s lost the heat of summer and not yet found the chill of fall. I’m leaning against the patio post with a coffee that’s gone cold in my hand, watching my son let himself be climbed on by my daughter.
Ethan’s seven now, sprawled flat on his back with his arms thrown wide while Anna uses his chest as a mountain to summit. She’s got her mother’s dark hair, my amber eyes, and at fourteen months, she’s already a benevolent dictator. Her chubby fists are knotted in the front of Ethan’s shirt as she hauls herself up his torso, grunting with the effort.
Ethan groans theatrically. “Anna, you weigh ten thousand pounds.”
“Dada.”
“I’m not Dada. I’m Ethan.”
“Dada.”
“E. Than.”
“Dada!” she roars in protest.
A laugh shakes out of me from the patio. Ethan tips his head back against the grass to glare at me upside down. “Dad. She’s calling me Dada again.”
“She knows what she’s doing, buddy.”
Anna choosesthat moment to plant her palm directly over her brother’s mouth. Ethan makes a muffled outraged sound. She giggles, delighted with herself, then tips sideways off his chest into the grass without a flicker of worry that the ground won’t be there. She rolls, giggles again, picks herself up, takes three wobbly steps, and drops back down onto her brother’s stomach.
“Anna. Anna.”
“Dada.”
“I’m going to leave you in the woods.”
“Be nice to your sister, Ethan.” I take a sip of cold coffee.
Ethan moans, and Anna pats his cheek hard enough that the slap is audible.
The screen door clicks open behind me, and Miranda’s voice carries out across the lawn.
“Dinner’s ready. Anna, stop bullying your brother.”
Ethan sits up so fast that Anna nearly goes flying. He catches her on instinct, hooks one arm around her middle, and is on his feet before I’ve lowered my coffee. “Okay, Mom.”
He hoists his sister onto his hip, the same hold he’s watched me use bringing her in from the car, his mouth set in concentration. Anna grabs a fistful of his hair to steady herself and shrieks with laughter at her own cleverness. He winces.
“Easy, easy. My hair’s attached to my head, Anna.”
He marches her past me toward the back door. Anna waves at me over his shoulder, gone shy all at once. I lean down and kiss the top of her head as they pass.
“Hi there, baby girl.”
“Dada.”
“You’re calling all the men Dada now, are you?”
“Dada.”
I follow them inside.
