Page 40 of Property of Booker

Kolter stops his truck, the metal scraping softly against a stone. He looks up, his eyes wide and clear, reflecting the blue hue of the sky. He wipes a smudge of dirt from his forehead, his expression shifting from his playtime to immediate, quiet curiosity.

“Come sit with us for a second,” Booker invites, his voice low and vibrating with a warmth that I find myself leaning into.

Kolter scrambles up, his movements fluid and unburdened, and he plops down in the grass between us. He looks between our faces, his eyes lingering on the way Booker’s hand rests on my back. He’s looking for cues, searching for the hidden meaning that he learned to hunt for in every room he ever entered. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to hunt anymore, that he’s safe, but I decide to show him instead.

“We have something to tell you,” I begin, smoothing a stray blade of grass from his knee. “It’s not bad news. It’s the best news.”

Kolter tilts his head. He bites his lip, a nervous tic I wish I could steal away from him forever. I don’t think he caught onto my mention that it’s nothing bad because his face falls. “Did I do something wrong?” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“No, sweetheart,” I answer quickly, reaching out to cup his cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s about a house. We aren’t going anywhere. In fact, we want to tell you something exciting.”

He goes still. “A house?” he repeats, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

“The one on the ridge,” Booker continues, his eyes locking onto mine for a fraction of a second before returning to the boy. “The place with the windows that catch the light all day. We decided that we want that to be our place. Our home.” I bite my lip because he’s not confessing that it’s already his, he’s making it sound like he chose it after he came into our lives, wanting to give us a place to plant some roots.

Kolter stares at us, his eyes traveling from the clubhouse, the center of this world, to the distant rise of the hill where the house stands, isolated and beautiful against the horizon. He looks back at Booker, his expression searching. “Is that where we’re going to live?” he inquires, his voice rising just a little.

“We are,” Booker confirms. “I already started setting up the rooms. I’ve got paint for the walls and shelves for your cars. It’s yours as much as it’s ours.”

I watch Kolter process this. I see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the calculation of what this means for his daily life, for his safety, for the terrifying prospect of belonging somewhere permanent. Booker looks at me, his gaze softening, and the tension that usually sits in his shoulders begins to bleed away. “You can have all the space you need for your drawings and your cars. It’s yours, Kolter. It’s a place where you can just be a kid,” I add softly.

“I don’t have to leave?” he asks. “I can just stay there?”

“You can stay there as long as you want,” I promise, my heart swelling. “It’s our place.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes me want to weep. It’s a genuine, unrestrained expression of hope. He looks down at his hands, twisting the fabric of his jeans, and then back up at Booker. He seems to be weighing something heavy, something he’s been carrying in the dark for a long time.

He shifts his posture, drawing his knees up to his chest. He studies Booker with an intensity that makes the air feel charged. “Does this mean we’re a family?” he inquires, his voice small but firm. “Does this mean you’re going to be my dad now?”

The question hangs in the space between us. My breath catches in my throat, a physical constriction that leaves me momentarily unable to speak. I look at Booker. His jaw is tight, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that I know is threatening to break him open. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t offer a platitude or a standard line. He reaches out, his large hand covering Kolter’s small one, and his presence feels like an anchor. “I’d be honored to be your dad,” Booker vows, his voice thick and rough, stripped of every ounce of pretense. “If you’ll have me, that’s exactly who I want to be.”

Kolter doesn’t remark. He doesn’t wait for anything else. He lunges forward, throwing his arms around Booker’s neck in a hug that’s fierce and desperate, a collision of two souls who’ve finally found the tether they needed to stop drifting. Booker’s arms come up immediately, wrapping around him, holding him with a strength that promises he’ll never let him go.

I sit there, tears tracking freely down my cheeks, the silence of the evening now filled with the sound of their ragged breathing. This isn’t about the past. It’s about a boy who finally has someone to look up to and a man who finally has something to protect.

Everything I’ve ever done has led to this exact moment on a patch of lawn behind a clubhouse. I realize that I’m not just a survivor anymore. I’m a mother. I’m a partner. I’m a builder of a life that’s actually mine. I watch them, two men, one grown, one growing, finding their footing in a world that’s no longer trying to break them.

Kolter pulls back eventually, his face beaming with a light I’ve never seen before. He looks at Booker, then at me, and his grin is so wide it actually hurts. “So, when do we go?” he pushes, already moving to grab his cars from the grass. “Can we go now?”

Booker laughs, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the ground beneath us. “I think we can manage that,” he acknowledges, standing up and reaching down to pull me to my feet. He keeps his hand firmly on my waist, pulling me into his side.We stand there for a moment, the three of us, watching the sun dip lower in the sky. We walk toward the clubhouse together, Kolter running ahead, his energy boundless as he hollers, “I’m gonna pack some of my other toys!” I giggle as I lean into Booker, resting my head against his shoulder. He smells like woodsmoke and safety, the best scent I’ve ever known.

“Who needs clothes when you have toys,” I remark, a smile plastered along my face.

“For a boy, his toys are everything,” he says, defending my boy.

He stops me before we enter the clubhouse, letting his emotions pour out. “It’s a beautiful start,” he murmurs into my hair.

“It’s the only start,” I reply, and I know he understands.

We reach the porch, and I stop, turning to look back at the spot where we were sitting. It’s just a patch of grass. A square of dirt and weeds. But to me, it’ll always be the place where we stopped running and started being a family.

“Are you ready?” Booker questions, his eyes locked on mine.

“I’m ready,” I confirm.

We walk up the steps and into the house. It’s waiting for us, filled with the potential of tomorrow. I think about the paint for the walls and the art supplies for the table. I think about the quiet mornings and the chaotic evenings. I think about the girl with the baby in her womb and the promise of a life that isn't measured in battles or scars. The front door swings open, and the house welcomes us in. The light shifts, dancing on the floorboards, warm and inviting. Kolter’s already inside, his voice echoing as he runs toward what he hopes is his room. He’s laughing, a pure sound that has no despondency in it. I close the door behind us, locking out the world and everything that used to haunt us. The house is silent for a moment, a space carved out of time, designed just for us. It isn't perfect, but it’s real. And in this house, with this man and this boy, I finally know what it means to be home.

Hand in hand, we wander through the rooms, the space feeling different now that we’ve claimed it together. It’s an empty vessel waiting to be filled with the messiness of our lives. I can see where we’ll put the table, where the drawings will hang, and where we’ll sit when the world feels too big and we need to retreat into our own little kingdom. Booker walks beside me, his hand never leaving mine, as if he’s afraid I might vanish if he lets go. He doesn’t have to worry. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We stop in the living room, the windows towering above us, turning the outdoors into a painting. It’s a stunning, clear vista. I think about how many nights I spent staring at the monitors, looking for a glimpse of hope, and now, all I’ve to do is look out the glass.