Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I check the last bag against the list I made last night. Diapers, snacks, chargers, a first aid kit, the wooden cars he refuses to sleep without. Today we’re leaving the city behind and trading it for the quiet of the mountains. I sling the bag over my shoulder and go back for Lyra.
She slips her fingers into mine, and I study her face the way I always do, searching for any sign the pregnancy is wearing her down. She looks tired, but there’s light in her eyes and a curve to her mouth. Junior thumps my leg with his wolf and announces he’s ready. I tell him I believe him.
The ride out of the city feels like unwinding a knot. Buildings give way to fields, then fields to forest. Junior counts bridges until he gets bored, then curls into Lyra’s lap and falls asleep. She strokes his hair with the kind of tenderness that humbles me every time. I keep my hand over the swell of her belly, steady warmth beneath my palm, and watch the road unravel ahead of us.
By the time the cabin comes into view, the sun has climbed higher and the trees tower like sentinels on either side of the gravel drive. The porch wraps three sides of the house, the deck glowing honey-brown in the light. The gates and panels I had installed are in place, latches mounted high so Junior can’t test them. The rails are taller than code requires. Some might call it paranoia. I call it being a father.
I carry Junior up the steps while Lyra follows at her own pace, her palm pressed into her lower back. The lock clicks, and the house exhales cedar and stone, the scent of quiet. I set our boy down and he bolts for the deck doors, flattening his hands against the glass to stare at the birds hopping along the rail.
I pull the lounge chair I had custom-made for Lyra into a patch of sun. She sinks into it with a grateful sigh, the cushions molding around her. Junior presses his nose to the glass again and bounces until I slide the door open. He barrels out, stops short at the railing, and starts pointing at every bird in sight.
“This is perfect,” Lyra says, tilting her head back to catch the sun.
I slide my chair closer, wrap my arms around her shoulders, and kiss the crown of her head. “It certainly is.”
She turns her face up for a kiss, soft and certain, and the years between the first time I held her and now fall into a straight line that finally makes sense.
Junior discovers the box of stones and pinecones I left on the deck last summer. He crouches with the seriousness of an engineer, arranging them in rows only he understands. I sit beside him and he pats the boards like I’ve been granted a seat at his table. We build a road together, and he drives his car down it, making engine sounds.
Lyra watches us with joy. Her bare feet stretch out in the sun, and I raise a brow at her untouched glass of water. She tries to ignore me, but when I keep staring, she sighs and takes a sip. Our daughter kicks beneath her hand, and I cross the deck to kneel beside her. I lay my palm over the small swell and speak to our daughter, describing the trees, the creek, and the way her brother declared himself the fastest driver alive.
Junior eats lunch in bursts, three bites for every lap around the table. He offers his wolf a piece of sandwich, then pretends to be offended when the wolf “refuses.” Lyra laughs until she has to hold her belly, and I can’t stop staring at her, memorizing that sound.
When Junior’s eyelids eventually droop, I carry him to the back room with the moss-colored curtains. I tuck him beneath the quilt my mother kept folded in a trunk for years.
Lyra has dozed off in the lounge chair when I return, one arm over her eyes. I drape a blanket across her and sit nearby.
In the afternoon, we walk the loop through the woods. Junior sprints ahead, kicking leaves into the air until his shoes fill with dirt. Lyra moves more slowly, steady in her steps, her hand tucked into mine when the ground dips unevenly. At the creek, we skip stones and build dams with sticks. Junior demands bigger splashes, and I oblige with rocks that send water spraying high. He cheers, arms thrown up in victory, and I memorize the way his laughter bounces off the trees.
Back at the cabin, shadows stretch across the clearing. I light the grill while Junior stands on his stool, narrating every turn of corn and chicken. He says the smoke means the sky is hungry, and I smile at the way his mind works. Lyra slices tomatoes, pausing every so often to rest her hand on her belly when our daughter stretches.