Epilogue - Chevy
Simon Reyes is talking shit and I am losing to a twelve-year-old kid.
"That's a travel!" I shout, pointing at his feet. "You shuffled. I saw it. Both feet moved. Textbook traveling."
Simon grins at me from the other side of the driveway, the basketball tucked under his arm, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. "That wasn't a travel. You're just slow."
"Slow? I’m a firefighter. You gotta be quick to run into burning buildings, you know. I am the opposite of slow."
"Then how come I just blew past you?" He spins the ball on his finger—a move he's been practicing. "Face it, old man. You're washed."
Old man? This kid has been calling me old man for two weeks and every time it hits me right in the pride. I'm thirty-four. I have abs. I did a pull-up yesterday without grunting.
I am not old.
But I'm also down by six points and my knees are starting to really notice this concrete, so maybe he's not entirely wrong.
"Alright, hotshot." I crouch into a defensive stance, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. "Bring it. Let's see what you've got."
He drives left—a fake, then a crossover that I have to admit is pretty clean for a seventh grader—and blows past me again. He pulls up at the edge of the driveway, rises, and sinks a jumper that swishes through the net as if it was choreographed.
He throws both arms up. “Yes! In your FACE!"
I clutch my chest and stagger backward like I've been shot. "That was a travel and you know it."
"You keep saying that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."
"Did you just quote The Princess Bride?"
"Mom made me watch it." He shrugs, but he's fighting a grin. "It's not terrible."
I point at him. "Your mom has excellent taste."
"In movies, yeah." He glances toward the porch, then back at me. "Jury's still out on dudes."
I bark out a laugh. This kid. I can't even be offended because his delivery was flawless. He's got his mom's timing—that dry, sneaky humor that lands before you realize you've been hit.
From the porch steps, I hear Camille snort into her coffee mug. She's sitting there in a sundress and bare feet, her hair down around her shoulders, pretending to watch us casually when I know for a fact she's been tracking every second of this game like it's the NBA Finals.
She's trying not to grin too hard. I can see the way she bites the inside of her cheek and takes a sip of coffee to cover it. But her eyes are bright, and there's a softness in them that wasn't there a few weeks ago.
Simon told her a couple of days after I talked to him that he didn't want to go live at his dad's anymore. He wanted to stay with her. And it was okay (his words) if Chevy came around more, too.
She cried happy tears when she told me.
"Check ball," Simon says, bouncing it to me.
I catch it and dribble, sizing him up. He's got his hands up, feet wide, those brown eyes locked on me with the intensity of a kid who would rather eat his own shoe than let me score.
He's quick and scrappy, all elbows and sharp angles, and what he lacks in height he makes up for in sheer stubborn determination.
I know he gets that from his mom, too.
I jab-step right, spin left, and go up for a layup. It rolls around the rim once, twice—
And falls off.
"So close, but WHIFF!” Simon howls.
I catch Camille's eye over Simon's head and wink.
Simon sees the exchange between us, rolls his eyes so hard they might actually detach from his skull, and says, "You two are gross."
But there's no venom in it. Only normal, adults-are-cringe attitude.
I'll take it.
"One more game?" Simon asks, already dribbling.
"You're on. But I'm not going easy on you this time."
He scoffs. "You were going easy?"
"Obviously. I was lulling you into a false sense of security."
"Sure, old man. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I lunge for the steal and he dances away, laughing, and the sound of it—full and unguarded—echoes off the house and into the trees.
I glance at Camille one more time and she's not even trying to hide the smile anymore. She's just sitting there, coffee in hand, watching her kid be a kid again, and the look on her face is the most beautiful thing ever.
Later that afternoon, the whole crew descends on the firehouse for a cookout.
Aiden's commanding the grill with the focus of a man ready for a meat show-down.
He's got tongs in one hand, a thermometer in the other, and a look on his face that says these burgers will be perfect or someone's doing extra drills tomorrow.
Beth is beside him, stealing bites of grilled corn and pretending she's "quality testing. " She's not fooling anyone.
Jasper and Fawn are at one of the picnic tables.
Fawn has her phone out, showing Jasper something on the screen with the intensity of a Pentagon briefing, and based on the words "centerpiece options" drifting over, the wedding planning has entered a new, more terrifying phase.
Jasper nods along at everything she says with the serene expression of a man who has made peace with his fate and seems delighted about it. I respect the surrender.
Perry and Raina are bickering by the condiment table about the optimal grill temperature. Perry's advocating for medium-high with a two-zone setup. As usual, Raina believes he's overthinking it. Neither of them will back down. They'll be married within the year. I'm calling it now.
The Captain is standing by the bay doors with Sloane, and I swear the man is smiling.
Not a full smile—he doesn't do full smiles; that would violate whatever stoic code he operates under.
But Sloane whispers something to him and he ducks his head, and if I didn't know better I'd say the man blushed. That woman is a treasure.
And then there's me and Camille…our fingers laced together, her shoulder against my arm, relaxing as if we’ve been doing it forever.
Aiden walks over, claps my shoulder, and squeezes. "Told you she was great."
I grin. "Yeah, yeah. You were right. Don't get used to it."
"I'm already used to it. I've been right about everything since we were twenty-two."
"That is spectacularly false and you know it."
He grins and then turns to where Lance is quietly helping set up chairs, arranging them with the careful attention of someone who'd rather blend into the furniture than be the center of anything.
"Hey, Lance. You ever make that spa appointment? The mani-pedi thing?"
Lance goes pink…from his neck to the tips of his ears.
"Not yet," he says, straightening a chair that was already straight. "I've been busy. I was going to call, but they had a waitlist, and I wasn't sure if I needed to book online or—"
Jasper cuts in from the picnic table without even looking up from Fawn's centerpiece slideshow. "Brother, it's a pedicure, not a military operation."
Perry, who hasn't taken his eyes off his arrangement of ketchup, mustard, and three kinds of relish: "There is an online booking system. I checked. It's quite efficient."
Lance mumbles something about maybe next week, and the entire crew gives him affectionate, merciless hell about it.
The afternoon stretches out. Someone puts music on—Perry's playlist, which is suspiciously well-curated so I’m sure Raina had something to do with it—and Beth and Camille end up dancing near the grill while Aiden films them.
Jasper convinces Fawn to take a break from wedding planning to sit in his lap.
Raina beats Perry at arm wrestling, and he demands a rematch.
Lance quietly eats two slices of apple pie and loosens up enough to laugh at one of my jokes, which I consider a win.
And through all of it, I keep looking at Camille.
How she throws her head back when Beth says something hilarious.
The way she looks at me from across the yard with that smile…
the one that used to be reserved for fictional men in books she read in the bathtub, and is now aimed at me, a real life man with feelings that run so deep they scare me sometimes.
I'm not scared right now, though. Right now, I'm the furthest from scared I've ever been.