EPILOGUE
A FEW MORE YEARS LATER
AINSLEY
T ime. Choice. Healing. And second chances. That’s what our way of life represents now.
We were all formed between a rock and a hard place. Some of us were handed a rock that felt more like a mountain of possibilities, ripe with dandelion dreams. Others suffered the hard place of split seconds that obliterated everything. And all of us were backed into a corner and chained to a world that delivered both.
Blessings and curses. Maybe our story is simply the human experience. On steroids.
Laughter and loss. Pain and love. Fear and joy.
Betrayal, unity, goodbyes, and new beginnings.
We caught our shooting stars. Played their game. Found our freedom in nothing left to lose and blueberry fields and rain.
But the greatest takeaway from that summary is the we .
Family means sacrifice.
And we’ve sacrificed everything for each other while also leaving our future open-ended. No more rocks and hard places.
Now, we bask in the open ocean air and the knowledge that if opportunity calls, we can always choose to answer.
Golden God: We’ll be back with the goods in five minutes. We could use some help unloading.
Our encrypted chat is always busy, which grates on the Big Guy’s nerves—or so he’d have us believe. He balks at the use of it, but can’t refrain from being just as active as the rest of us. Each of us goes by one of the various nicknames from our past life in it, with one exception. The Little Moon promoted her sailor to Cap. Apart from the chat, we use our traditional names at home.
There’s only the eighteen of us here. No need to hide.
Cap: Who put olive oil vanilla ice cream on the list, as if it were one item? Took us forever to work through it.
Wicked: I’ll never tell. But it was the redhead, in the library, watching a reel about dessert.
Ace: That sounds like a game of Clue.
Moonshine: I was thinking the same thing, girl. The redhead is in the library now with a candlestick. Oh, wait. That’s the Chief. Burning hot and heavy.
Big Guy: Are you fucking peeping again?
Moonshine: No. That was a joke.
Moonshine: And those other times were accidents.
Big Guy: Keep telling yourself that, Tom.
Little Storm: I am in fact in the library. And the Chief does indeed have a mighty, dripping candlestick.
Chief: Jesus Christ. We’re reading.
Big Guy: It’s our goddamn morning, Chief. Why do I have little humans crawling all over me when you have …
Chief: Good thing you didn’t finish that.
Cap: Based on the peeping, it sounds like it’s my morning.
Moonshine: You can send those two downstairs if you want, Big Guy. I’m already entertaining the rest of the preschoolers.
Big Guy: We’re having fun, so I can wait for your reinforcements. But I need some noon “library” fun, if you catch my drift.
Cap: You’ve got the little ones with you when you’re peeping, baby girl?
Moonshine: I’m not freaking peeping. It was a joke. We’re playing musical chairs.
Chief: And I said we were reading.
Golden God: We all know that’s code. Like tonight’s dinner. Meatloaf and butterscotch yams, with candy apples for dessert. Served with an orange Creamsicle cocktail.
Chief: We agreed not to speak of that anymore. The kids eat those Popsicles. And who said anything about butterscotch? Do not make that candy weird for me.
Big Guy: Sounds fucking good when you put it all together like that.
Little Storm: Agreed. I’m on it.
Wicked: The kids would love candy apples. Do we have the stuff to make those?
Golden God: It’s my personal favorite, but I’m not island hopping again until next week. Not that I’ll be deprived. It’s a candy-apple smorgasbord in my quarters.
Chief: Shut your suck.
Big Guy: Too fucking close.
Little Storm: We should play Clue tonight. I’m putting it on the schedule.
Moonshine: The schedule is kind of pointless now. Don’t you think? None of us go anywhere.
Golden God: Your husband and I have been gone for hours.
Ace: I’m really good at Clue. And the schedule helps with juggling kids.
Moonshine: Not really. There are babies everywhere. All day. Arms full.
Wicked: Except for when you’re making them, which is often on the schedule. That’s what happens when you birth a small litter. Your body needs rest.
Ace: That’s a valid point. But they sure are cute. F-bomb, the twins, G-man, and I just got back from our ride. Tying up the horses now.
Moonshine: Love you both. They are cute and musical chairs rocks. I’m just tired.
Little Storm: First trimester always brings out the dark side of the moon. Clue will have to be Friday night. I forgot we’re doing baseball and bonfire tonight after I paint with the kids.
Cap: Relief is here, Little Moon. I see a nap in your future.
Moonshine: A nap, my man in a baseball hat, and a bonfire sounds like the perfect day. Dark side resisted.
Cap: I want to try the ice cream tonight.
Golden God: Hmm. What did you have in mind, sexy sailor?
Cap: At the bonfire. With everyone.
Wicked: My grandmother used to do it. Olive oil and salt on vanilla ice cream. Your life will be forever changed.
Cap: So, for clarity, Skittles, because you’ve been known to take some liberties here, this recipe is supposed to be salty?
Wicked: I swear. On Granny’s honor.
Golden God: I was pumped about this new library code and even a little jazzed about the sexy sailor and his ice cream by the fire with an audience, until you brought Granny into it. Even I have limits.
Big Guy: Why are we still in this godforsaken chat? Bring in the damn groceries. I want to “read” with Wicked.
Chief: For the last time, we really were fucking reading. In the library, with books. Charles Dickens.
Little Storm: Yep. The book is “Hard Times.” lol
Golden God: Straight-up porn, Chief.
Big Guy: I’m not even joking. I’m going to break all your electronic devices if you don’t get the hell off this chat.
Wicked: Kids will be sliding, in five, Moonshine.
Big Guy: Now we’re talking. Consider Wicked and me on “read” until mid-afternoon.
Mid-afternoon sounds like a day of multiple orgasms awaits. Count me in.
Setting down my phone, I scan the Scrabble word my husband left me.
Intrigued by whatever Gage has planned, I walk to the door and stand at the threshold of our bedroom, peering out at him in the upstairs family room. He’s wrestling with two of the little ones—Wells and Ivy’s three-year-old boy, Tommy, the youngest of their three kids, and our two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Aurora, who we call Rory. That was my grandmother’s name, which is one of the small treasures I’ve held on to from our previous life. Our seven-year-old is George—or G-man, like Celeste tagged him in the chat. He and his name are gifts from that old life too.
Tommy and Rory bounce on Gage, and he takes it, feigning defeat with every meager blow. Grimaces and guttural groans blast out of him as he folds his massive frame into the fetal position, as if his biceps and thighs don’t dwarf the toddlers inflicting the damage. Their giggles emanate through the second floor, harmonizing with the boisterous laughter and music that radiates from the family room below us.
It’s a joyful household. Unconventional in countless ways, but ours.
Some days, we’re deliriously happy. And others, we’re hosting uninvited inner demons. That’s not the fairy-tale happily ever after people want to hear about. But it’s real. And it’s ours as much as the treasures. Because that’s the thing about running away and starting over: you can’t outrun the scars. They come too. We all have them, battle them, nurse them, share them. That’s the gritty side of our blessings, why we’ve tapped into this connection that few have—the stunning tapestry of resilience those scars weave when we come together.
Years immersed in this freedom have infused healing into our broken souls. It was slow at first. Pandemonium drowns out the clamoring turmoil of deep-seated fears. You hardly hear them in the chaos. When it all stops, you celebrate, relax, ponder, and fret. Surviving the quietude is a true feat after constant bedlam. The muffled mutterings rise to shouts, and repressed nightmares find the space to reignite. But again, together, we’ve thrived. That’s where the healing comes in.
Watching Gage in dad mode is a beautiful depiction of that. Sometimes, I can’t help but travel back to our buried beginnings. There’s a poignant whisper in that skip through the ages, insisting I could have had this all along. Could have avoided so much torment. If I’d only chosen better. That our son—who would be grown now—would have survived and could have had this man, the kind of affectionate father every child deserves. But what-ifs and should-haves only serve as shackles—the tools of those inner demons—because none of us really know what that alternate reality would entail.
What I do know is, in that realm, I wouldn’t have any of these babies or this family. And that thought is unbearable.
I clap my hands, drawing two wide-eyed gazes up to me, amber and emerald. “Are you two ready to take the slide down to Auntie Rena? She’s playing games with the other kids.”
“Moon pays moo-sic,” Rory spouts with a megawatt grin, and Tommy flips her dark brown curls like an accolade.
“Good job, Ro Ro.” The r’ s sound a bit more like w’ s, but Felicity has been working hard with him, and he’s been so proud. He’s sweet, encouraging, and sometimes bossy, like his parents. Adorable.
“Moon does always have music,” Gage commends, tossing Rory’s teeny body into the air and catching her. “Tommy’s right. You said that perfect, sweet girl.”
Tommy belly flops over Gage’s hips with a demanding, “Me. Me,” so Gage rotates between the two of them, flipping them into the air while they shriek and squeal.
It’s nearly enough for me to put our alone time on hold. Nearly.
“All right, my little peanuts, you need to hurry, or you’ll miss the music.” I pin the biggest kid with an imploring scowl, chased by a wanton pout. “Unless you don’t want to read now?”
He bolts upright, wrangling the tiny tots over to the child exit by the elastic waistbands of their pants. The spiral slide goes between the upstairs and downstairs playrooms. Yep. Wells went all out when he designed this home for us. It was his best-kept secret and a testament to the way he looks after all of us. He purchased the island and began construction shortly after we realized we were a day late and a card short. But like always, he cashed in on our losses, and when the time was right for us to move on, we already had a refuge.
On the second level, each family has a wing, much like we did in our French chateau, and joining the four wings is an enormous gathering area. Throughout the entire home, there are plenty of kids’ spaces, community areas, and couple’s retreats. He thought of everything. Including a lot of soundproofing, not that we’re capable of embracing the same audacious sexy time from our past.
Exhibitionism is a hard no within the confines of the house. Too many itty-bitty eyes and ears. Especially now that we’re outnumbered. We have Rena and Ty to thank for that. They are currently expecting their sixth.
Before the toddlers take their ride down to musical chairs, they lunge for me. Their chubby hands hold my face while they sprinkle me with sloppy kisses. Gage gets in on the action, accepting and bestowing his own pecks. And my heart swells, as it does most days. I squeeze them back, ever grateful for another treasure.
A cheer from below announces their arrival, and Gage scoops me into his arms.
“You up for an adventure, Ains?”
Without allotting me time to object, he whisks me away, towing me down the back staircase and sneaking us out through the garage entrance, where he tosses me into one of our dune buggies.
“I’ll go with yes.” I laugh. “I’m up for anything. Where are we going to explore ?”
After we cruise past the shimmery pool and the blueberry field—a special variety for warm climates—we head toward the throng of trees, and he honks the horn, bidding farewell to the fam as the beefy tires jounce over the uneven terrain.
“Somewhere I’ve wanted to take you for a while.”
“The island isn’t that big,” I counter. “Are there places we haven’t been?”
We visit other islands on occasion, but it’s a major ordeal. The guys conduct a thorough investigation into everyone located wherever we’re venturing, and they’re on guard the entire time. It’s enjoyable, but a lot.
Gage’s ambers coast over to me, glimmering with mischief that has my core recalling the multiple-orgasm prospect. “We’ve been there, but not like this.”
I bite my lip and bat my lashes. “I’m guessing you mean sans kids. But if you keep looking at me like that, my ovaries might spontaneously create one.”
The grin that blooms on his scruffy cheeks is broad, slightly demented, and a whole heap of boyish charm, all within a sexy package that is lined with wisdom and devotion. “You are striking when you’re carrying my babies, but let’s not skip over the fun of how they get there.”
We’re done in that arena—having babies, not the act that creates them—but his adoration hits all the same. I relished every moment of the last two pregnancies—from the kicks and cravings to Gage and the family doting over both. But I’m ready to have my body back. And in this more mature stage of my life, I realize how very little time I’ve had for that. Gage gets that, too, and has been nothing but supportive.
We meander through the sinuous paths the guys have cleared over the years, affording us access into the deepest parts of the rainforest. The farther we go, the thicker the brush and the humid blanket. We were no stranger to that dense, wet air when we arrived here. Louisiana had us cloaked inside it most summer days, but this prickles the skin and awakens the senses.
The crispness of the earthy musk, the fruit that flourishes simply because it can, the flowers that blossom into what the rest of the world would consider trees—everything is sharper and fresher and grander. Even the colors are more vibrant. Verdant greens curtain our route with pops of purple, yellow, and pink. And orange. So much orange.
While we’re lost in the peacefulness of our surroundings, I share a concern that’s been nagging me. “I’m worried about Rena.”
When we were still in Louisiana, I trained as a midwife. Dr. Landry helped me navigate that while maintaining my anonymity. My urge to pursue that vocation stemmed from wanting to understand my own body so intimately during a pregnancy that I would know if something was failing. It was rooted in the trauma of losing my first. But out of it came the ability to help bring most of our family’s babies into the world. We still have a doctor on call that Wells has vetted, but I’m the one who monitors the weekly progress. It’s led to a deeper relationship with the women, who are truly like sisters, than I could have fathomed.
“I know,” he sighs, threading our fingers. “Ty and Ivy are too. We’ll get through it.”
I nod, expelling a heavy exhale, knowing he’s right, but hating that Rena hurts. She misses her brothers. Out of all of us, she said goodbye to the most. And while she’s living her dream of repopulating the earth with Ty, leaning into her mom role with everything she is, each baby is a reminder of the brothers she left behind. This one most of all because it’s likely their last. Living here has kept her safe, her children safe, our family hidden from harm’s way. But it’s cost her.
Concern wrinkles his forehead, so he shifts in his seat, determined to snap me out of it. “We’ll dive into that later. Promise. But today … it’s been a minute since we’ve gone exploring, just the two of us.”
That’s valid. There’s no shortage of sexy time or cuddles. Puzzles and crosswords, pancake breakfasts with the family and ocean sunsets abound. Every day is a memory and an adventure in its own right. But trekking into the depths of the island is something we don’t do as often as we’d like. We left one crazy life and assumed another. While we aren’t juggling cabal duties or threats, there is a fair amount of shuffling to keep the household running smoothly. Even with eight adults shouldering the duties, we still have ten kids who require everything from schooling to baths.
“I’m all yours,” I assure him as awareness dawns on me that we’re farther into the tropical woods than we’ve been in a long time. “Are we headed to where I think we are? That cove we visited … gosh, years ago?”
“That’s the one.” He chuckles to himself. “Like I said, this time is different.”
One would hope. After we were settled here, we made it our mission to comb through the inner workings of our newfound paradise. Some expeditions were rockier than others, and that had little to do with the mountainous topography.
When we visited the lush utopian escape we’re currently en route to, the bamboo was rampant, making the hike tedious. Ivy, Rena, and I were all pregnant. Celeste, who has gone the no-kids route—in the birthing sense because she is a mom to ours in every sense of the word—looked like the only genius among us on that journey.
The heat was oppressive, which made the three of us nauseous. We were cranky, exhausted, on edge, and yet desperate to deliver a life-altering experience to the kiddos, who were equally as cranky from the sweltering humidity. The guys were nervous, anxious about every uneven step, and irritated with the hefty dose of snark we were lobbing at them, no matter the plastered grins that accompanied our annoyance.
Celeste said we flaunted more waxy smiles and passive-aggressive insult sandwiches than a political luncheon. It wasn’t our best family outing.
In the end, we realized the kids would probably barely remember those types of excursions, so we vowed not to return there until they were grown. There’s a learning curve to every role.
“Thank God,” I murmur as we veer into that denser landscape.
Straggly, knee-high grass sways, branches with umbrella-sized palm leaves fan over us, and crumbled lava rock, mixed with larger boulders, litter the area. But the path …
“You cleared this.”
“Yeah,” he says. “The guys and I have been working on it for a while. We figured it was the only way to drag you girls back out here before the kids flew the nest.” As we wind around a trickling stream, his crinkled eyes find mine again. “I’ve been dreaming about this since back then though. Another memory.”
Another memory. Another smile. A treasure trove of gifts from the boy with amber eyes.
The dune buggy’s broad frame hugs close to the riverbank, the pathway just wide enough for us to trudge through. Eventually, he pulls to a stop. We get out, and he grabs my hand when I meet him in front of the buggy’s nose.
We follow the trail that weaves around a maze of rocks—the prelude to the showstopper. A majestic waterfall, lush with palms, a serene plunge pool, and towering walls of onyx lava rock jutting into the turquoise sky.
“Jesus,” I hiss, slack-jawed and wonderstruck that I was once shrouded in gloom when beauty like this existed. It’s truly a different world. “I didn’t remember.”
“It was a rough day when we were here. You were sick.” His hand slinks around my waist, fingers digging into my hip bone, as he leans in close to my ear, his scruff bristling my cheek, showering me with goose bumps. “But you aren’t sick now, Wicked. Let’s go for a dip.”
My eyes flit up to his ambers. “You could’ve told me to wear a swimsuit.”
“I’ve waited a long time to go skinny-dipping with you again. Don’t make me wait any longer. Strip.” His chuckle is a low rumble—my warning that he’s transitioned from a fun-loving papa to my dominating husband.
My entire body shivers in response.
He’s gone from the clean-shaven broken boy to the menacing cabal enforcer to the family man with salt speckling his pepper facial hair, and every version has had a dam of flurries breaking inside me. I felt it for the first time that day on the sidewalk, headed home from school without a single dream. And now, here, when he’s delivered a life, a family, a setting beyond my greatest fantasies.
So, it’s not surprising that our clothes disintegrate, melding with the fragmented volcanic rock. We disappear into the tepid water, the gurgling of the stream and thundering roar of the falls directing our swim. Both of us emerge behind the sheet of foaming cascade.
My unruly waves are slicked back, rivulets of the plunge pool dripping off my face, the refreshment of our swim cooling my skin. And for a split second, everything tumbles backward, like time rewinds until we’re those two kids, naked in a lake, with hopes no one intended on letting us embrace.
But ours is a story of tragedy to triumph. The decades didn’t eat those gains. They compounded them.
My face is thinner, some of the youthful plumpness diminished. My curves are rounder, fuller from a healthy appetite and bearing a beautiful legacy. I’ve got marks and scars from both pain and privilege. And the man I’m staring at has transformed just as dramatically.
We were us. Then and now.
The W he had me etch on his bulging pec glints white, like the frothing rapids, against his bronze, tattooed skin, and I think I love it more each time I see it. He truly transferred my pain that day, carrying the parts that were too heavy for me to cart around alone. And not once since then has he ever expected me to hold them again.
He steps into me, and for a beat, he simply cradles my head, his fingers tangling with my sopping strands, our expectant breaths mingling to one as he drinks me in. As if he hasn’t seen me bare and wet before him a thousand times. Everything about this frozen moment is awe-filled and charged, his ambers shouting that this glimpse isn’t the same. Because he sees every change, every thought and dream, worry and fear. I’m always me, but also new and worthy of exploration. And after all these years, I can confidently say that it will forever be this way.
Finally, when he knows my every cell is begging, his tongue sweeps into my mouth with velvety strokes. Slow. Coaxing. Remembering. And creating. Memories.
My nails climb over his taut chest to his bulky traps and land on the smooth skin at the nape of his neck, scratching over all the versions of him. The bruised and brutal to the healed and hungry. My everything.
He’s gotten softer over the years—his heart, not his physique. At first, I thought it was the impact of the kids, fatherhood changing him. Maybe it was to an extent. But mostly, I think it was already there, and he’s been easing me into accepting a gentler love. For a long time, I needed the bite to allow myself the balm. I never quite spelled that out for him or even unraveled it for myself. He just knew. Like he had known the day we met that I was strong despite my last name. He always knows.
His hands rove over my curves, seeking and dire. Because even in this quieter life, we love urgently. Gentle sometimes, but always intense. Always aware that the present is all we have. So, we don’t hesitate to seize it.
He fists my hair, wrenching my neck back to devour the column of my throat. My scalp tingles deliciously, my flesh heating from the silken caress of his tongue. I wrap my legs around his hips, heels digging into the globes of his ass, resolute nipples tingling from the rough steel of him. His erection spears my lower abdomen, and my hips chase the friction with a moan severing the raucous splashing water.
He wades through the plunge pool and boosts me up to a ledge, the subtle sting of the gushing cascade blasting over my arm as he hoists himself beside me. This cove is behind the waterfall, a secret cave large enough for the two of us. We’re out in the open and hidden at once. A taste of both the exhibitionism we crave and the clandestine romance that framed us.
“I’m about to take your breath away, Wicked.” He props himself against one of the ebony walls, his front facing the falls, his hard cock looming tall and eager. “Climb on. Ride me first. I want to watch my beautiful wife’s face twist with pleasure.”
“Ladies first. Remember?” Bending forward, I pursue my own agenda, sucking his eager dick into my mouth, the engorged crown pulsing against my open throat, his hissed expletives feeding me so I bob with that urgency I mentioned. He gladly guides my head, praising and panting, the salty tang of his precum rousing my taste buds.
“Jesus, baby. I can’t … your perfect mouth … your sexy body … in this cave … other plans.”
Good Lord, I love it when I blow him stupid.
He yanks my head up, forcing my eyes to find his. “Ride me. Now.”
With one more taunting suction of my mouth, I pop off him and station my knees outside his thick thighs. Before I even lower myself, he’s swirling my clit, beckoning my whimpers to reverberate around this cavernous hideaway.
My head lolls back, eyelids fluttering, as I slide over his length, his cock piercing the deepest parts of me. “God,” I gasp. “You always feel so good.”
“There you go,” he breathes, and his hands pounce on me, one on my breast, kneading, the other on my hip, guiding me to move. “Fuck, you’re a dream. So gorgeous. You get more radiant every day, Ains.” His Adam’s apple works through an arduous swallow before he unearths his composure and coils his hand around my throat. “Tell me when you’re close.”
With our gazes latched in a deferral of time and space so that somehow, only we exist, I bounce and swivel, his fingers massaging my clit to expedite my journey to the summit, his other hand promising a breathless flight. Our moans meld into an echoed melody battling the sonorous din of nature. And when his ambers flick to the cascade at my back, I know what’s in store.
Offering a cursory nod, I give him the green light to choke away the stress of motherhood and family concerns, remnants of pain and questions of what’s next, so we can simply be. “Almost there.”
And everything rushes with the falls.
Gage straightens, leaning me backward in a fluid motion as I seal my airway and let the raging waters wash it all away. Battering pinpricks of droplets hammer my closed lids, rings of black and white warring behind them. My chest balloons and deflates with a burn. With a need to scream. He continues spinning sorcery over my clit, elevating us into a fantastical orbit of celestial awe. Stars. So many fucking stars. All of it morphing these solid, craggy rocks into fluffy clouds of ecstasy, like the man granting it.
Rigid and impenetrable. Sweet and tender.
Obliterating.
When I’m ready to release, to regain my breath, I don’t only tap his arm, like I usually do when my voice is incapacitated; I clamp my throbbing pussy around his shaft as tightly as I can.
He raises me out of the torrent, barking, “Goddamn Kegels,” right before a sputtered scream lurches from my lungs and I leave any morsel of reality with the effervescent spindrift.
Boneless and liquefied into a quenched puddle of erotic fantasies, every inch of my body buzzes and floats and unwinds. He keeps guiding my lazy hips as he pistons into me with a few more punishing thrusts, his mouth everywhere—nipples and collarbone, neck and lips—ravaging me with a last-meal voraciousness until he pours inside me.
Our chests rise and fall in tandem, both of us gasping as we attempt to float down from that high. We’re slick with sweat and beads of the plunge pool, pearls drizzled from the crashing stream that stole my breath. He holds me close, his hand splayed between my shoulder blades, and we burst into laughter.
“Who knew vaginal exercises could be a man’s undoing?” I beam victoriously.
After birthing three babies, I’ve earned the right to toot my own pussy-strength horn.
“You.” He chuckles, nipping my bottom lip. “Only thing that makes Kegels sexier is you calling me a motherfucker when you’re strangling my cock.”
I overlap my arms behind his neck so we’re flattened to one another, and I smother him with kisses along his jaw and cheeks and lips. “Hard to swear at you or threaten your life when I’m being waterboarded. You can take the boy out of the torturing enforcer, but not the torturing enforcer out of the boy.”
He reaches between us, tweaking my nipple with a delectable pinch. “Well, the boy with amber eyes knows that his wicked girl thinks pain is sometimes pleasure.”
The pieces of our first flirty conversation roll off his tongue because he never forgets anything. And neither do I.
“No matter what your name is, you’ll always be the boy with amber eyes.”
It’s as though a part of my soul knew we were destined to be together, even if it couldn’t happen in that life.
He rests his forehead against mine, those ambers teeming with emotion. “Christ, Ains. I love you so fucking much.”
My fingertips brush over his scruff, tracing a path to his full lips, and I revel in that same awe-stricken reverence I felt when gawking at our tropical utopia. Even in my darkest storms, this beautiful, burly man was out there, our hearts wounded and angry but yearning to be reunited, to partner through the murky gray and find our way to brighter pastures.
“I love you too, Gage. More than I ever have. In this life, and the next, and all the ones we’ve lived, you were, are, and will always be mine.”
“Woo-hoo, Daddy Tytan,” Rena cheers with her signature shoulder shimmy before turning to Ivy, Celeste, and me. “God, is there anything freaking sexier than Cap playing ball with our babies?”
That has the three of us chuckling. She has a point.
Sand baseball has its challenges. Not to mention the sea that is all too happy to swallow out-of-bounds balls. And the golden light of dusk makes it a bit harder to see. But the guys are patient, and the kids eat up every second. They usually play in the grassy yard behind the house, but on bonfire nights, we take to the beach.
The game consists of the four guys and the six oldest kids. It’s Ty and the kiddos against Gage, Wells, and Liam. I’d like to say they limit the trash talk, but the men often forget amid a heated play.
Back to Rena’s observation, all our husbands look good out there. Still ripped as they always were because Wells will never let up. But their unwavering dedication to leading our family in this stiller way of life is impressive. And all four of us would agree, sexy as hell.
“We’re going to have to strap a chastity belt on you to keep Ty from putting another baby in you,” Celeste teases Rena. “I think you two could get pregnant while pregnant.”
Ivy giggles, patting the diapered rump of the teeniest Ty-and-Rena creation to the beat of the music crooning in the background. “If anyone could, it’s them.”
“Well …” Rena throws a hand toward her husband in a what-do-you-expect gesture.
A wave of grains blows in our direction, and we all instinctually cover our drinks. Ivy shakes her head and tosses hers out. Another casualty of beach life with little ones.
“Don’t throw the sand,” she gently scolds the three toddlers. “We’re going to roast marshmallows and eat ice cream as soon as the game’s over.”
That seems to appease them, so the four of us pick up right where we left off. What could shout motherhood more than being able to resume a conversation so seamlessly?
Celeste swirls her wine, a goading brow raised. “Liam is still my gorgeous golden god, and yet my womb remains empty. It’s possible.” She sets her drink down and steals the slumbering infant. “But thank God you have no restraint and your ovaries are so damn persistent because you make the most beautiful babies.”
“And Lettie won’t know what to do when she doesn’t have babies to snatch,” Ivy says, releasing the little angel and finishing off Celeste’s wine.
Our chitchat is interrupted by hoots and hollers from the ocean-front game. Felicity was up to bat with the bases loaded. She got a piece of a ball and sent it so far past Liam, the outfielder, that he’s running his ass off to retrieve it. Wells is dishing out orders from behind home plate; Gage is shaking his head, resigned; and Ty is jumping up and down, waving the kids in. A beaming coach whose excitement rivals that of one waving in a grand slam in the World Series.
And we fall right into sports-mom mode.
“Good one, Felicity! Run, baby!”
“Take third, George! You got it.”
“Way to go, Lyric!”
“Oh my God, Lennon. Go, go, go!”
Liam finally gets the ball, which buried itself in a sand dune. He’ll be bitching about that for sure. He throws it back to Gage, who pitches it to Wells, but not before Felicity slides over home plate, sand flying up in a grainy cloud, and a chorus of hoopla resounds.
And what does our darling oldest girl do to celebrate that impressive feat?
She hops to her feet and dances, her raven-black ponytail swishing in victory, her blue eyes cocky. And with impeccable timing, she points at Liam, who is barreling toward her. “Take that, you big mamaluke !”
Serves him right. He taught her that.
His grin splits his entire face. “Oh, I’m coming for you, F-bomb!”
She shrieks, and Gage picks her up like a football, sprinting for God knows where. It appears he’s switched teams. Or it’s just turned into a free-for-all. Ty and Wells start scooping up howling children, darting in erratic circles. No one seems to know who to run from. Only that Uncle Liam is after them all. It creates enough confusion that he can’t quite reach Felicity. And somehow, the entire group of kids and men end up diving into the cresting waves. All four guys are covered, children on their shoulders and backs and tucked under their arms.
It’s utter mayhem. Just another Tuesday under tangerine skies.
The toddlers giggle, eager to join, but we hold them back. It will be their time to be at the center of the madness soon enough. For now, we simply let the carefree air of love and laughter fill their hearts. It’s a luxury that none of us had. Even Ivy, with her idyllic upbringing and her adoring parents, didn’t experience the gift of a family so vast. An entire group that would walk through fire for you, mend your burns, and relish in your successes and laughter as much as their own.
We placed our old life on the altar and burned it in lieu of a candle, and those ashes sprouted a sapling of new beginnings.
Beauty from our broken.
For them.
Our den of lion cubs.
It takes about ten minutes for the rowdy group to peter out of steam, but eventually, they drag themselves out of the ocean, snag some towels, and gather around the fire with us. The indigo skies are streaked with puffs of copper and apricot now. Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” blares from the speakers, which is one of Gage’s favorites. We roast marshmallows, fall in love with my grandmother’s salted olive-oil vanilla ice cream, and tell stories.
All campfires deserve ghost stories. And these are tales from our past lives.
Those days had their hurdles, but to hear the retellings in the firelight, it’s clear the greatest souvenir was our joy. The kids are enamored with the colorful narratives we spin, completely unaware that’s where the notion of them was conceived.
As if the rose-colored remembrance of that life is growing a bit too heavy, Wells does what he always does. He sneaks a few pieces of candy out of his pocket, hoping the kids don’t catch him, smooths his other palm over Ivy’s head, kisses her cheek, and addresses all of us in a solitary fluid gesture. “This home is already filled with just as many stories because we’re together.”
“Exactly,” Liam agrees, snicking his flame with Celeste on his lap. “I can kick F-bomb’s butt at softball anywhere, but I’ll be doing it here. At home. Tomorrow.”
“In your dreams, Uncle Liam. Don’t be stunad ,” she returns, and his lips twitch.
“Seriously, Chief,” he protests, but Wells is too busy snickering.
“You are the one who taught the kids those words,” Ty points out as he strings his fingers through Rena’s hair.
“Only because Goldilocks taught them to me,” he whines, like one of the kids, who are all giggling.
“More like you ripped them off. Now who’s the thief?” I volley as a phone rings, interrupting our conversation and the music.
We all sit up a little straighter, bafflement written on every one of our faces because we’re all here. When it stops, I lean back against Gage’s chest, curling into him, the warmth of our afternoon swim still fresh in my mind, even with the ring from the bizarre phone call lingering in the air.
“It broke through the loudspeaker,” Ivy comments, lost in thought. “It was the burner.”
We have the burner hooked up to alert us of emergencies if one of us is off island, like an SOS signal to pack up because they’ve encountered danger.
“Who would be calling that phone?” Unease threads through Celeste’s question, and Rena appears equally as shook.
It is eerie.
“Probably a wrong number,” Gage mutters, sprinkling my neck with kisses.
The music switches to Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al,” and we resume life as usual. Some of the kids bounce around, dancing. And Rena and Ty are right there with them, not missing a beat. The rest of us will likely join them before the end of the song. That’s usually how this goes.
“I love this life,” I whisper to Gage. “You and them. Being here.”
“Me too, baby,” he rasps, rubbing my back. “So much.”
“Wherever we’re all together is home.” I might be stating the same sentiment as Wells, but the scope is stretched. I chance a look at Gage, his strong jaw and compassionate eyes highlighted in the silver moonlight.
He nods his agreement, so I go on.
“What’s next? Do you miss that old life? Or … want something like it? This fits, but so did that.”
His brows pinch as he dissects my rambling, his gaze taking in the family we’ve been blessed with—romping about, laughing, growing, cuddling—before frolicking over my face. He hooks a piece of hair behind my ear, like he’s steadying me. “How could any of us miss the gray world we reigned over, no matter how much we were made for it?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, watching the same beautiful scene unfold as him. “I think all of us do sometimes.”
Family means sacrifice.
“It’s always hard to let go, to close a chapter.” His arm snakes around me, his breath fanning over my skin with a reassurance I suddenly crave. “But here on this beach, tucked away from the rest of the world, we have everything we need. We’ve got a houseful of miniature monsters. Wells conquered his Little Storm. Liam holds the Ace. Ty’s whole world is illuminated by his Little Moon. And me? I have it best of all. Set for eternity.”
I smile, grazing my fingertips along the crinkles from his smiling eyes. “Is that right? You won the jackpot, Big Guy?”
As if my intuition is calling with the answer, the phone rings again, blaring over the loudspeaker. But Gage is laser focused on me. He ignores the chaos and concern, speculation and debate that ensues around us. He doesn’t fret over whether that call is ominous or opportunity. It’s only us. And somehow, that shimmery moonlight glows orange in his ambers, and everything fades to a promise of tomorrows.
“Yeah, Ains. My soul never needs to hide from or seek the darkness it craves because no matter the destination, I’m owned by Wicked.”
THE END