Chapter 2
2
JONAS
ONE WEEK EARLIER
"Dad, Jacey stoled your phone again."
I'm in the middle of flipping pancakes—dinosaur-shaped, because apparently regular circles aren't good enough—when Lukas delivers this news with all the drama of a sports announcer calling a playoff game. Which, considering I am a professional hockey player, is cute.
"Stole," I correct automatically. "Jace stole my phone."
"That's what I said." He bounces on his toes, his chocolate milk mustache quivering. "She stoled it after our call with Gamma."
Right. Because what should follow a peaceful morning video call with my mother-in-law Gloria other than a house-wide scavenger hunt? Especially when I have forty-seven minutes to feed two little ones, find said phone, and get to pre-season training.
"Jace?" I call out, trying to keep my voice level. "Honey, where's Daddy's phone?"
A giggle emerges from under the dining room table. At least she's getting worse at hiding herself, even if she's getting better at hiding my stuff.
She peeks out between the chairs, her hair a mess despite the fact that I just tried to brush it. "It's a su-prise."
"Surprise," I echo, because apparently, I can't turn off dad-mode, even in crisis. "And honey, surprises are great, but?—"
The smoke alarm cuts me off. Shit. The pancakes.
"Code red," Lukas yells, because we've turned kitchen disasters into a game. Has to be better than letting them see Dad panic, right? "Deploy rescue team," he screams.
Never should have taught him that.
I grab a charred dinosaur pancake off the griddle, adding it to the stack that looks more like prehistoric roadkill. The kids will eat them anyway. They always do. God forbid anyone ever finds out I serve my children burnt food.
"Let’s call Gamma again." Jace emerges fully from her hiding spot, dragging her favorite blanket and wearing... is that my Aftershocks jersey? The one I'm supposed to wear to media day tomorrow?
"As soon as you tell me where my phone is," I sigh.
"It's magic," She twirls, my jersey dragging on the floor like the Cinderella gown she pretends it is. At least it's clean. At the moment.
"The freezer." Lukas proudly rats out his sister. "She put it there."
"Lukie." Jace's lower lip trembles. "It’s a su-prise."
"Surprise," I correct again, already heading for the kitchen. "It’s a surprise , honey." One I definitely don’t need.
Maybe I should stop correcting their grammar. Genny always said it was adorable, the way they mixed up words. But Genny isn't here to vote anymore, and sometimes correcting them feels like the only thing I can control.
I find my phone in the bottom-drawer freezer, just as Lukas said. Nestled between frozen peas and fish sticks.
"Look." Jace points proudly at the frosty cell phone screen, craning her neck to look up at me. "Your phone is all snowy. Like Elsa."
I should be mad. I should definitely be mad. But she's beaming up at me with Genny's eyes, so proud of herself, and... well, at least she didn't put it in the toilet this time.
"Okay." I check the time. Thirty-nine minutes. "But next time, maybe we could not give Daddy's phone frostbite?"
"What's frostbite?"
"Something that happens when—" My watch buzzes.
Text from Frenchie:
*So sorry, but I have stomach flu. Can't make it today.
Goddammit. Because what this morning needs is our nanny calling out sick right before I have to be at training camp.
The phone in my hand starts to thaw, and I dial another video call with Gloria because it will occupy the kids while I scramble to get us all ready.
"There are my angels." Gloria's face fills the screen, perfectly made-up despite the early hour. "And Jonas, honey, you look..."
"Like I've been making dinosaur pancakes and searching for frozen phones? Because that's exactly what's happening."
"I was going to say 'tired,' but that explains it." She squints. "Is Jace wearing your jersey?"
"Can we not mention that to the PR team?"
"GAMMA." Both kids crowd the screen, effectively ending any adult conversation. "Guess what? We're going on a plane."
I freeze. "We haven't decided that yet, guys."
But Gloria's already lighting up. "A plane? Jonas Knight, were you planning to tell me about this? Are you finally taking the vacation I’ve been bugging you about?"
Bugging is an understatement
"There's nothing to tell." I pull the jersey off over Jace’s head and replace it with one of her little dresses. The kind Genny used to get her. "It was just an idea. For before the season starts. A little trip."
"Did you call that travel agent I specifically recommended?" Her smile is way too satisfied. "About that family resort in Hawaii I specifically mentioned?"
"I'm never telling you anything again."
"You barely tell me anything now." She focuses on the kids. "Now, tell Gamma all about this plane ride you're not actually taking."
"We're gonna see fishies," Lukas announces.
"And vol-nanos," Jace adds.
"Volcanos," I correct automatically. "And guys, we haven't decided?—"
"Jonas." Gloria's voice takes on that tone she used to use on Genny when she was being stubborn. "When was the last time you took a real vacation?"
I busy myself wiping syrup off Lukas's face. "We went to Disney last year."
"Ah yes, the trip that ended with you stress-eating Mickey bars in the hotel room while both kids had simultaneous meltdowns. Very relaxing."
"That was one night."
"That was every night, honey. You called me crying from It's a Small World."
"I didn't cry." I definitely cried. "And I have training camp..."
"Which doesn't start for another two weeks." She leans closer to the screen. "Take the kids to Hawaii, Jonas. Let them see some fish that aren't in Finding Nemo . Let yourself relax for five minutes."
"Relaxing with these two? Is that even possible?"
"Only one way to find out." She winks. "This resort has an excellent kids' program, the travel agent told me. And who knows? Maybe you'll meet someone."
" Gloria."
"I'm just saying, it's been two years, and?—"
"I have to go." I check my watch. Eighteen minutes until training. "Kids, say goodbye to Gamma."
They chorus their goodbyes, already distracted by something new. As I'm about to end the call, she adds, "She'd want you to be happy, you know. All three of you."
Like a punch to the gut as only my mother-in-law can deliver.
I end the call before she can see my face. Because she's right, and that's exactly what terrifies me.
"Dad?" Lukas tugs my hand. "I spilled the syrup."
Right. Just another normal morning in the Knight household.
"It’s okay, Lukas. Finish your pancakes," I tell them both. "Daddy needs to call Aunt Sarah about watching you today."
"Aunt Sarah’s coming!” Both kids scream their approval and Jace spills orange juice down the front of the dress I just put on her.
I look at my watch again. Fifteen minutes and counting.
What's the worst that could happen?
Thank God for sisters. Specifically, thank God for sisters who live five minutes away and work from home. Sarah shows up in record time, already dressed for kid life in old jeans and a T-shirt that's seen better days.
"You owe me so many lattes," she announces, surveying the breakfast aftermath. "And possibly a new car."
"Add it to my tab." I'm halfway out the door, gym bag in one hand, protein shake in the other.
She waves me away, like she has so many times. "Go. I've got this. Try not to hit anyone too hard at practice."
"I’ll try."
"And don’t pass out from exhaustion." She eyes the kitchen disaster zone. "Though it looks like you already got your cardio in."
I make it to the Aftershocks' training facility with two minutes to spare, which has to be some kind of single-dad record. The security guard gives me a knowing look as I sprint past.
"Rough morning, Knight?"
I glance down at my shirt. Yep, that's definitely pancake batter on the sleeve. "How can you tell?"
"Lucky guess. PR team's looking for you. Something about photo ops?"
Because of course they are. I check my texts, something I’d neglected to do in the morning craziness.
Vince Vincent, Aftershocks PR:
Need to discuss media strategy for upcoming season
People Magazine wants to do a feature: "Hockey's Hottest Dad"
Please tell me you're not wearing the jersey with syrup stains to media day
Coach:
Team meeting after conditioning
Bring your A-game, we're discussing season strategy
Try not to look too sleep-deprived
Sarah:
Is it wrong to want to kill my little niece? Because I just caught her about to drop my phone in the toilet
God help me.
I'm halfway through my warm-up stretches when Vince Vincent appears, tablet in hand and determination in his stride. No one on the team likes it when Vince approaches, especially not me. I know he’s going to ask for something, and I’m about fucking tapped out.
"Please tell me you've considered the People Magazine feature," he starts, not bothering with pleasantries. "It's perfect timing with season kickoff, and the 'devoted dad' angle tests incredibly well with female demographics."
"I'm not using my kids for PR."
"Says the man whose daughter wore his jersey to Disney and broke Instagram." He pulls up the stats. "That post got more engagement than our playoff run."
"That was different. It was unintentional." I focus on my stretches, trying to work out the knot that comes from carrying a three-year-old while chasing a four-year-old. "That was just... life."
"Exactly. That's what people want to see. The real moments. The human side of hockey's most eligible single dad."
I wince at the title. "Can we not call me that?"
"Too late. It's trending." He swipes through his tablet. "Listen, I get it. You want to protect their privacy. But you're also the face of this team, and your story resonates. Single dad, star athlete, tragic backstory?—"
" Vince ."
"Sorry." He has the sense to look apologetic, fake as he is. "Too PR-ish? I just mean... people connect with you. With your journey. And with season tickets not selling as fast as we'd like..."
"So now I'm a ticket-selling strategy?"
"Now you're an inspiration." He softens his tone. "Look, I'm not asking you to exploit your kids. Just... consider it. Share the real moments. Let people see the man behind the jersey."
"The man behind the jersey wears pancake syrup as an accessory."
"Perfect. That's exactly what I'm talking about." He makes a note. "Raw, relatable content. Speaking of which, what are your thoughts on TikTok?"
I'm saved from social media hell by Coach calling us to the ice. But Vince isn't done.
"Just think about the feature," he calls after me. "And maybe consider dating again? The 'eligible' part of your trending nickname isn't hurting ticket sales either."
I pretend not to hear him, but my teammates sure do.
"Careful, Knight," Rogers elbows me as we hit the ice. "Your fan club's getting restless. Saw a sign at last season's final game. It said, 'Marry me, Hockey Dad.'"
"Pretty sure that was just my mother-in-law getting desperate," I joke. But it falls flat. Always does when I mention anything related to Genny.
Two hours later, I'm destroyed and trying to focus on Coach's strategy session when my phone buzzes again.
Sarah:
Kids asked for more pancakes
Told them they’re only for breakfast
Big mistake. HUGE.
Also, Jace says she's sorry about the phone
She's not sorry
But she said it
Vince Vincent:
Seriously consider the TikTok thing
You guys could go viral
In a good way
Mostly
Gloria:
Single Parent's Guide to Resort Vacations
I'm not saying I called the travel agent
But I'm not not saying it either
I should be focusing on Coach's plays. Instead, I'm thinking about pancakes and hidden phones and whether I'm doing any of this right. The hockey part is easy—see puck, hit puck, occasionally hit people trying to hit puck.
But the rest?
"Knight?" Coach's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You with us?"
"Yeah, sorry. Just..."
"Thinking about your vacation plans?"
I look up sharply. He grins.
"Your mother-in-law called me too. Take the break, son. God knows you've earned it."
Jesus Christ. My mother-in-law is calling Coach? Because apparently, she’s running a full-scale manipulation that includes my place of employment.
"I'll think about it," I say, the same answer I give the kids when I actually mean 'no.'
But somehow, I have a feeling 'no' isn't going to be an option this time.
The thing about packing for kids is that it requires military-level strategy and the organizational skills of an event planner. Neither of which I possess, which is why I'm standing in front of Jace's closet at nine p.m., wondering if you bring a princess dress to a resort vacation.
"When in doubt, pack it all," Genny used to say. Back when she handled the packing. And everything else. My only job was to carry the bags.
The memory hits me like a check into the boards—sudden, breathtaking, and when I least expect it. I take a seat on the edge of Jace's little bed, surrounded by little clothes and even littler shoes, and let myself remember. Just for a minute.
My sister, hanging around for moral support, is finishing tidying up my disastrous house because she’s an angel. The kids are asleep, backup plans are in place for missed training sessions, and I'm packing for a trip I haven't even decided to take yet. Instead, I find myself reaching for a box on the top shelf of Jace’s closet. The one labeled "Disney" in Genny's perfect handwriting.
I wonder if Gloria or some other well-meaning soul put it there so I wouldn’t have yet another painful reminder of Genny.
It shouldn't still hurt this much. Two years is supposed to be enough time to... what? Move on? Accept it? Learn to breathe around the Genny-shaped hole in our lives?
The planning binder is right on top, because of course it is. "Operation Vacation," she called it, like we were planning a covert mission instead of a trip to see a mouse.
Day 1: Magic Kingdom (Pack extra wipes)
Day 2: Animal Kingdom
Day 3: Rest day by pool (Jace needs swim diapers)
She planned it all. Right down to which flavors of baby food to pack and which Disney characters we should take photos with. Only, we never made it to that trip. The aneurysm took her two weeks before we were supposed to leave.
So we went the following year when the kids were two and three. Not because I wanted to—God, I didn't want to—but because Lukas kept asking about Mickey Mouse, and Gloria said it would help, and I didn't know what else to do with the crushing weight of all those half-made memories.
It was a disaster. Lukas was scared of Goofy. Jace wouldn't stop crying for Mommy. I ended up on a video call with my mother-in-law at two a.m.
"You're trying too hard," she told me then. "Stop trying to recreate her plans. Make your own."
But Genny was so good at this stuff. She knew how many outfit changes a toddler needs— the answer is infinite. She remembered to pack backup stuffies in case the main ones get lost. She just... knew stuff. Important stuff. Mom stuff.
My phone buzzes, startling me out of my thoughts. Another text from Gloria:
Found more of Genny's old photos. The kids might like to see them
So many photos, and yet it feels like there are never enough. On the walls, on the shelves, tucked into frames and albums. I keep waiting for Lukas or Jace to ask why Mommy's only in pictures, never in real life. But they don't. They're too young to remember her as much more than a story, a face in frames, a name we say with happy voices.
Sometimes I catch Lukas studying her photos with a little furrow between his brows—Genny's furrow, on his little face. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle just out of reach. And Jace... Jace has started saying "Mommy would like this" about things she couldn't possibly know. Like her imagination is filling in the blanks.
Another text from Gloria:
Found Genny's childhood journal while cleaning. Want it?
Yes. No. Can I let you know?
Some memories are too heavy to make quick decisions about.
The binder is still in my hands, full of plans and memories we never got to keep. I should put it away. Focus on packing, on planning, on all the practical things that keep my little family moving forward.
Instead, I flip to the last page. There's a note there, in Genny's handwriting, likely a quote she saw somewhere that she liked:
Perfect moments aren't planned, they're lived. Let them be messy. Let them be real. Let them surprise you.
At the time, she wasn't writing about anything in particular, and certainly not about me sitting here two years later trying to figure out how to pack for a trip without her. Did she know I’d someday need this?
"Daddy?"
I look up to find Lukas in Jace’s doorway, clutching his blanket. "Hey, buddy. Bad dream?"
He nods, then spots the binder. "Is that Mommy's book?"
"Yeah." I whisper, hoping we don’t wake Jace. "Want to help me look at it?"
He climbs into my lap, the bed bouncing from our weight. Jace stirs and smacks her lips but never wakes. "Can we make new pictures? For Mommy's book?" he asks.
My throat tightens. "You want to make new vacation pictures?"
"Yeah." He yawns. "But no scary Goofy this time."
I laugh, surprising myself. "Deal. No more scary Goofy."
"Promise?"
"Promise." I kiss the top of his head. "Just fish this time. And volcanoes."
He perks up. "Like Finding Nemo?"
"Like Finding Nemo." I close the binder gently. "But first, sleep."
As I pick him up to go back to bed, the decision feels different now—heavier, but clearer. It’s not because Gloria keeps nagging about work-life balance or because some PR spreadsheet says family vacations are good optics. And it’s not even because the kids deserve new memories—though they do.
It’s because the house feels too quiet at night. Because every corner of it echoes with plans we never got to keep. Because maybe, just maybe, if I stop holding so tight onto what we lost, I might actually make room for what’s still here.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s imperfect. Sometimes, the only way forward is to pack a bag and go looking for it.
"And then Mickey waved at me, 'member Dad? 'Member when Mickey waved?"
Lukas is providing a running commentary on what he remembers of last year's Disney trip, complete with sound effects. How he remembers the one good moment but not the three hours of tears that followed is beyond me.
"I remember, buddy." I hoist him up on my shoulders and grab the book to put it away for safe-keeping. “Mickey was very friendly."
"Can I have a glass of water?" Jace sits up, rubbing her eyes.
Great. Now everybody’s awake.
"Dad, let’s see the Mickey video," Lukas asks, squirming out of my hold. “On your phone, Dad. Show Jace. She was so little.”
"Yeah. Daddy's phone," she says, already diving for my device.
“Not the Goofy part,” Lukas warns.
"We don't talk about the Goofy part," I mutter, but he's already found the video.
There we are in the video, in front of Cinderella's castle. Lukas beaming, Jace crying because I don’t remember why, and me looking like I hadn't slept in a week. Mickey Mouse approaches, waves, and?—
"RAAAAWR," past-three-year-old-Lukas screams in delight.
"That's not how Mickey sounds," the currently-four-year-old-Lukas informs us. "That's how dinosaurs sound. Mickey sounds like this—" He launches into an impression that sounds more like someone choking.
"Very accurate," my sister says, poking her head into Jace’s room. "But maybe we should focus on packing for the new trip? The one that doesn't involve any mice? Or even better, getting some sleep?"
Jace completely ignores the crying video. I have to hand it to her for focusing on the positive. "I want Mickey. Daddy said we’re going."
I did not, in fact, say that. What I said was "maybe someday," which in parent-speak means "please stop asking." My children are developing selective hearing.
Sarah nudges me out of the way and pulls a couple things out of Jace’s dresser and puts them into a three-year-old-sized wheelie bag. Genny had wanted them to learn to carry some of their own things, which didn’t work out so well on our last trip. They went on strike, leaving me to maneuver all the luggage.
"What about a new place?" I try. "Where you see real fish instead of Finding Nemo fish."
"I want Nemo," Lukas chirps.
"Nemo is a pretend fish," Sarah jumps in, because she's the best aunt ever. "Your daddy is talking about a place with real fish. Fish you can swim with. It’s called Hawaii."
Both kids pause their Disney campaign to consider this.
"Like Nemo?" Jace asks suspiciously.
"Better than Nemo," Sarah promises. "And there's a volcano."
"A real one?" Lukas's eyes go wide. "That 'splodes?"
"Explodes," I correct automatically. "And no, it's not going to explode."
"Aww." He looks genuinely disappointed. "But Mickey has fireworks."
"Fireworks?" Sarah takes my phone and scrolls through it, landing on an episode of Lukas covering his ears and screaming—and not in delight. I'm trying to comfort him while simultaneously looking for the nearest exit.
"Maybe we skip that video," I suggest.
"No, no, this is educational." Sarah grins. "Look, there's the moment you dropped the Mickey bars trying to carry both kids at once."
"I thought we agreed never to speak of this?"
"You agreed. I never did.
"DADDY." Jace tugs my sleeve with sticky fingers—when did she get sticky? What did she even touch? She’s been in bed for hours. "Can we get ice cream in Ha-wee?"
"Hawaii," I correct. "And yes, they have shave ice, which is even better than ice cream."
This launches a detailed explanation of what shave ice is, during which Lukas manages to find every single Disney photo on my phone and Sarah continues to be absolutely no help at all.
"Look." He thrusts the phone at me. "That's when Goofy tried to hug me and I didn't like it."
Ah yes, the Goofy Incident. It was a day of Incidents.
"You know," Sarah says casually, "I hear Hawaii doesn't have any scary characters in costumes. Just beautiful beaches and fun pools and?—"
"POOLS." Both kids perk up.
"With slides?" Lukas asks hopefully.
"Better." I pull up the Hawaii resort website, which I definitely haven't been studying for the past three days. "They have a volcano pool."
"That 'splodes?"
"Explodes. And sort of. It's got water features and?—"
But they're not listening anymore, too busy charging around the room making explosion noises and scattering all packing attempts to the wind.
Sarah picks up a discarded t-shirt. "So, you’re doing this? Actually doing this?"
"Guess so,” I say, watching Lukas demonstrate his version of a volcanic eruption. "Unless you think I'm crazy."
"Oh, you're definitely crazy." She folds the shirt with the practice of someone who's done more than her share of kid laundry. "But the good kind of crazy. The kind Genny would approve of."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiles. "She always said you needed to loosen up more."
"I'm plenty loose." I protest, then immediately lunge to catch Jace before she demonstrates volcanic activity off the edge of her bed.
"Sure you are, bro." Sarah heads for the door. “I gotta head out. Early call tomorrow.”
I stand to give her a hug. “Thanks, sis. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She smirks and slaps my arm. “I don’t know what you’d do, either.”
"DADDY." Lukas interrupts, ignoring his aunt’s exit. "Can we bring my dinosaurs to Ha-wee?"
"Hawaii. And how many dinosaurs?"
He considers this with all the seriousness of a contract negotiation. "All of them?"
I look at his mini-suitcase, already overflowing with the basics. Then at Jace, who's now demanding that her princesses get to come too because "it's not fair if only the dinos get a vacation."
"We'll negotiate," I decide. "But first, who wants to help Daddy by going back to bed?”
Their enthusiasm for going back to bed is nonexistent. But that's okay. Nights like this, with princesses and dinosaurs, are everything that we’ll remember one day.
Gloria’s travel agent, Karen, has the patience of a saint and the organizational skills I desperately need in my life. She's also, apparently, a mind reader, as she gives me a last-minute briefing on Hawaii.
"The Hale Olu’olu Resort is perfect for single parents," she says during her pep talk, most likely orchestrated by Gloria. "They have a special program for kids while you're doing your thing, supervised activities all day, and the rooms are completely childproofed."
"Childproofed doesn't mean Jace- and Lukas-proofed," I warn.
Karen laughs. "Well, they've hosted several NHL families before. Including the Robertsons last year—and we know their twins are... energetic."
That's one way to put it. I once saw those twins dismantle their father’s locker room in under five minutes.
"The resort has everything you need," she continues. “Multiple pools for different ages, calm beaches for the little ones, and most importantly”—she pauses for effect—"an excellent coffee shop that opens at 5 a.m.”
Now she's speaking my language.
"What about the flight?" I scroll through my mental list of travel horrors. "Five hours is a long time with two kids."
"Nonstop from San Francisco, departure time coincides with their usual nap schedule, and I've already arranged for extra legroom seats near the bathroom."
I pause. "How did you know their nap schedule?"
"Gloria might have called me." Of course she did. They’re friends. "Several times, actually. She's very thorough."
"That's one word for it."
I lean back in my chair, watching through my home office window as the kids build a "practice volcano" in the backyard. It mostly involves throwing dirty up in the air and screaming "BOOM." But they're happy. And filthy.
"How are you feeling about things?” Karen asks.
The vacation whisperer. I get it.
I rub my face. "We were supposed to do the whole family vacation thing together. Their mother and me. Genny would plan it all out—trips, flights, everything. And now..."
"Now you're doing it. And doing a great job, I might add.”
This conversation is getting way too personal. And yet I can’t stop talking to this woman, who I hardly know.
"Yeah." I watch Lukas attempt to throw dirt in his sister’s face. She just laughs. "I keep thinking about the things she's missing. We’re all missing.”
"You're not alone, Jonas. That’s par for the course." She’s typing something —probably adding more caffeine-related amenities to our itinerary. "You’ll have an entire resort staff, trained to support for families like yours."
"You mean for single dad disasters?"
"I was going to say 'parents who deserve a break,' but sure, we can go with that."
On my desk, Genny's planning binder sits next to the plane tickets Karen emailed. Two different versions of family happiness—one carefully planned, one waiting to happen.
"Tell me more about the place,” I say finally, still desperate to believe I’m doing the right thing.
More typing. "The resort has an adults-only pool area, if you can manage to get a break."
I snort. "Right. Because that's likely to happen."
"You never know. They have twenty-four-seven childcare programs. Qualified babysitters available around the clock. And..." she pauses meaningfully, "lots of interesting guests."
Good grief. "Please don’t. You sound like Gloria now."
"I'm just saying, you wouldn't be the first single parent to find some adult conversation by the pool."
"I'm not looking for?—"
"Of course not." She interrupts. "You're just looking for a nice, relaxing family vacation. Nothing else."
"Exactly."
Five minutes later, I’ve got the details of the trip I’ve been pressured into by everyone on the planet. One suite, two weeks, three meal plans (because Lukas insists on both kids' and adult menu access), and more pre-booked activities than we can possibly cram in.
"One last thing," Karen says. "The resort has a social media policy. They ask guests to be mindful of photos and posts for the privacy of everyone there."
"I’m glad to hear that." The last thing I need is more social media attention.
"Perfect. You're all set then. Bon voyage."
Yeah, sure. Whatever.
"What's the worst that could happen?" I mutter, watching the kids transform my backyard into their personal water park as Lukas grabs the garden hose.
Through the window, I hear him shout, "Ready, aim, fire!" followed by Jace's piercing wail—undoubtedly over being the unlucky target.
I glance at Genny's photo on my desk, her smile as knowing as ever. She always had a way of daring me to loosen my grip, even when I swore I couldn’t.
"DAD!" Lukas yells. "Jace got dirt in her mouth!"
I sigh, bracing myself for the chaos that comes with their kind of fun. By the time I hit the door, I’m already wondering how fast I can hide that damn garden hose.
***