Page 92 of The Golden Hour

If only the heart were so simple.

Luckily we have a routine in place for when the past bites us in the ass. And it has. Repeatedly. Like when Ellie made the decision to withdraw from UCLA due to several instances of violent harassment. Consequently, after spending a week with us she decided to reenroll and change her major to prelaw. I kind of like her now. She reminds me a lot of Callisto.

More fallout came, heavy and spiked, when families of victims found at the ranch began to step forward publicly to condemn the Avellinos. Even Callisto wasn’t spared the vitriol. And when Lizzie refused an insanity defense. And a week after that, when Wilson informed us that six of the seventeen bodies had been conclusively linked to the youngest Avellino.

We’ve accepted that the emotional shockwaves will continue, possibly for years. And though we’re insulated somewhat in Solstice Bay, there’s no umbrella for emotions.

So, when the past hits, we keep to our routine. We don’t immediately talk about our feelings or dissect our thoughts.

We hike, bike, or run.

After news of Vivian yesterday, Callisto needed to run. I let her set the pace, push herself as hard or as little as she wanted to. Six miles later, we ended up deep in her favorite forest, and then we ended up naked. I have nail marks on my ass, and she has bark-burn on her back.

In a few days, we’ll do the so-called normal communication stuff. Hash out our conflicting responses to Vivian’s death. Be honest with each other. Move forward.

Maybe our method isn’t the most conventional, but it’s ours.

“Are you going to tell her you bought the house? The one she’s been talking about for weeks?”

I give her the stink-eye. “No, and you can’t let it slip, okay? It’s a surprise. No telling Aunt Molly, either, because she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

My mom nods in agreement, smiling as she gazes across the yard at my sisters and Callisto, all of whom are laughing.

Her eyes well up, smile fading. “I wish…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Don’t mind me. Senior moment.”

“Stop,” I say gently, shifting closer so I can put my arm around her shoulders. Squeezing her to me, I kiss her graying curls. “You don’t have to do that anymore. Not with me. I wish he were here, too.”

Looking up at me, she whispers, “He’d be so proud of the man you’ve become.”

“Shit, Mom.” I wipe my leaking eyes. “Way to pull out the big guns.”

One of my nieces—Jessie, I think—screams like her arm’s being sawed off. It’s horrible. Bloodcurdling. I leap off the bench like an Olympic sprinter and run full tilt down the grassy hill. Ten feet from the kids, my sneaker catches a root and I trip, slip, and slide the rest of the way. Seconds later I’m crouching before Jessie, whose face is bright red as she wails. Tears roll down her chubby cheeks.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I pant at the other kids, who stand nearby shrugging and wearing various It wasn’t me expressions.

Jessie lets out another mind-numbing scream and holds out her thumb.

“Boo-boo! Boo-boo!”

I take her hand gently, examining her finger for a wound. Bee sting, splinter, cut… There’s nothing. I turn her hand over. Then examine the other hand. All perfectly unharmed—if dirty—skin.

Jessie shoves her thumb back in my face.

“Kiss the boo-boo!”

I carefully kiss the tip of her thumb. She pats my head like I’m a good boy, then jumps up and runs to join her cousins. I gape after her.

From the other side of the yard comes a chorus of feminine laughter.

“So gullible!”

“Wrapped around her little finger!”

“You’ll never learn!”

I salute my sisters with a middle finger before falling onto my back to admire how the late afternoon light caresses the branches of a nearby elm. Here, surrounded by my chaotic, colorful, forgiving family, with the distant rush of the ocean in my ears and fresh air on my face, I have no regrets. Everything is fucking perfect.

Sunlight fades as the main reason for my happiness bends over me, her smile hitting me right in the heart. Brave, beautiful woman. My fingers twitch for my camera—an impulse that’s been coming with increasing frequency.

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