Page 120 of Sin Bin Daddies
His reply come right away.
>> We are.
It settles between us, those words. A pause. Not awkward, just heavy in a way that makes everything real. Then my phone pings with another text from him.
>> You gonna tell your parents?
I pause for a moment before returning the question.
>> You?
>> Eventually. We should figure stuff out first.
>> Yeah, agreed.
There’s a long stretch of quiet while the muted colors ofNational Geographicplay across the screen. Ocean documentaries. Sharks gliding through blue-black depths.
I’ve always watched these when I couldn’t sleep. Madeline teases me about it. Calls it my weird version of a lullaby.
Then Asher sends something else.
>>Maybe we should start looking for a place. Something bigger. Central.
>> You serious?
I don’t really need to ask because I know he is.
>>Just a thought. Closer to the arena, still private. A backyard. Room for everything.
>> Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Asher.
>>No pressure. Just something to think about.
I stare at that message for a while. My fingers type and delete three different responses before I finally settle on:
>> Yeah. Okay.
He quickly shoots back one more text.
>>Sleeping now.
Then he’s gone.
I watch the sharks glide across the screen, slow and unbothered. This is bigger than the day I found out I made it to the Icemen.
Back then, I was overwhelmed. Grateful. Stunned. But nothing like this.
Nothing has ever cracked me open quite like this moment.
I fall asleep to the sound of David Attenborough talking about coral reefs.
I wake up early. Sun’s barely up, the sky that soft bruised purple just before the light breaks through. I throw on swim trunks and head straight out.
The ocean’s calm today, no crowd, the early hour keeping the tourists in bed. I dive in with just my mask and fins and let the saltwater rinse away the residue of last night’s thoughts.
Snorkeling clears my mind. Always has.
The rhythm of my breathing through the tube, the fish darting around coral, the sun shimmering above—it gives me the space I need.
