Page 68 of Broken Heat
Mykel leaned down to look at our son.
“Look,” he said. “Look what we’ve done.”
EPILOGUE
Mikel –Wish Granted
Quynn had just turned three. We couldn’t get him to believe the vacation and the party weren’t for him.
He ran as fast as his little legs could carry him straight up to Senta, who stood tall and dominating in his black kimono. Quynn tugged at his hem and Senta looked down.
“Mista, Mista, I’m thwee.” Quynn was not yet able to pronounce his R’s.
“How many is that?” Senta asked.
Quynn held up his hand, pulling his middle fingers up with his other hand one by one. His chubby fist strained to hold them and raised them up for Senta to see.
“Good boy.” Senta patted him on the head.
Quynn said, “This is my pawty!”
“Is it?”
Quynn nodded fast and hard.
I swung my boy up and onto my shoulders. “This is a party for everyone,” I told him as he screeched and giggled, grabbing fistfuls of my hair as he balanced himself.
Senta leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek. “It’s always so good to see you, Mykel.”
“I still miss this place, but my life is whole and full now and I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” I told him.
“And this is always our greatest wish granted,” he said.
A group of people called out Senta’s name. He clasped my shoulder and again kissed me on the cheek. “Your beautiful family and you are all welcome at my table tonight.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled deeply and turned toward his other guests.
Everything was brilliant green, the sun glistening off glass blades, leaves, flower petals, bird wings. People laughed. The parkland was filled with groups and couples and throuples. Food was laid out on picnic tables. An Omega Island feast. For this party, alcohol was allowed, and all but pregnant omegas imbibed.
There was a stage and a live band. And balloons. And cold drink booths every fifty feet.
Senta’s reunion parties were lavish, complete with party favors that included towels, robes, swimsuits. Kimonos.
When Quynn saw Elon coming toward us with drinks in his hands, he scrambled and kicked.
“Hey, baby, ouch!” I reached up and swung him over my head, setting him gently on the ground.
Quynn ran up to his father, who bent and handed him a sippy cup decorated with plastic fruit at the edges. It was fancy, a three-D affair that would fascinate our child for about a minute before he saw something else he wanted to explore.
Elon walked up to me and handed me a drink with real fruit and, as I held it up to my nose, real alcohol in it.
I sipped through the tiny straw. Sweet nectar filled my mouth.
I looked at Quynn’s sippy cup. “There’s not sugar in that, is there?”
“Hmm.” Elon grinned at me. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
