Page 8 of Deacon

Too much and nowhere near enough.

He starts the bike before he can change his mind. The engine roars between them, swallowing the laughter from the yard and the clink of bottles, drowning everything warm and easy as he pulls away from the curb. The road opens ahead. The house falls behind them.

The lake waits.

The memory twists before it settles.

He is ten, maybe eleven, standing on the Morgan front walk with one eye swelling shut and blood drying at the corner of his mouth. Lila cries into Rose Morgan’s skirt, her knees scraped raw and her palm wrapped in a torn strip of his shirt gone pink with blood. Matty is yelling at him until Lila chokes out, “He saved me.”

Matty’s face changes, the anger dropping out of it so fast it would almost be funny if Jackson’s eye didn’t hurt like hell.

Rose studies him for a long, quiet moment, seeing too much the way she always does. “You’re staying for dinner.”

He starts to tell her he should go, but her brows rise. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Inside, Richard asks what happened, his voice smooth in the dangerous way. Everyone lies at once. Playground fall. Clumsy feet. Nothing serious. Richard doesn’t look convinced.

Lila sits at the table in one of the frilly dresses she refuses to stop wearing, her lower lip pushed out because the scrape across her palm stings. Jackson sees Richard’s suspicion sharpening and throws the first distraction he can find into the silence. “Wouldn’t have been so bad if she didn’t wear those Disney princess dresses all the time.”

Lila glares across her plate. “I like my dresses.”

“Then I guess the Princess needs somebody keepin’ a better eye on her.”

Matty laughs while Lila sticks out her tongue. Rose hides a smile, and Richard’s attention shifts just enough for the danger to pass.

Princess.

That’s where it starts.

The scene changes again, carrying him into a summer afternoon with heat rolling off the driveway. Lila’s braid smacks between her shoulder blades while she wobbles on a bicycle too big for her, Jackson running behind with one hand gripping the seat.

“Don’t let go,” she yells.

“I got you.”

“You better.”

He grins despite the sweat running down his back. “You always this bossy?”

“Yes.”

Her answer makes him laugh hard enough that he nearly lets go by accident. When he finally releases the seat, she makes it halfway down the drive before realizing she is riding alone, then topples into the grass. He reaches her as she shoves herself upright, furious and red-faced but clearly unhurt.

“You let go!”

“You were ridin’.”

“You said you had me.”

“I did.” He holds out his hand, and after one dramatic huff, she takes it and lets him pull her upright.

The simple weight of her small hand in his does something to him even then. He doesn’t have words for it and doesn’t need them yet. Some things begin long before anyone knows what to call them.

The lake flashes back. Lila is fourteen and clinging to his shoulders in the water, sputtering because she has forgotten how to float and breathe at the same time. He laughs with one arm locked around her waist, holding her steady while she glares at him through wet strands of hair.

“You said this was easy.”

“It is.”