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There are moments where it hurts that Holt hasn’t been here for them the way I thought he would be when we were boys. But I also know that the sting of all we put him through is a lot to get over. Still, I hold hope for one day. One day will always be a possibility.

Faye slides close. “You look good.”

I know what she means. Peering down into her eyes, I tease, “How good?”

A flirty grin toys with her lips. “Well, that depends on how good you’re feeling.”

Warmth surges through me. It still amazes me how the heat of desire that I feel for this woman never ceases to dim. If anything, it’s only grown over the years as she’s transitioned from girl to woman, from woman to mother.

“I feel really, really good.”

I can’t help noting the relief in her eyes as she murmurs, “Good.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“The medicine is working?”

“Seems to be.” I still wake with a banger of a headache most mornings, but a few hours after I’ve been moving around it lessens. By the afternoon, I feel better.

“Good,” Faye says again, and then her hand slides into mine, her thumb tracing the line of my own as she leans in to press a kiss to the bare skin of my shoulder. “Because I love you.”

My throat tightens. “I love you most.”

I take a bite from my strawberry ice cream cone as Owen frowns at me.

“What?” I give him a side-eye.

He tips his head to my cone. “You know you’re doing that wrong.”

“What do you mean?” I frown, taking another bite. “There’s no wrong way to eat ice cream.”

“Why do you get it in a cone if you’re just going to take bites out of it?”

I shrug. “I like the crunch.”

“You’re weird.” But he’s smiling as he shakes his head, so even if I’m weird, I’m still cool enough to be seen in public with him while he smiles.

“Yeah, but weird is cool.”

Owen considers, then, surprising me, he agrees, “Yeah.”

I scoot just a little closer to him on the tailgate, taking another chomp from my cone. Under my breath, I say, “I’m a cool dad.”

He makes a noise that lives somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “You’re a weird dad.”

“Yeah, but we’ve established weird is cool.”

“True,” he concedes, pausing to lick his chocolate cone. Then, quietly, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Weighted butterflies swoop inside my gut at the question. Through the gravel in my throat, I manage, “Why do you ask?”

From the corner of my eye, I watch him shrug. “You’ve been weird lately. Tense and—” he shrugs again. “You know, you’ve had those headaches.”

“But I’ve been better the last few weeks, right?”

“I guess.” There’s tension I don’t like in his shoulders.

“I’m good, Owen.”