ended our contract with them. I have no choice.
This, unfortunately, is something many parents are faced with. The precarious, somewhat dangerous balance of time with your family and providing for them.
“It’s only temporary, buddy. I won’t be long.”
His eyes water and I know it’s not from the wind coming off the ocean. “But what if you don’t come back? What happens to me?”
Another reality I hate. “That’s not going to happen, but if it does, you will stay with Papa.”
“And Journey?”
Fuck, where’d that sharp pain in my heart come from? It surfaces out of nowhere. “If you want to hang out with her, I’m sure she’d like that.”
“What about my birthday? You won’t be here for it.”
“We’re gonna celebrate before I leave,” I assure him.
And then, like I’m being hit by a truck, Coho runs full speed at me and tackles me.
It’s enough to distract both Atlas and me and ends in him dissolving into a fit of laughter.
Soaked, cold, and smelling like seawater, Atlas and I make our way back to the house with a very dirty and even worse smelling dog. We bathe him outside only to have him roll around in the sand again.
“I think he likes to smell bad,” Atlas notes, shaking his head.
Inside the house, I find Journey in the kitchen. Bear is telling her his useless facts about animals, which leads to the terrifying facts Bear collects and tells me about while we’re fishing.
“Have you ever seen a turtle’s penis? It’s terrifying,” Journey tells him. “I studied them for a while and couldn’t get past the fact that their dongs are like two feet long.”
Bear shakes his head, laughter rolling through him. “I don’t go around checking out the junk of turtles.”
Journey shoves his shoulder. “Yet you know that dolphins masturbate?”
Bear shrugs, scrolling through his phone. “Everyone knows that.”
“What’s masturbate?” Atlas asks, reaching for the box of PopTarts. He looks inside the box and then frowns. “Who ate the last cherry one?”
Journey has one in her hand, pushing it his way. “I toasted it for you.”
Atlas smiles at me. “We’re keeping her, right?”
I laugh, winking at him. “That’s up to her. Not us.” I’m just thankful I didn’t have to explain masturbating to my five-year-old son.
With sunlight hitting the side of her face, coffee in hand, Journey smiles at me, and my world shifts. There’s always going to be a place in it for her, no matter what. All this pain, I can’t fight it anymore. She’s a gift to us. And to feel this interwoven mix of pain and joy, to have her in our lives, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to trust. To trust that it will work out, and if it doesn’t, it isn’t because I let her go. It’s because she needs to let us go. I can’t, nor will I blame her for her decision, regardless of what it is.
Dead-Stick - A method of fishing where the bait or lure is lowered to a certain depth and the rod is held steady until a fish strikes.
The sun is shining outside. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and it’s three days before Christmas. The air is cool, frigid even, but there’s something so beautiful about today, and I can’t place it. I can’t wipe the smile from my face or remember the last time that happened to me. Maybe it’s because Lincoln is coming home tomorrow, and after two months of him being gone, me and a six-year-old boy are ecstatic.
“Why are you filling out an application?” Atlas asks, his elbows on the bar as he leans in over his card he’s working on. “What’s it for?”
This is a regular occurrence. Atlas in this bar. Much like me, he spends every day after school in here with me. “It’s for college. I want to be a marine biologist.”
“What’s that?”
“Marine biology?”
Nodding, he sets down his crayon and reaches for his hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. “Yeah.”
“It’s a job that studies fish and marine life.”
Setting his cup down, he wipes his sleeve over his mouth and smiles. “Did you know starfish and jellyfish are not fish?”
“What are they?” I already know that, but I love it when he thinks he’s teaching me something. It’s the cutest thing in the world because his dimples deepen, and his eyes light up like I’ve given him the best gift ever.
“They don’t have fins or gills. They’re echinoderms.”
Presley comes over, bumping my pen in my hand. “Can you please say that again? It’s