Kona didn’t like swallowing his pride. He’d do it, had done it a dozen or so times in his life, but apologies still tasted bitter, dry on his tongue.

This time, though, as he drove up the street he hadn’t been on in decades, Kona would be eating crow for both himself and his manipulative mother.

He pulled the rental car across the street from the lake house, staring at the large porch, the wide gables. It was simple on this side of the property, mammoth, well-cared for despite the age. And on the other side, Kona recalled the fenced yard that led down to a dock, out onto the smooth waters of Lake Pontchartrain.

He closed his eyes, seeing the rest of the property, knowing what was on the other side of that fence: the wrought iron trellis that led to the second-floor balcony. How many times had he climbed it? How many nights and early mornings had he shimmied up and down it, fingers avoiding the sharp pricks from the roses woven between the spaces, to get into Keira’s room? A dozen? A hundred? He didn’t know.

Sometimes he’d taken the trellis slowly, worried that he’d fall, that it would give under his massive weight. Sometimes he didn’t care enough to worry—he’d been too focused on what waited for him inside. That body, that laugh, those fingers, that mouth. He would have crawled through glass to get to her. Once, he had.

Now Kona looked at the place, the blooming spring flowers, the full crape myrtles, and wondered about the woman inside. Her anger the day before had been like a poison, heady and thick. Kona didn’t blame her.

His mother’s lies, the deception, all made Kona feel stupid, simple. He wasn’t a dumb man. He was educated, he was moderately mature. So why had he not seen the way his mother deceived him? How could he have not believed in Keira? They’d made headway, crossed the bridge from the past, began to forgive each other, and in one afternoon, he let his mother strip that all away. 

A visit to the punk kid working in the lab and one small threat in his frown and Kona had uncovered the truth.

“That professor lady, Mr. Hale, she paid me five thousand bucks! I couldn’t turn that down.”

Five thousand dollars destroyed Kona’s chance at knowing his son. And the boy was his. The lab kid confirmed it. Keira hadn’t lied. Kona had a son, not Luka.

Five thousand dollars and his mother took away another connection to blood, to family.

He’d let her threaten whatever he hoped to have with his son.

“Why did you do this?” he’d asked her, waving the aged, yellow check in his hand. The one she’d hastily written to Keira all those years ago. “Why would you lie?”

“I was protecting you. I will always protect you, Kona.” His mother’s tears had been real. The trembling in her limbs, the pale, washed out color of her skin. She’d been scared, petrified that Kona’s anger would have him walking away from her without ever looking back. 

He couldn’t forgive her. He’d left her crying on her sofa, looking old, looking weak, with no promises that he’d ever see her again.

From his car, Kona saw his son coming out of the front door. Tall, strong, wide shoulders, thick legs. He was beautiful, the most remarkable thing Kona had ever let his eyes land on. His son waved to the old woman trimming weeds from her flower bed the next yard over and then the boy ran on the sidewalk, iPod in his ears, head down, concentrating as he slipped past Kona’s car.

He waited, watching in the rearview mirror until his son disappeared around the corner. Kona popped his neck, rubbed his face before he left the rental.

A weird flash of déjà vu hit him as him headed up the front walk, palms sweating, heart jackhammering in his chest, and when his ring on the doorbell went unanswered, and Kona heard the sound of a piano behind the front glass, he glanced inside to see Keira in front of the large Steinway.

Behind her, the patio doors were open, and the breeze from the lake blew her hair around her face. Kona stopped breathing, felt the rapid beat of his heart increasing.

My God, is she beautiful.

The grass needed mowing. It was thick, and Kona’s heavy feet crunched the blades as he walked to the side, then around the house, to the back. The fence had the same busted latch, the one he’d broken sixteen years before, and so it was easy for Kona to slip right through the wood fence, just like he’d done at twenty, eager to get to Keira. He took the same path up the walkway, noticing the gardenia bush next to the bathroom window was overgrown, small buds clustered between those shiny green leaves.

As he walked around the large AC unit, the tune of one of Keira’s songs, “Better Men,” flew off the patio tiles, and Kona frowned. He hated that song. Hated it more now that he knew Keira wrote it with him in mind. Then her voice rang out above the notes, and Kona felt the muscles around his mouth tighten.

You’re not special

You’re not a surprise

You laid me down with grins

Burned me with your lies

But don’t feel accomplished

Don’t think you’ve done anything new

‘Cause baby I’ve seen it all before

I’ve been burned by better men than you

 

It became an anthem for scorned women everywhere ten years ago, and the second Kona discovered Keira had written it, he found the references a bit too familiar, the anger too sharp. His Wildcat had been angry for years, and she capitalized on that anger.

There was a manic expression on her face, hair flapping against her shoulders as her fingers pounded the keys. Kona touched his chest, running his fingers over that ink that had sunk into his very soul, a habit he’d acquired when he felt pressure, when he needed to feel something that centered him. Now the one thing that always made him feel better, calmer, sat just feet from him, angry voice beautiful and bellowing as she sang about an asshole, a loser who took what he wanted and walked away.

He closed his eyes, steeling himself, trying to make the race of his heart settle. When the music died abruptly, Kona opened his eyes, gazed straight ahead and focused on Keira’s frown as she stared at him.

She didn’t take her fingers from the keys. She didn’t leave the piano at all. But the severe frown remained, stayed fixed, before Keira turned away from him and her fingers moved slower, calmer, the song haunting and sad.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, coming through the open doorway.

Her stubbornness had not diminished in all this time, and Kona was not surprised that she ignored him; that the poison he felt from her the day before was still thick, still toxic.

Keira wore a simple pair of jeans and a thin black tank that hugged her small waist and pushed up her beautiful breasts. Kona couldn’t help but stare at the perfect curve in her back, at the subtle way her body dipped and bent and he had to remind himself he wasn’t there to gawk at her or hope for things he could never have again.

The melody changed, shifted to something he recognized, and a quick ache squeezed in his chest as Keira played Mary J’s “Not Gonna Cry.”

“Keira, please. I’m trying to apologize.”

Hands flat against the keys, she whipped her gaze to him, that ever-present glare only hardening. “Apologize for what, Kona? Letting your mother call me a whore?” Her attention returned to the piano, and her fingers hit the keys in soft taps. “Or did you want to apologize for not believing me?” Striking the ivory harder now, Keira’s arm shook and Kona stepped next to the piano. “Maybe you want to apologize for allowing your mother to lie about your brother and me. Maybe, I dunno, maybe you wanna apologize for acting like a sackless wonder while she and that Twinkie of a lawyer spoke for you.” Another glare at him and her fingers stilled. “That was very manly, Hale.”

He took the venom without arguing. She was right. Every word was a punishment, something Kona knew he deserved. But he still had to make his apologies. Keira straightened up, took her hands from the keys when he knelt next to the seat.

“Yes. For all that. She’s manipulative, and she didn’t care about insulting my brother’s memory.” He had to stop himself from touching her when some of the stiffness of her frown softened. “Yes, I was a punk. I let her convince me that you’d lied. It’s not an excuse, but I never realized how long she’d planned this. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t try to stop her. I’m an asshole who doesn’t deserve to meet my son. I don’t deserve a lot of things, Keira.” Kona closed his eyes, tried to ignore the pout on her lips and how badly he wanted to kiss them. “But I’m here, on my knees, asking you to forgive me. I’m here because I want to know my son. Will you let me? Please, Keira?”

She inhaled, shoulders moving up, and then Keira returned her fingers to the keys. “No.”

And Kona was disregarded, ignored again, when Keira hid behind those notes. On the drive over, he promised himself he wouldn’t get angry, that he’d take whatever she gave him and accept it. He’d let her take the lead in this. She’d been the one raising the boy on her own. She’d been responsible for him when she was barely old enough to know what that meant.

But Keira Riley did something to Kona. Always. Only she could make his stomach clench, bubble with frustration, with quick, easy anger, and her dismissal has that burn stirring in gut. “You are being stubborn as hell.”

Kona shot up on his feet, stepping back when she kicked the bench away, when she slammed the cover over the keys. “Yes, I am, you asshole.” She took a step and Kona felt that bubble of anger shift, lower. He didn’t want to get worked up by this, but the deep shade of red on her cheeks and how her eyes were lit with fierce rage, had Kona’s dick twitching, made his fingers buzz. He watched her move toward him, wondering if she’d lash out, annoyed with himself when he hoped she did.

“I will not ever let you treat my son like that. I will not put him in a situation where you or your mother can hurt him.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“You don’t have a say in it.” Another step and Kona stopped retreating, curious what she’d try. “He is my son, and you cannot meet him. I don’t want you near him and if that bitch ever thinks about contacting him…”

“She won’t. I promise, you, she won’t.”

“You think your word means anything to me? You think your promises are worth anything at all?”

The twitching stopped, completely reversed. He had grown hard the louder her voice grew, realizing that he missed her passion, the quick anger that never failed to turn him on as a kid. It was fire; something Kona hadn’t experienced with a woman since Keira busted the jail’s telephone receiver. But her mentioning his broken promises took away that excitement, replaced it with a thick cocktail of guilt and frustration.

“This isn’t about you and me, Keira. Fuck! You don’t get that? I’m not here to win you back.” Kona’s hands flew to his hair, rubbed the back of his head, and he turned away from her, looked out at the lake to keep his anger in check.

“You’ll hurt him,” she said, her voice softer, cautious.

“No, I won’t.” Kona looked down at Keira, away from her full mouth, breathing through his nose, ignoring the urge to touch her. “You’re going to have to trust me on this. He’s my son, Keira. I won’t hurt him.”

When she folded her arms and looked to the row of photographs on the wall—all of her mother and those rich bitch friends of hers—Kona risked another rejection by grazing his finger against her elbow. “We have to come to an understanding. Whatever happens from here on out, it has to be about him first. Dredging up the past isn’t going to help anyone, and it certainly won’t make things easy for him, will it? Not if he’s put in the middle of our shit.” Keira’s eyebrows lowered, and that hard edge to her mouth disappeared. “You agree?” he asked her, moving his head to catch her gaze.

“I agree.” A little nod of her head and Keira stepped back, but she was still closed off from him, arms still cradled tight against her body. “Ransom wouldn’t want that anyway.”

“I wouldn’t want what?”

If Kona had a mirror, one that shot back a reflection of his younger self, then Ransom would be what he saw. He wasn’t a sentimental guy, not generally, and he liked kids well enough, had wanted his own for years now. Kona didn’t get off on beautiful sunsets or centuries old masterpieces. If he saw something he thought was nice, he either bought it, bedded it or guzzled it down. Most of the time, whatever he admired warranted a pleased jerk of his chin. But seeing this boy in front of him threw all of Kona’s composed swagger and cool right out the open doors behind him. The boy was beautiful and strong, and amazed Kona with one single glance.

Fleetingly, he wondered what the boy had been like as a kid, if, like Luka he’d had a little chunk or was he lean like Kona had always been? He pushed those thoughts aside quickly, not wanting to dwell on all the milestones he’d missed in his son’s life.

Ransom walked forward, sweaty, looking tired as he pocketed his iPod and smiled at Kona, giving him a nod before he stood at Keira’s side.

“What wouldn’t I want?” he asked his mother, but his gaze kept veering to Kona.

“Us. Fighting about shit that doesn’t matter.” Keira rubbed her face, shaking off her earlier annoyance and anger before she grabbed Ransom’s hand. “Sweetie, this is your father, Kona.”

Absently, Kona tugged on the hem of the white button up he wore, unusually nervous, worried by the way his son looked him over, and he thought he might get some attitude, maybe a thousand questions about why there had been a DNA test and why his mother had returned home yesterday likely ready to spit fire. But Ransom didn’t ask a single question. He nodded again and an easy, warm smile crossed his features. Kona blinked, shivering when the right side of the boy’s mouth curled in a half grin. Luka had done that a lot. Seeing that gesture after so long made Kona’s palms sweat and his chest twinge.

“Hey, man,” Ransom said, lifting his hand toward Kona.

He took the boy’s hand, pulling him into a dude hug—hands grasped and a quick pat on the back.

“You remind me of my brother.” The words were out before Kona realized he’d said them, and he thought he might have messed up, that his honesty was too telling, or that Keira might think it was a dig at her and the stupid accusation his mother made.

“Oh, you mean my real father?” Ransom said, but he laughed, slapping Kona’s shoulder, and the melancholy and nervousness he felt instantly disappeared.

Keira jabbed the boy in the side and his laughter increased. “That is not funny, you little shit.”

Ransom kissed the top of her head, had to bend down to reach it, and Kona’s chest pinched for a different reason. They loved each other, that much he could tell, and the thought that his boy had turned into someone so laid back, so seemingly willing to make others comfortable, pulled a wider, honest smile to Kona’s face.

“Ugh. Go take a shower. You smell disgusting.”

Ransom rolled his eyes, grinning at his mother when she moved his shoulders and pushed him toward the hallway. “Easy, woman, I’m going.” He glanced at Kona. “You sticking around?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Cool. Maybe we can sweet-talk Mom into making chili.” He pulled the sweat-slick shirt over his head and winked at his mother before he grinned at Kona. “You ever have her chili?” Kona shook his head, and the boy shrugged. “Well, it’s awesome. I call it her Bless Jesus Chili.”

“Your mom had me blessing Jesus a lot, but not for her cooking.” Kona bit his lip, realizing too late that he probably shouldn’t have said that. Keira glared at him, looked like she wanted to smack him hard, and he thought Ransom was insulted, maybe thought Kona was disrespecting his mother. But after a few seconds that lingered, Ransom laughed hard and loud.

“Oh, shit.” He held his stomach, gave Kona a fist bump. “I like you, Kona.”

And with that, Kona’s son left the room, his laughter bouncing off the walls of the hallway.

“Asshole,” Keira said, but Kona caught the small smile she tried keep off her lips.

 

 

 

The lake house smelled wonderful. Kona’s mouth watered as the smell of chili powder and cornbread perfumed the air. If the smells were any indication, then cooking was a skill Keira had acquired, and she was damn good at it. She’d already slapped Ransom’s hand from the simmering pot twice when the boy tried stealing a taste and Kona couldn’t blame him. The smell alone made Kona’s stomach grumble and whine.

He excused himself, walking down the hall to the bathroom and that smell followed him. He slipped in and out quickly and hit the light, started to make back for the dining room where his son was talking to his cousin Tristan and Leann while Keira took a phone call. But then the light from the back of the house glinted against the framed photos on the wall and Kona stood in front of a row of pictures, all of Keira, her as a child, graduating high school, her on the docks outside with her Gibson on her lap.

Fleetingly, he wondered if she still had it, but the thought had him feeling guilty, remembering how she’d almost lost her father’s prized Hummingbird; how it had been his fault.

Kona rubbed a thumb over the scar on his cheek and was about to leave the hallway and the shameful memories those pictures had pulled from his mind, but he heard Keira’s voice, stepped silently toward it as she talked on the phone in the office.

A slip of light fell onto the hardwood at his feet through the crack in the door and Kona looked down at the grain and edges of that oak wood. He knew he had no business listening. Nothing she said had anything to do with him. He shouldn’t care that her voice was affectionate, pitched high.

“Oh, I know, sweetie, don’t worry about that.” Southern folks called everyone sweetie. Or honey. Or sugar. It was custom. It was habit, but Keira saying that word, saying it with that soft tone, set Kona’s teeth on edge. He didn’t know the woman she was now, but as a girl she’d reserved her pet names for him. He leaned his head against the wall, listening, praying that the tone would harden, that she’d stop using those endearments.

“No,” she said, clearing her throat. “I don’t know. He’s here now, and it’s okay. Well, it got okay after we screamed at each other.”

Walk away. He wasn’t eager to hear Keira insulting him, talking about him like he was an asshole. But you are an asshole, he told himself. Hello, DNA test! Still, the small chuckle Keira released kept him rooted to that shadowed space next to the door. He wanted to hear a name. He wanted to know what she’d say to the guy who brought out Keira’s pacifying, sweet tone.

“The end of summer, at least. I think Ransom is going to try to get into a camp, maybe one at Tulane, and I’ve got to settle all the shit with Steven’s estate.”

Tulane? Hell, no. No son of his would be practicing at freaking Tulane.

“Are you going to be okay for that long? I hated leaving you.”

Kona felt a cramp in his stomach, one that twisted up his esophagus, and he told himself to push down that sensation. It shouldn’t matter to him that Keira probably had someone back in Nashville. She was a beautiful woman. She was strong and confident. She was talented and smart; he’d never kidded himself into believing she’d be without a man. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous. That didn’t mean he’d stop listening.

“Bobby, no. I can come home if you need me. I’m serious. Of course…well, no, but…” Keira’s words rushed out, and Kona could hear the frustration, the worry in her voice. “You know I will. Okay. Yes. Yes, of course. I love you, sweetie.”

Four small words that felt like a gut punch.

Three words that Kona hadn’t uttered to anyone in sixteen years.

Keira said them easily. She said them like she meant them, and Kona couldn’t listen anymore.

“You know I will. Sure. Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Kona tried to pull the instant, stupid-looking relieved smile from his face as he walked into the dining room, waving off a slice of cornbread Ransom had lifted from the oven as he sat at the table.

“So Kona, you back for good?” Leann asked, and Kona looked at her, needing a distraction so he wouldn’t stare after Keira when she returned to the kitchen.

He nodded to Ransom, a small thanks when the boy sat a bottle of Abita in front of him. “I don’t know yet, Leann. My agent is trying to work something out, but the Steamers’ defensive line is pretty strong.”

“One of the best in the league,” Ransom offered, taking a sip of his sweet tea.

Another nod and a swig from his bottle and Kona shrugged. “We’ll see how spring training goes. I’m set to start with them in a few weeks, but I’ve been putting out feelers on some other things.” Leann grinned at him, and Kona got the feeling her question had been polite, that she wasn’t all that interested in who Kona signed with.

Leanna sat at the table peeling cucumbers, slapping her son’s hand from the bowl of clean vegetables and fussing at her younger son when he ran through the dining room with wet feet. “Outside, you little monster.”

Kona’s gaze followed the boy and he smiled at his white blonde hair, at the low growl of a laugh he made when his mother continued fussing. “Two boys?” Kona said to her, moving his chin between the little guy running out onto the patio and the one sitting next to Ransom as both boys checked their phones.

“Yes. Two was plenty.”

“You don’t dance anymore?” He was curious, trying to catch up, trying like hell not to watch Keira as she moved around the kitchen.

“I do. I own a studio in Kenner.”

“That’s good. Owning a business will keep you out of trouble.”

“Then maybe my boys should think about it.”

Kona’s grin grew as he nodded at Leann’s boy across the table from him. “You give your mom hell?”

“Not as much as the shit Ransom gives Keira.” He winced when Leann threw a cucumber peel at his head. 

Ransom elbowed his cousin, silently telling him to keep his mouth shut, and Kona laughed, relaxed against his chair. “You give Keira problems?”

“No. Well, not anymore.” The boy sipped from his glass. “Last summer there was some shi—” Leann cleared her throat, and Ransom waved her off. “Last summer I got talked into a race.” Tristan snorted, a disbelieving sound that had Kona laughing.

Ransom took another drink, finishing off the tea until the melted ice rattled in the bottom of the glass. “Okay, so I don’t like people messing with me.” Head to the side as his gaze moved over Kona and Ransom shifted his chin at his father. “You can’t tell me people didn’t screw with you when you were my age.” He waved between them. “The size? The height?”

“Yep. I got that. Lu…” he winced, catching Keira gaze from behind the kitchen island when he looked up her. Kona felt stupid, awkward with how uneasy he was just uttering his twin’s name. “Luka too. We were always fighting, especially him, because he had some pudge on him until he was about ten.” Kona shook his head, blinking away the memory of his brother knocking out a sixth grader who tried telling the whole playground that the twins were stupid, had to have been held back since they were so much bigger than everyone else. “Anyway, last summer?”

The prompt had Ransom shifting his eyes down, sliding the empty, sweating glass between his hands. “Some big redneck with a Kawasaki Ninja starts talking shit, telling me his 900 can beat my GSXR.”

“Wait,” Kona said, stopping Ransom with a wave of his hand. “You drive a GSXR? How? You’re a kid.”

From the kitchen, Keira cleared her throat, eyes narrowed as she glared at Ransom, motioning with her chin for their son to explain himself.

“Well, technically, I’m not allowed, but one of my boys needed to get rid of it, and I had some extra cash.” A quick shrug and the boy leaned back in his chair, gaze moving around the table as he ignored Kona’s expression. “Mom didn’t know about it last year. Bobby, she, well, I guess you could say she’s my adoptive grandmother, she let me keep it at her house and Mom…”

“Neither one of them told me,” Keira said, leaning against the kitchen island. “And I gave them both hell for it too.”

Ransom glared at his mother, but the expression was quick, easily left his face when Kona cleared his throat. “So this guy?”

“Right. Well, I tried walking away, but this asshole keeps talking smack, him and his boys following me out to the mall parking lot, and man, I hate a bully. Especially one that only starts shit when his boys are around.” He looked up at Kona as though he needed his approval, as though Kona’s small nod would make his actions seem reasonable. So Kona gave his boy that nod, urging him with one gesture to continue.

“So I tell this Barney Fife jackass to ease off me and that there was no point arguing over a 900 racing a 950. ‘It’s not the engine, dumbass, it’s the rider,’ I tell him, and he and his boys just start laughing at me.” Ransom looked down, voice lowering. “No one laughs at me.”  Leann got up from the table, and the boy watched her leave, leaning lower over the table, voice almost at a whisper. “That asshole also bet me two large that he could beat me, and there was no way I was gonna pass that up.”

Kona laughed, understanding the logic, remembering what it was like when his mother was tight with her cash, and he and Luka would fight with punks eager to prove themselves. He’d made some nice bank in high school teaching lessons to guys half his size.

“So we go to the West End, out to Centennial. It’s late, no one is around, and we take the two miles twice, and this idiot is all over the place. He had nothing on me, but he keeps on running his mouth the whole time we’re racing, calling me a punk, telling me I’m a stupid jock, and I’m thinking to myself, ‘shit, man, whip it out and measure.’”   

            “Ransom!” Keira shouted from the kitchen, and the boy flinched at the sound.

            “Sorry, Mom. Anyway, so we take the curve, the redneck flips, wrecks that sweet little Ninja, and I beat him by at least two hundred yards. I run to check up on him, and the dude is crying. Literally crying like a freakin’ kid.”

            Head in a shake, Kona couldn’t help smiling at his boy, a mix of approval and annoyance made him wonder if he was a bad father for feeling proud. “You won the bet.”

            “Lot of good it did him,” Tristan said.

            Ransom again jabbed his cousin in the ribs. “Hey. My story, asshole.”

            “Luka Ransom Riley, watch your mouth.” Kona didn’t buy Keira’s frown or the way she stomped into the dining room with a stack of bowls in her hands. “Marcus is eight years old, and he repeats everything you and Tristan say.”

            “Hey, his foul mouth isn’t our fault. You’ve heard Leann yell, Mom.”

            From the kitchen, Leann threw a dishrag at Ransom’s head, and he caught it.

            “What happened with the bet?” Kona asked him, sliding his beer out of the way when Keira placed a bowl in front of him.

            She stood at his side, hands on her hips, and Kona got that she hated the story, that she wasn’t amused by how animated Ransom was retelling it. “There were two State Troopers tailing them the whole time. Our son spent the night in jail.”

            “What?”

            Keira nodded.

            “You didn’t bail him out?”

            “Hell, no. When the cops called me, I agreed with them that our son needed to be taught a lesson.” Ransom looked like he might correct her language, but one lifted eyebrow from his mother shut the boy up immediately. “He was being stupid, and he needed to learn about consequences.”

            “But a whole night in jail?” Kona asked her, looking up at her surprised face. He knew he had no right to question her decision to leave him in jail overnight, but he’d been there himself at sixteen. He hated to think that his boy had repeated Kona’s behavior.

            “Kona, Nashville isn’t New Orleans and yeah, a whole night. He got landed with a priest who was pulled over for DWI. The man quoted scripture to him for sixteen hours straight.”

            Keira walked off, and Kona watched her, then quickly moved his gaze back to his son when Ransom again lowered his voice. “I went the next day and got my damn money though.”

            There was a small moment of silence, which was immediately broken when a crash sounded from the patio and Leann told Tristan to check on his little brother.

            “You want another Abita?” Ransom asked Kona, and he shook his head, his eyes flicking down to the varsity team T-shirt his son wore.

            Kona pointed to the shirt, at the Spartan in the center of Ransom’s chest.  “You thinking about college yet? Your mom said you’ve gotten interest from some scouts.”

            “Yeah. LSU and Ole Miss, but I’m not focusing on that.” He silenced his phone, moving it to the side to look at Kona. He nodded to Tristan, who pushed his little brother into the kitchen before he returned to his seat. “This one is already committed to CPU for basketball. Point guard.”

            “Good job, man.” Kona thought the boy look like Leann. Same nose, same mouth, but his coloring was different, and he wondered if the tattooer stuck around long enough to get Leann to marry him. “Michael your dad?”

            “Who?”

            Leann cleared her throat, glared at Kona as she brought silverware to the table. “No. I married Will Bankston. I don’t think you know him, Kona. He graduated from Tulane.”

            “Who’s Michael?” Tristan said again, eyeing his mother.

            “Someone you will never meet,” she answered, returning to the kitchen.

The doorbell rang and Kona was glad for the distraction, was glad that Tristan jumped from the table to answer it. He wanted a minute with his boy, just to talk to him and figured as long as his cousin was around and the manic activity at the lake house continued, he wouldn’t get that minute. Still, Kona liked how easy, how relaxed Ransom was with his cousins, with Keira.

            Not liking the silence, Kona folded his hands together, nodded again at his son. “So you leaning toward Ole Miss or LSU?”

            “I don’t know, man. I still have two more years to think about it. Tennessee might be interested, but I don’t know what Mom wants to do.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “She’s gotta handle all the shit here first. The estate and everything.”

            He’d caught the mention of her stepfather’s estate during her phone call, but assumed that her mother’s financials had been settled. Kona frowned, wondering what that would mean for his son. He wondered how long he’d have him here. “I thought she donated everything.”

            “Her mom’s estate, yeah, but she still has to take care of the mess her stepfather left.” Kona frowned, confused. “The asshole left so much debt when he died, plus two illegitimate kids, that there is a hold-up on his estate. Cora and Steven had a pre-nup, so one down, one to go.” Ransom shrugged, fiddling with the end of a spoon in the center of the table. “We’re stuck here to the end of the summer.”

            Kona didn’t hide his smile, liked that his son mimicked him. He’d have him for the summer. He’d have time even with his training, and then an idea came to him, and he hoped mentioning it to Ransom didn’t make it seem like he was trying to buy his affection.

            “There’s a combine happening next weekend. It’s at CPU.” Kona shot for subtlety, but he couldn’t seem to calm the excitement in his chest. He wanted the boy to like him. He wanted him to have opportunities and even if they didn’t make up for him missing the first fifteen years of his life, it could at least be a start. “I could probably get you in if you’re interested.”

            Ransom dropped the spoon, sat up straighter. “You serious?”

            “My buddy Brian is the assistant coach. He owes me a favor.” Another flippant wave, and Kona looked up, saw Keira watching him, eyes squinted, curious. “It’ll at least let you know where you are, give you an idea on what you need to work on.”

            “Hell, yeah.” Keira came to the table, a large, steaming bowl of chili in her hands, and Ransom followed Kona, stood to make room for her as she placed the dish in the center of the table. His son bit his lip, staring at the chili, and then he glanced at Kona, as though he’s just realized something. “I’ve been slacking since we’ve been here. The food is too damn good and I…” he stopped talking when Tristan returned to the dining room, followed by three teenage girls. They were pretty, well dressed, but had friendly smiles, and they greeted Leann, lingering near the kitchen island. Kona smiled at his son, at the way his gaze shot immediately to a tiny redhead hanging back from her friends, eyes searching the room, looking shy and uncomfortable.

“Um, I’ll be right back,” he told Kona, shooting away from the table to approach the redhead, and Kona sat back down, grinning like an idiot as he watched his son introduce himself, as he watched the boy work his magic.  Inside two minutes, the girl was grinning, and Kona saw Keira staring at their son, peeking out of the kitchen. He caught her eyes and shook his head at how closely she watched the two kids.

Kona thought she should be worried. His son was too much like him: looked the same, had the same need to prove himself, the same quick temper. But he was kind, gentle, and smiled easy, just like Luka. Kona thought, as Ransom led the girl to the table, introduced her to him, that Keira wasn’t the only worried parent in the room. It was funny to him, weird that he could have this much worry, this much pride in a kid he’d just met. 

            Later, after the Bless Jesus chili had been consumed, Kona’s belly full with Keira’s exceptional handiwork, he watched his son joking around with his friends and Keira and Leann sitting across from them, talking low, relaxed in two cherrywood Adirondack chairs on the patio. The fire pit burned bright, sparks of flame and ash floated above the wood, and the lake was slow, calm. Kona nursed another Abita, closed his eyes, loved the touch of the thin breeze on his face and the quiet sounds his boy made on Keira’s guitar.

Ransom had an audience, played a few tunes, songs Kona couldn’t make out before he began a strum that was familiar. “Dark End of the Street.” When Ransom began the intro, Kona moved his head, glanced at Keira to meet her stare. Her smile was thin, loose, and he wondered if she remembered that morning she played the song on the piano. It was the day he’d discovered the hell Keira had lived with in this house.

The longer he stared at her, the clearer the memory became, and he blinked, a flash of sensation returning to spark; the perfect recall of the rest of that morning, how they forgot the French toast cooling on their plates; how he’d taken her on the counter, then again in her mother’s bathroom. He hadn’t attempted a visit to the kitchen the entire day for fear that the memory would be too sharp, the sensation too biting.

            “Mom, come on, sing for us.” Ransom’s voice carried across the low chatter Leann and Keira made and at his request, she waved him off, but like Kona, his son was stubborn. “Don’t make me pull the birthday card.”

            Kona sat up straight, curious, wondering why he hadn’t thought to ask the boy about his birthday. They’d talked about football and his classes and the things they thought he might want to do after college, but they’d glossed over details about his birth and his childhood in Nashville. Kona had thought that might be a conversation for a second or third visit.

“That’s not for another three weeks,” Keira said, her voice soft, lazy. “Too soon.”

            Ransom sighed and then his cousin and their friends nagged Keira, offering exaggerated eye bats and pouts.

“Come on, Keira,” Leann said, brushing her foot against Keira’s knee. “Sing something so they’ll shut up.”

            Kona watched Keira begrudgingly get up, as she shoved Tristan out of his spot next to Ransom.

“One song,” she told her boy. “And not that one.” A quick glance at Kona and then Keira turned toward Ransom.

“Play Dylan.”

Ransom’s smile grew, and he cleared his throat before his fingers worked over the warm sound of the guitar. Keira’s voice was stronger, deeper than the last time Kona heard it, and he loved how she’d stopped singing with her eyes downcast. He remembered her with that guitar, playing “Crazy Love” like it was a letter to him, her great, quiet display of how much she loved him. She’d kept her gaze just below his eyes, only managing to look up at him once or twice as she sang.

Kona had thought it was still beautiful, and in that moment, all those years ago in the bedroom above them, he’d fallen harder, deeper in love with her.

Now Keira’s alto rolled across the patio, straight into his chest like a warm wave. She was a pro now, with a presence she hadn’t had at eighteen, and Kona couldn’t make his eyes blink or pull his attention away from her face, from the sultry magic of her voice. 

He thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful or heard anything more poetic and then Keira reached the chorus, sang, I’ve known it from the moment we met, and Ransom sang beneath her, voice lower, crisper, a perfect complement to his mother’s whiskey rasp.

It was that small length of time and melody, with his son’s voice echoing Keira’s, that Kona decided he couldn’t love anything more. That boy, that woman—he wanted them both. He wanted evenings like this. He wanted every night to be like this. He wanted small chats about stupid mistakes, about girls his boy liked, about football and possibilities his son’s future would bring. He wanted Keira around him, holding him, filling in all the gaps of time that Kona had missed. He looked at them both and realized that this was the family he was meant to have. This was what had been stolen from him, what he threw away without knowing it.

He wanted his family. 

Kona was selfish. He didn’t care about the life they’d put on hold in Nashville. He wanted to try, to fight, to start over.

            The end notes vibrated and Kona felt them, let them move across his skin and it is Ransom’s smile, the way he slung his arm across his mother’s shoulder that made Kona smile, had his chest swelling with so much emotion that he ducked his head, rubbed his face on his sleeve.

            “Do you sing, Kona?”

            A quick jerk of his head and Kona waved off his emotion with a laugh. “No, man. I sound like a cat dying when I sing.” He ran his thumbnail over the neck of his bottle and glanced at Keira. “You get your talent from your Mom.”

            “And your good looks from your father,” Keira said, eyes immediately round as though she couldn’t believe she’d said that aloud.

            “No, sweetheart, that comes from you too. I just gave him a thick head and wide shoulders.”

            Ransom laughed and beside him, the young girls sighed as though Kona was something out of a romance novel and not the knuckleheaded asshole who let his woman and son slip through his fingers.

            “Play something fun,” Keira told Ransom, breaking the long look she exchanged with Kona. “I’m gonna go pick up the kitchen.” And she was in the house, forcing a smile before anyone could stop her.

            Leann’s loud exhale and the scratch of her chair on the patio tiles pulled Kona’s glance to her. “I guess I should help her.”

            “Nah, Leann. I got it,” Kona said, darting out of his seat before the woman sat up.

            Kona didn’t say anything to Keira when she stopped to look at him, hand gripping a wet bowl over the open dishwasher. He didn’t stare too long at the counter or let himself recall the last time he’d been in this room. Instead he worked at Keira’s side, silently scraping the plates, wiping down the counter and handing her a cup, a pot, until the dishwasher was full and the faucet was off.

            Hips against the island and a dishrag in his hand, Kona kept his eyes downcast, saw her closing the door and the sound of the quiet machine was the only noise in the kitchen.

“He’s… God, Keira.” Kona folded the rag twice, messing with the worn tag in the corner, unable to look at her. “He’s amazing.” Keira’s feet were in front of him after a moment and Kona stared at her small toes, at the tiny strap of her sandals between them and then he looked up at her when she took the rag out of his hand. “Thank you.” Gaze to her, he knew he looked pathetic but didn’t care. His thoughts were knotted with hope, with want, and all the things he could not say to her. Not just yet. So he didn’t pour out his heart, didn’t beg for her forgiveness, once a day is enough, he thought. “Can I?” he started, grabbing her wrist.

            “What?”

            Kona didn’t wait for her permission. She was under his chin, against his chest with his arms around her, tightening his grip in seconds. Kona thought she might pull away. He thought she would push at his chest, tell him not to touch her, but then Keira’s fingers tightened around his shirt and he inhaled, bringing back that scent, familiar and characteristically Keira. He hugged her, smelled her hair.

“You did amazing, Wildcat. He’s a great kid.” Her fingers tightened, pulled on his shirt, and Kona grinned, breathed deep before he pushed on her shoulders to look down at her. Her eyes shined, gleamed like the bright reflection on the lake at sunset, and Kona moved his thumb across her cheek.

He wanted to tell her he’s missed her, that nothing has felt the same, tasted the same since she left. He wanted to tell her that she cursed him that day at the jail. He wanted to say “I need you” and “Have me again,” but this day wasn’t for them. It was about the boy, their bright, beautiful son. “That’s all you.” Not for the first time today, Kona’s chest tightened, but it was Keira’s look, the relief in her expression, the breath she must have been holding all day, maybe for years, that brought that warmth to his heart. A small kiss on her forehead and Kona returned his gaze to those shining, bright eyes.  “Only God could be prouder of his son.”