“I know it’s Janie’s birthday, but after everything that has happened to you two”—he gestures with his water glass to Connor and me—“I have something to say.”
This could go fairly bad or fairly well, but I have a lot more faith in Loren Hale to swing in a direction that won’t cause World War III, me leading a platoon against him.
“I may always say that Rose is as cold as ice and Lily may always say that Connor must be a planetary alien,” Lo begins, Lily nodding beside him while bouncing Maximoff on her knees, “but you both have astronomical-sized hearts, you know that?”
I look to Connor, and his fingers have returned to his jaw in contemplation. We have hearts. It’s not an earth-shattering realization. I know I have a heart. I know Connor has one too, but for other people to acknowledge this is rare. Our hearts are submerged beneath the thickest, densest armor that we only let a select few through.
Loren continues, “You’ve both never judged me for being an addict, and even when tons of people judged you and questioned you—you forgave them.” He shakes his head in disbelief at the notion, that we’d all congregate together peacefully in the end. “This table is full because of your compassion, and I want you to know that I can see it.” He turns to my parents, his father, Sam and Poppy. “And everyone here sure as hell better see it too.”
At this, my father rises with his mimosa, and then my mother follows suit in solidarity. When Jonathan rises, water in hand, the tension strangely untangles. He has a ways to go to repair his relationships with his sons, but being here without being an ass is a start.
I watch Poppy join them, then Sam and their daughter, Maria.
When Lily stands beside Lo, she clears her throat, already turning red. I watch her raise her chin triumphantly and then pull back her shoulders. Go, Lily. And she says with confidence, “I think if we can come together after everything that’s happened, our kids are better for it.” She nods in resolution.
I breathe through my nose, holding back emotion that swells my chest. I don’t like the feeling of people towering over me, so I rise next with Jane on my hip. Connor is quick to follow.
Ryke and Daisy are the only two still seated, which isn’t entirely surprising. Out of everyone, they’ve faced the most dissention from inside the family.
Ryke leans back and shakes his head. “Is this for real?” he has to ask. “Because I’m not standing up if in three months this side of the table”—he motions to our parents—“make our lives hell because you believed a fucking tabloid rumor over us.”
My father clears his throat and pauses, trying to find the right way to share his emotions. “…I know I’ve doubted a few of the men here with my daughters.” His eyes ping from Sam to Ryke and lastly to Connor, a fresher doubt than the other two. “I can’t apologize for caring about my girls, but I can apologize for putting a strain on your relationships and feeling as though you had to choose between the people you loved and your family.” He pauses. “It’s time for that to change.”
Ryke’s lips slowly part in disbelief. Over the course of a year, I knew my father has warmed to Ryke and Daisy’s relationship, but I don’t think he ever outwardly expressed this to Ryke.
My mother straightens, knowing half of Ryke’s statement was directed at her. “You went through liver transplant surgery for your father, and you want to know what I told Jonathan—you’d never do it.” Her hand loosens on her mimosa glass. It’s a subtle acknowledgement that she’s misjudged Ryke too. “I don’t want to live like everyone is out to get my family, and it starts by trusting the people we should trust.” She says, “And I trust you.”
I freeze at the much larger declaration than I anticipated hearing. I’d think someone spiked everyone’s drinks, but no one has taken a sip yet.
Ryke looks to Daisy, and tears crest her eyes. She whispers in his ear, and he nods.
They both stand together.
If someone asked me what makes me—a volcanic, fiery blaze of hell—shed tears and cry as though I’m a pathetic two-minute rainfall, I’d say my sisters growing up, my husband in his rare vulnerability, my baby at random immeasurable moments, and the title screen of Titanic.
Somewhere between all of those, this singular part of time exists, and it hits me hard. With glasses raised in the air, with all of us unified around a decorated table, cake in the center—I accept a powerful, unbending realization as a warm, heartfelt truth.
All of our children will be raised without hatred. Bad blood will be washed away and feuds finally put aside. They’ll have the sharpest, sturdiest tools to fight enemies that will not be in their own homes but miles and miles away.
Our children will have the best chance at life because we’re standing together. Because we all have the capacity to love, no matter what form or shape it may come in. Because in the end, we each remain unbroken, so their lives can begin.
I inhale powerfully, and Connor wraps his arm around my shoulder.
Loren raises his glass higher. “To Rose and Connor, for helping us realize the importance of family and the difference a good friend can make.” It’s not often that other people tell us this—that we’ve impacted them. I can’t help but smile.
“To Rose and Connor,” everyone says in unison.
Connor captures my gaze with his deep, glimmering blues, and together, we drink to us.
63
CONNOR COBALT
“It was just a little fall, my gremlin.” Rose squats in five-inch heels and blows on Jane’s reddened palms. She tries to console our daughter who cries in Claude Monet’s garden, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever visited in France. The lush, floral scenery is hardly tainted, in my mind, by Jane’s tears. I watch as Rose wipes our daughter’s rosy cheek, and Jane sniffs, realizing her stumble on the pavement didn’t hurt as much as she thought it did.
Jane reaches out for Rose to pick her up, but then she whips her head, not noticing me towering above her. “Daddy!” she starts to cry again.
Rose rolls her eyes. “Your daddy is six-feet-and-four-inches of superiority, and his head is lost in the clouds.”
I bend down next to Rose. “On the contrary, darling, my head is in the stars.” Our daughter relaxes as soon as she sees me again.
Rose’s yellow-green eyes bore straight through me, and my pulse pounds. “It’s daylight.”
“It’s a meta—”
She covers my mouth with her palm, and my burgeoning grin peeks through her fingers. I know what a metaphor is, Richard, I read her expression. She huffs, eyes blazed and flitting across my features, chest rising and falling. How someone can be so alive by words—it makes me come alive with her.
Jane mumbles a string of noises and we both break our gaze. I brush a tear-streak from Jane’s cheek, and she sniffs again.
Rose asks me, “Do you think we’ll make it the whole day?” She fixes Jane’s white sun hat that fell off during her stumble.
“Maybe fifteen more minutes, and then she’ll probably have enough.” We’ve been traveling around northern France most of the afternoon. It’s June 22nd, so we plan to spend the rest of our anniversary at our hotel with Jane.
Rose lets go of Jane’s fingers and asks her, “Who do you want to carry you?”