“I know who you are.”
My brows furrow as my arm falls back to my side. “You do?”
“I also know you’ve been sneaking in every night for the past week. I may be eleven years old, but I’m not stupid.”
I swallow, unsure of what to say. “Oh, well, I don’t think Morgan was ready to tell you just yet.”
Her arms are crossed as she shakes her head in the most dramatic way an eleven-year-old can. “He doesn’t get girls at all. Just a heads up.”
I press my lips together tightly, trying to hold in the laughter at how serious she sounds. Her spunkiness is adorable. Based on what Morgan’s told me, we have a lot in common. She’s built up walls to block her feelings and to keep herself at a distance. It’s heartbreaking for someone so young to hold in so much grief, especially the loss of a parent—both parents at that.
“Oh, well, thank you for the tip.” I wink. “Maybe I can make dinner for all of us tonight. What do you think?”
She shrugs. “Sure. As long as you’re a better cook than Uncle Morgan. He’s had to change the smoke alarm batteries twice since I’ve moved in.” I crack a smile at the visual of Morgan burning food in the kitchen so much that the batteries have died.
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask, hoping to soften her up.
“Hm…I don’t know. I’ve been living on cold pizza and Grandma’s leftovers, so…anything.” She finally smiles.
“I know.” I smile in return. “I’ll make famous Chicago-style hot dogs.”
Her brow arches. “Hot dogs?”
“Not just any hot dogs,” I defend. “All-beef hot dog on a poppy seed bun topped with mustard, relish, chopped onion, tomato slices, pickle spear, sport peppers, and celery salt. It’s delicious. It’s the custom Chicago dog.” I feel nostalgic just thinking about home and how, as a family, we’d always get them from the hot dog stands on the corner.
Her eyes widen, and I fear I’ve scared her off. But then she blinks and smiles. “Sure, sounds great.”
That night, I bring over all the ingredients and make her and Morgan a traditional Chicago-style hot dog meal complete with cheese fries. They both love it and devour it all, leaving no leftovers.
It feels like sharing a meal with the three of us has sealed the deal. The acts of an actual relationship.
“Please tell me we can keep her?” Natalia looks over at Morgan with wide doe-eyes. I laugh, embarrassed, but filled with a sense of pride.
“As long as you supply the groceries, I’m happy to cook,” I speak up before Morgan can respond. “Except spinach.” Morgan shoots me a knowing glare. “Sorry, honey.” He winks.
MORGAN
Everything in my life feels like it’s coming together for the first time in years. Natalia and Aspen have really hit it off, and I can’t imagine spending each night with anyone else. I lay in bed wide-awake as Aspen sleeps cradled in my arms. She looks absolutely flawless. Her golden hair is wrapped up in a messy bun. She’s in a tank top and shorts, so simple, yet so breathtaking. The confidence just radiates off her whether she realizes it or not. She’s a beautiful person inside and out, and sometimes I wonder why she’d be interested in a guy like me.
Ryan is always on my mind but tonight more than usual. I can hardly remember the days where we weren’t at each other’s throats, but growing up together was always an adventure. He was always into athletics, but I didn’t get into lifting weights until college. We were so opposite, it’s not a surprise we would always butt heads, but as we grew older, we grew closer.
I still feel an ache in my chest at how I left things with him. I know I can’t do anything about it now, but I can devote my life to raising Natalia the best I can. I see him in her so much. His bright eyes. His laugh and smile.
I kiss the top of Aspen’s head and carefully sneak out of bed without waking her up. I walk to my office where his boxes are stored. I start unstacking them, ripping them open. I stop once I reach the picture albums. I sit against the wall as I hold them in my hand, staring at the cover that’s labeled 1980 to 1990 on it.
Slowly, I open it and see his baby pictures right away. He was my parents’ firstborn, which means he has an abundance of baby pictures. By the time I was born, he was five years old. I stare at one of our first pictures together. He’s holding me on our old couch. He held me in his lap as he smiled for the camera.
A soft smile forms on my lips as I continue flipping through. So many pictures of us growing up, playing and wrestling around in the grass. We took a family vacation every year and even some of those are in here. The one time we drove up to the Grand Canyon and I lost my first tooth along the way. When we first went to Disneyland and took pictures with Mickey and Goofy while we wore those ridiculous Mickey ears on our heads.
I flip another few pages and come across the ones of our first days of school. Mom took a picture of us in front of the same tree every year from my kindergarten year up until his senior year of high school. He’d always wrap his arm around me and stand tall, making sure he looked bigger than I did.
I lift my head as I hear the door creak open. Aspen’s silhouette peers through, and I hate that she’s going to see me this way.
“Are you all right?” She drops to her knees and touches my face. “What are you doing in here?”
I look down at the photo album and then back up to her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“What are these?” she asks, rubbing a finger over the album.
“Family photos. They were Ryan’s.”
“Can I see?” she asks sweetly, and I can tell she’s trying to be sensitive about it.
“Of course.” I pat my hand on the floor and she shifts next to me. She loops her arm through my arm and rests her head on my shoulder as I close the album and start over from the beginning.
For the next two hours, we sit there, shifting through albums and pictures. The memories make me sad and happy at the same time. I’m glad I have them but sad we won’t have any more to make.
“You were quite the stud growing up,” she teases. “You two looked a lot alike.” Her face softens.
“Yeah, we both look a lot like our dad. The Hampton gene.”
“What happened to him?”
The kindness in her voice has me fighting the huge wave of grief. I’ve held onto it so tightly, but her genuine interest in this part of my life could very well break that dam. I flip to the end of the book where there are a couple of pictures taken on the day he graduated from the police academy. His smile was wide and proud. His then-fiancée, Lena, stood beside him as she wore her new engagement ring.
Ryan’s life had just begun. After he and Lena had married, they got pregnant with Natalia shortly after. He was all set to have his happily ever after and the career he busted his ass for, but unfortunately, things didn’t play out that way for him.
I take a deep breath and start explaining
“He’d worked for the Berkeley PD for about thirteen years at that point, but he wasn’t on duty the day he died. He had a weird addiction to gas station coffee and always went and refilled his cup before picking Natalia up from school. Some young punk walks in and starts waving a gun at the cashier, demanding he clean out the register. Ryan, being who he was, tried to talk the kid down. He waved a few other customers who were inside to hide in the back as he stayed up front with the cashier.
“According to the cashier, he was using police tactics to get him to surrender his weapon, and they could all leave unharmed. He didn’t carry his gun while he was off-duty, but it was tucked away in his car. Once he calmed the kid down and got him to lower his gun off the cashier, he tried getting him to drop it and kick it over to him. From the security tapes, it shows Ryan motioning to the cashier to get out. The cashier tripped and the kid got startled and ended up pulling the trigger.”
I’ve not looked up from his picture as I’ve talked, but I glance at Aspen, needing her reassurance to continue. There are fresh tears on her cheeks and her small hand over her mouth as if she’s trying to hold back a sob. I lean over and brush a gentle kiss on her cheek, tasting the saltiness of her tears.