Page 173 of Through the Storm

At some point, someone suggests swimming. No one questions it, and we all end up in my parents’ pool, shoes abandoned, clothes still on, cannonballing into the water like idiots who don’t have a single regret between them.

Katy surfaces, sputtering and laughing, my arms already around her.

Having my people celebrating with me is what made this night so special. Everything blurs together, chaotic and loud and perfect.

This.

This feels like winning too.

KATY

Three years later

Chaos is already winning when I hear Ben walk inside.

I’m standing in the hallway in mismatched socks, my laptop clutched to my chest and my hair escaping its clip. I have one hand braced against my stomach, the other clenched tight around the computer like it’s the only thing keeping me sane.

“I have a deadline,” I scream, my voice pitched one notch too high. “Which means we are going to bed.”

Mini-Ben is upside down on the couch. There is ketchup on the wall. Not splattered, but artfullycurated. Like he had a vision.

Ben stops just inside the door, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, and takes it all in.

Then, very gently and very calmly, he says, “Katy.”

I spin. “I swear to God if you say calm down?—”

“I’ve got it,” he adds immediately. “Go upstairs. Lock your office door.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“I’ll handle this,” he repeats, already setting his bag down. “Go. Now.”

For a second, I hesitate. I get that reflex to explain, to justify why I need help, to just push through.

I fight it, and the relief hits me like a wave.

“Okay,” I say softly. “I love you.”

“I know,” he laughs. “Now run.”

I disappear upstairs like I’m being chased. But instead of immediately locking myself in my office I watch them from the top of the stairs. I can’t help it.

Mini-Ben launches himself off the couch and skids to a stop in front of his dad.

“DAD!” he yells, like he’s been gone for years instead of a few days.

He throws himself at Ben’s legs, and Ben scoops him up. “Hey, buddy.”

“Play football?” he asks immediately.

“It’s eight-thirty.”

“Please?” he says, hopeful.

“And you’re three.”

“I’m not tired,” he announces proudly.