Page 33 of Light

It can exist right here, under my own roof.

Or in the breathtaking dawns just beyond that roof. And in the dazzling sunsets too.

But most especially, in the best light of every day: the carefree glitter that greets me from my son’s magnificent gaze.

That same light that takes my breath away now, as Lux clears the corner between the foyer and the den. He’s still got “Grandpy Todd” in tow, who’s indulging Lux’s enthusiasm with a proud, full smile.

“Hey, little light of mine.” I lean down, interpreting his sprinting approach as an early request to be picked up, but Lux stops short and shoves me away. Since that’s not a surprise, given my kid’s fiercely independent spirit, I straighten and then ask, “What’s up, bud? You and Grandpy Todd settling in for a movie? You want some snacks?”

Lux shakes his head with more vigor than a dog climbing out of a pond. “Come, Mama,” he insists, yanking on my wrist. “Dada’s already in the movie! Dada!”

“Huh? Ow.” I emphasize the latter with a frown, stopping in my tracks and making my son do the same. “Lux Mitchell Tycin Richards. What are the rules about your special pow-pow? I’m waiting.” I refrain from going full-on nag mom on him, keeping my stance neutral and my hands at my sides. Granted, I’m probably not that easy to take seriously in my Hello Kitty sweatshirt and pink polka-dot leggings, but even if he’s on track to get his first PhD before he hits double-digit birthdays, I still make the rules around here.

“No pow-pow inside.” He mumbles it while kicking the floor, clearly knowing what I’ll do next. I don’t disappoint him, turning my wrist over and thrusting it in front of his face.

“And what else?”

A harder kick to the carpet. “Only pow-pow with Dada, Unca Wade, or Unca Saw Saw.”

Though Lydia visibly melts at his use of the special nickname for Sawyer, I stay the course with my discipline. “And what else?”

This time, hot color rushes up his face. He blinks back tears that turn his eyes into miniature storms—which makes this shit harder to maintain. When he starts looking this much like Reece, it’s rough for me to do anything other than drop to my knees and hug the crap out of his sweet little form. “No hurt any human or animal.”

Somehow, I find the fortitude to extend my arm out, wrist turned up. “So what’s this red mark on my arm?”

The tears thicken. I’m seriously about to turn the texture of his crumbling little whisper. “Mama…hurt.”

I can’t resist any longer. I drop to my knees, bringing my face level with his sweet, serious one. Like his father, thick tendrils of his hair tumble against his temples. Also like his father, he makes my heart wrench and ache with the self-castigation in his eyes.

“Sorry, Mama,” he husks out. “I love you!”

“And I love you too,” I reply as he plops a penitent kiss to my “boo-boo.” It’s not easy to stay serious as he follows with a swipe of his thumb, which instantly flows healing heat across the area, but I tell myself to stand firm on the conviction. “And thank you for fixing it, honey—but one day, you won’t be able to just walk over to someone and do this. You want to know why? Because people aren’t used to people like you, Lux—and they’ll run if you do something like this to them, even if you’re just excited and trying to be friendly.” I cup my hands around his shoulders, admitting the combination of his ten-month-old frame and his older, wiser gaze are sometimes jarring, even for me. “That’s why we have the rules, okay?” I smile and give another reassuring squeeze. “You don’t want to really hurt somebody, right?”

My heart already warms, preparing for the endearing grin he always has at the ready. Only it doesn’t materialize. Instead, there’s a furrow across his forehead with more hills than Angeles Crest, and his gaze is the somber shade of a Crusader’s shield. “What if they bad people already, Mama?”

And there’s my cue to snatch up a shield too. And a figurative dagger and sword to go along with it. And as long as I’m at it, a can of mace and a Taser pistol. “How do you know about bad people, son?”

So now he smiles. But only a misty version of the expression. “Because Dada.”

I do my best to keep my expression neutral. It’s easier than I thought, since I’m not sure whether to be enraged or alarmed. “Because Dada…what?” I charge, struggling to keep it light. If I’ve succeeded, Lux doesn’t give it away. His composure settling once more into the realm of temperate and sober, he re-secures a gentle hold of my hand and leads the way back around the corner, into the other room.

We enter the den, where the spacious area rug is nearly invisible beneath the sea of crayons, Lego bricks and play toys—as well as a clearly uncomfortable “Unca Saw Saw” with the TV’s remote control in his hand. Sawyer sends out a grimace-grin kind of look at me, while his grip visibly tightens around the remote stick.

“Lux wanted to watch the new episode of the Loki show with his grandfather.” He reminds me of a kid attempting to explain why he line-drived a baseball through the window. “I was going to set it up for them. I had no idea the midday news was going to be on.”

I trace a small nod on the air, though to be honest I barely hear the guy speaking. Not uncommon when I’m beholding my superhero husband in the midst of kicking some evil bastards’ asses: a sight that stops the air in my body just as thoroughly as the first time I saw it, when he took down a whole crew of liquor store robbers while keeping two innocent civilians safe. This time, the illegal fuckery is a gang of horse thieves—I guess they really do still exist—who crammed five horses into a trailer only built for two. While I’m proud as hell of Reece for assisting the LAPD in the standoff with the abusive dickwads, my breath officially goes on strike watching him tear apart their old barn hideout, plank by lightning-bolted plank, while dodging shotgun blasts they’re managing to rain down on him and the SWAT team.

Yes, shotgun blasts.

On him, clad only in battle leathers and shitkickers, and the SWAT guys, who look like walking tanks in their body armor.

“Holy f…” I extend the sound, walking a verbal balance beam between the dread I need to expel and the example I need to set. “Fartballs,” I finally spit, at least staying with the theme by wadding my hands into round fists.

“Finely done,” Sawyer mutters though nods back at the monitor. “To both of you, it seems.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t seem like the cushy dayshift calls he promised me he’d be assisting with.” I turn my head when the news feed switches to a chopper shot, exposing the fact that Reece and the five SWAT guys are outnumbered by twice as many of the horse-stealing bastards. I hope every single one of them is slogging through piles of massive green horse shit—but more than that, I work on containing my anger at the main guy they’re still shooting at. Yes, I know his battle leathers are reinforced. Yes, I know he has the reflexes of a cheetah and the predatory prowess of a panther. But I also know that he swore to never be in a situation where he’d have to use either. At least not right now, with Faline still out somewhere in the wind.

And our son at an age to be gazing at a TV feed like this, with exactly these kinds of stars in his eyes.