Page 38 of Light

I saunter forward. “You know, technically ‘Daddy-o’ wasn’t a thing until the fifties.”

She narrows her eyes. “It’s seriously creepy that you know that.”

“Amazing what a guy will remember from bartop trivia.”

Thankfully, Todd gives my comment a commiserating chuckle. “Mr. Richards.” And then extends his hand for a solid handshake. “Great to see you again—and for obviously contributing to both my daughters’ happiness.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I reply, dipping a respectful nod. “Just glad the party’s a success.”

He follows the line of my gaze across the room, taking in all of Emma’s unique changes for the party. The vintage prints and Tiffany-style lights that have replaced our modern wall art and fixtures. The larger picnic props, such as a twenties-style bicycle and the front end of a Ford jalopy. And of course, the miniature hot-air balloons with the dolls creepier than my trivia compendium. “And what a party,” he finally states, his tone thick with wonder.

Lydia raises her hands, palms out. “This is all Emma,” she qualifies. “I’ve been nuts with school and the ProKennex racket deal.”

Todd slowly shakes his head. “I never knew she had this in her.”

“Right?” Lydia says. “And you should see the stuff she has out on the terrace.”

As if a higher source is listening in on us, my son’s delighted shriek accents the end of her assertion. That’s the fun part. The not-so-fun part? Lux is ready to tack on the expression that continues to be his favorite. “Holy shit!” And then again, as he barrels toward his grandfather with eyes and fingers ablaze.

“Crap!” Lydia exclaims.

“Goddamn,” Todd utters at the same time.

I don’t add to the dialogue. I’m too busy lunging out, using a minor pulse to do so, in order to snatch my kid up from the waist, spinning him around until my body is firmly shielding his from the rest of the partygoers. Once I plunk him back down on the hall credenza between the office and master bedroom, he’s shaking all over—especially in his cherubic little face. But behind that angel’s visage is the wild, devious brain of a kid twice as old. In short, I’m dealing with a kid who’s dedicated himself wholeheartedly to the “threenager” phase.

And yeah, that means steeling myself against all the stops he’s yanking out right now. The wide, watery eyes. The gulping sob. The mournful pouty lip joined by the trembling chin.

Fuck me in a Ford jalopy.

If I survive long enough to get across the room to the damn thing.

“Dada.” He adds to the act with a heartbreaking sniffle. “I sorry. I sorry.”

I shut my eyes—much more a measure for my sustenance than his. The Almighty had to go and recreate my wife’s gorgeous eyes in his precious face, turning every disciplinary act of mine into a feat of self-control. “Okay,” I finally say. “You’re sorry…for what?” When Lux only rubs his teary eyes with one hand and points haphazardly toward Todd with the other, I press, “Lux Mitchell Tycin. Use words. Tell me what you are sorry for.”

“Not thinkin’ smart about my powers.”

“And what else?”

“Almost hurtin’ Grandpy Todd with ’em.”

“And…?”

He thrusts the lip out farther. Holy crap. Only eighteen months old—or whatever—and already working the feels like a Shakespearean-trained actor.

“Lux?” I prod.

“And— And almost showin’ all the strangers my powers too.”

His sweet voice trembles and threatens to break. Though he’s successful in keeping that shit together, he loses the battle with his tears—the same way I lose mine with the heat of my tender love for him. “Come here, buddy,” I croak, yanking him tight. He wraps his little arms around my neck, soaking my shoulder inside two seconds with his sorrow. “I’m not mad at you, Lux. But dude, you know why Mama and I are so strict about you hiding your powers.”

His soft hair brushes my ear as he nods in earnest. “Yeah. I know, Dada.”

“You do?” I swivel back, resting on my haunches, so he can see my proud smile along with my encouraging tone. “So prove it.”

He cracks a huge smile in return but yanks in a long breath, per the training he’s been getting with Foley and me, to act as an erasure of the outward signs of his abilities. I want to whoop until the ceiling blows off—before whomping him with another proud hug. What he’s doing is the equivalent of a toddler sitting still during…well…Sesame Street. “Powers make me special. And special powers shouldn’t be wasted.”

“Good job.” I raise a hand and high-five him. “And what else?”