Page 39 of Light

“If I show my powers to the wrong people, they might tell the bad people about it. Then the bad people will come and take me away from you and Mama.”

I invite him to another high-five. As soon as we’re done with the first smack, we go in for another, though end up with our fingers meshed this time—sending subtle bright-blue pulses at each other. The jolts, like static charge on repeat, cause Lux to laugh as if I’m fully tickling his belly. But as soon as he pulls away, finally overloaded on the intensity of his laughter, he mellows into deep contemplation.

No. He’s not contemplative.

He’s pensive.

“Lux?” I query. “Hey. What is it now, buddy?”

He shifts a little closer. Frames my jaw with the flatness of his palms as he peers hard into my eyes, as if searching for an actual item he’s left inside my head.

“Dada,” he finally murmurs, his big blues piercing to the back of my skull. “How come there are bad people?”

Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our flight through the light-and-fluffy portion of this evening’s adventure. For those of you remaining with us for the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-now bonus package, please remain seated, with both your heart and soul girded in lead.

“I’m not sure I know the whole answer to that, son.” I tug him tight and kiss the top of his golden head as he squirms to settle in my lap. And of course, because fate really wants to jack with me tonight, it’s the same moment I catch sight of Emma across the room, laughing at something one of her RRO staffers has said.

It astounds me that not a single member of the team ever connected “Steve and Sophie Sarsgard” back to the two of us. It’s even crazier that nearly two years to this day, Emmalina Crist brought those monthly reports to me up here, winding up in us doing a lot more than talking RevPAR and occupancy percentages—and I crave her just as fiercely as I did that night. Probably more. At the moment, it’s tough to really call, since our son is wiggling across my crotch as if we’re at Disneyland and the Lion King float is about to appear in the parade—a metaphor that at least helps with inspiration for my next words.

“You remember how sad Simba was after his dad died? So sad that he went away for a long time and was really angry at the world. Imagine what would have happened if Nala had given up on him.”

Another crotch stampede from my kid, who squirms with restless energy. “He would prob’ly still be angry!” he cries, twisting wide eyes up at me. “And Scar would be king!”

“Exactly.” I duck my head so our gazes are still in line. “But Simba didn’t go back and fight Scar when he was just a cub, right? He had to wait for the right time. He had to learn things and make sure he knew how to be responsible with his strength. He listened to the wisdom of his friends, like Timon and Pumbaa.”

“Like I do with Unca Sawyer and Unca Wade.”

“And in your school lessons with Miss Angelique, Uncle Fershan, and Uncle Alex.”

“But none of them are farty, like Pumbaa.”

“Well, I’m sure one of them would be, if you ask super ni—” I interrupt myself with a new groan as soon as my son decides that this is now a matter upon which the fate of nations rests and bounds off my lap without a shred of regard for the equipment he’s trampled in his wake.

“Unca Sawyer!” he shouts, running through the party in search of Foley. “I have to talk to you now. It’s about farts!”

Despite the agony in my balls, I croak out a laugh.

And quickly stagger down the hall, into the master bedroom.

Where the break I think I’m giving my system is snatched from the second I close the door, and there’s a jump of reaction from near the full-length window across the room. At first, my own senses prickle—until they’re hijacked by utter amazement. And then awe. And then gratitude.

Amazement—that I’ve managed to steal a moment alone with the woman I worship.

Awe—at the sight of the city lights stretching out behind her, illuminating her beauty in new shades of silver, pink, purple, and gold.

Gratitude—that the universe has seriously given her to me. That I receive the validation of that enduring truth with the sight of the diamond adorning her left hand.

Mine.

Bound by the best superpower on this planet.

The love that glows from her kohl-lined eyes, breaches the crimson perfection of her full lips…and answers from every crevice of my dazzled heart.

“Well, well, well. Tell me what ya know, Daddy-o.”

As she concludes the tease by tugging the inside of her lip at the edge of her brilliant white grin, I stroll across the room, one hand in a front pocket, cocking my head in my best Sky Masterson impression. “What is with you Crist girls”—I tsk past my chastising smirk—“and insisting on borrowing words from the wrong centuries?”

Her gaze flares, but she recovers quick enough to pop her fingertips across her O-shaped lips. “Oh, oopsie,” she blurts, Betty Boop style. “Am I just bein’ a ditzy dame here, mistah?”