Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

24. Raphael

Chapter 24

Raphael

I ’m going to have to buy Mike a beer.

I didn’t use my brain when jumping from my window. I saw Lana, tugging on the sliding door while a giant mountain lion grew more and more distressed only twenty feet away, its teeth bared.

Somewhere inside of me I knew the cat wasn’t raging, that it was just terrified by this strange turn of events.

All I knew is one moment I had my noise-cancelling headphones on as I moved into a fevered seventh hour of flow-state on this dissertation, the next I got up to stretch and grab something for lunch, pulling off the headset, and I heard screaming.

I’ve never moved so fucking fast.

But here I am, arcing through the air, knowing it’s moderately likely I’m going to break my ankles. I did spend a few years doing Capoeira, where I learned to land jumps, but that was from considerably lower heights. That would still be preferable to spending this little lunch break being lunch .

But by some miraculous twist of fate—or maybe bad eyesight from staring at my screen in a darkened room all night—I go too hard. Totally unlike me, of course. I overshoot the cat and land on the second still-inflated turret behind it. I roll onto the pool-slash-bouncy-castle portion of the thing—like a full-on quadruple somersault—and land with a giant splash in the pool section of the thing. I only just remember to hold my breath in time.

When I’m right-side up again, I blink from my back, looking at my arms and legs. Miraculously I appear to be completely unharmed. Wet, jittery with adrenaline, and possibly about to be eaten, but as yet unharmed.

Then I remember Lana, the whole reason I jumped down here.

“Lana!” I holler.

There’s a snarl behind me.

“Raph!” Lana calls. She’s on the deck, a chair poised over her head, ready to run.

“Stay there!” I holler. I leap to my feet, but the moment I’m up, my foot slides. I do a belly flop in the water. I reemerge from the water to see the giant cat’ struggling, its muscles rippling. It’s still got a claw stuck in the deflated turret.

I’m no longer thinking rationally. I don’t think I was from the get-go. I take a giant leap, jumping in the air once more.

I hit the deflated turret headfirst, keep sliding, and hit something else with my shoulder.

Something hard and writhing. There’s another yowl, this one uncomfortably close.

Then, a hissing sound .

“I’m going to die,” I say out loud as I roll onto my back, preparing for the worst. When it doesn’t come, I tip my chin up so I can look back, upside down, at the cougar.

It’s not there.

Somewhere in the trees there’s a flash of rust, followed by a shaking of branches.

“Raph!” Lana cries.

I tip my chin back down to see her running over. Her eyes are wild. She’s still holding the lawn chair over her head.

“Don’t hurt me,” I plead.

She registers the chair. Then she tosses it aside and sinks down next to me.

“The lion?” I ask.

“Gone,” she says, panting.

I let out the biggest breath in my whole damn life, sagging into the surprising comfort of the now rapidly deflating castle. “Holy shit,” I say.

Lana’s got her hand on my forehead, then cupping my jaw, her eyebrows slanted in concern. “Are you hurt?”

I have to think about it. She pats me all over, and I can’t help grinning, following the path of her hand.

“Raph, seriously?”

“Sorry.” Tentatively, I wiggle everything that’s wiggleable. For good measure I look down between my legs. Everything looks intact. I’m wearing only jeans, plastered to me. I’m drenched, but unharmed. “I don’t—no? I don’t think so?” Then I grin again, rising up on my elbows. “I bodychecked a mountain lion. ”

Lana dips her face down, letting out a long breath. “We call them cougars here,” she says. “By the way.”

“Well, what do you know?” I give her a wink. “I love cougars!”

Aurora’s having a full-on meltdown, which is unusual for the normally happy-go-lucky kid. Turns out your sister telling you your nanny might get eaten by a tiger will do that to a kid.

Nova, meanwhile, is freaking out in her own way, pacing the living room demanding everyone tell her every fact there is about cougars. I can tell she wants to prevent this from ever happening again.

And Lana—well, she’s been sitting at the kitchen island looking morose and massaging her wrist since I took Aurora from her, cradling the sobbing child in my arms to give her a break.

“Okay,” I say over Aurora’s head. “No more questions, okay? We’ll go to the library this week and get a book on cougars.” I tell Nova. “For now, look at your mom.”

Nova pauses, looking over at Lana, whose head is bowed. Then she looks at me.

I point my chin at her Mom again, miming a hug.

She finally gets it. Nova goes over to her mom and taps her on the shoulder. Lana pulls her in, hugging her fiercely, and for a good five minutes, they just hold onto each other and breathe .

Finally, Nova pushes off. “Now what? We can’t go outside.”

Lana looks to me, and I get it. She’s too spent to even make a decision. There’s a plea in her eyes.

“A movie,” I say. “Animated. With songs and rainbows and happiness.”

Nova brightens, then looks at her mom, frowning. “There’s no movies on Sundays.”

“I’ll make an exception today,” Lana says as she stands up from the island.

“Who’s gonna choose?” Aurora asks. “Nova always gets to pick.”

“No!” Nova’s indignant. “Aurora does!”

Lana moans, head down on her arms. I really want to scoop her up too.

“Dealer’s choice,” I say. “That means me. We’re watching my favorite one.”

I don’t actually have a favorite animated movie, but the last thing anyone needs is to fight about what to watch. I put on an upbeat one with singalong music I’ve heard Aurora sing before.

Then I settle onto the couch. Aurora, curled up on my lap, sighs as she lies back against my chest.

Nova huffs, grumbling something about the movie choice, but flops down next to me and is quickly engrossed, leaning against me.

Lana’s at the kitchen island, watching us. When she sees me look to her, she begins packing up her laptop. But instead of heading over here, she heads for the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask.

“You guys enjoy,” Lana says .

“Mom doesn’t watch these,” Nova says, eyes glued to the screen.

But I see the way her arms are tense as she hugs the laptop to her chest. The way she looks so longingly at the three of us, her lips pressed hard to stop a quiver. The way she clung to them so hard in the kitchen, I can tell she’s afraid of smothering the girls, that she’s trying to give them space while wanting so badly to never let them go again.

“You have to,” I say. I lock eyes with Lana. “Do you have a problem with this particular movie?”

“No.” Her voice cracks. “I’m just not much of a movie person.”

“You watch other movies,” Nova says, still not breaking eye contact with the screen, even when her mom shoots her a look.

Lana wants this. But she’s afraid of something. Of letting herself go, I think. Of handing over her ‘keeping it togetherness’ and just falling apart. For all her stiffness, she’s trembling slightly. I can see it even from here.

“Stay with us,” I say. It’s not a question. “Please.” It’s blackmail to insist like this, I know, but she needs this as much as the kids.

Nova tears her eyes from the screen. “Will you?” she asks her mom, with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

That’s her Achilles heel, her kids needing her. And I can tell from Nova’s tone that she’s being sincere. She wants her mom, too.

“Okay,” Lana says, her voice tight. She sets her laptop down on the island. “But just for a bit.”

Lana looks at me as she settles down next to Nova. Her eldest climbs up and plops herself onto her mom’s lap. She may be eight, and sometimes acts thirteen, but she’s still her baby girl.

Lana’s eyes go watery as she kisses Nova’s head, squeezing her so tight her daughter makes a fake gagging noise.

“Sorry,” she whispers, loosening her grip. Lana looks briefly at the gap between us, then at me.

“Come here, Sunshine.” I hold my arm out, giving her permission.

She hesitates only a moment before jiggling her and Nova over.

It’s another full minute before I feel her relax just a little.

When she does, I curl my arm around Lana’s head and gently tip her in so she’s resting against me. “We’re okay,” I whisper in her ear.

She looks up at me, her eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”

“I promise,” I say. I kiss her forehead.

The girls don’t notice any of this. They laugh while an animated lion plays with its siblings in the dirt.

Lana looks to the screen, her cheeks slightly flushed. “You sure this was the best choice?” she whispers after a moment, looking at the big cats.

I laugh softly. As usual, I made a decision without thinking it out. But it worked out in that way instinctive things do. The girls laugh at the funny parts and Lana finally fully softens against me.

Yes .

I’m sure.

I wake up sometime later to the soft sound of crying. My adrenaline boost must have run out almost immediately after I hit play. Blinking, disorientated, I look to the girls. Aurora has migrated to the floor, where she’s lying on her stomach, chin in her hands. Her legs are kicking happily. Nova, meanwhile, is sprawled at the other end of the couch, rapt.

That leaves only?—

I turn to see Lana, leaned up next to me, her lip wobbling, eyes spilling with tears. She wipes at them furiously. “Stop looking at me!”

I purse my lips to hide my smile. “Lana,” I whisper. “This isn’t a sad part.”

“Yes it is!” she hisses. “His dad just loves him so much and he doesn’t even know it and—” And the stoic, straight-laced Lana covers her eyes and bursts into tears.

“Oh sweetheart,” I say, laughing softly as I pull her in even closer, both arms around her shaking form.

“This is why I don’t watch these stupid movies!” she exclaims between sobs.

“I never would have guessed.”

“Guessed what?”

“That you’re an absolute sap.”

“Not always.”

“She always cries at movies,” Nova says with a beleaguered sigh. “Commercials, too.”

“Specially at Christmas,” Aurora says. “’Member that commercial with the old man and the puppy?”

“Aw, a puppy?” I ask .

Lana glares at me before turning back to the screen, her chin crumpled as she tries to hold herself together.

Onscreen, the little lion wins a competition, and all his friends cheer. She claps her hand over her mouth, her eyelashes soaked once again.

“You should sit on Raph’s lap, Mom,” Aurora says from the floor. She doesn’t turn around. “That makes me feel better when I’m sad.”

Lana immediately stiffens. “Thank you honey.”

“I mean, you could,” I whisper.

Lana crosses her arms. I can see the pink creeping up her cheeks.

Then I give her a tug, and haul her up. She laughs, despite herself. Especially when I nuzzle her neck with my nose. But God, my face buried in her hair, the scent of her filling my nostrils, the feeling of her body pressed against mine—maybe this was a bad idea.

But for once, Lana doesn’t seem stiff or uncomfortable at our sudden closeness. She stretches out, resting her head in the crook of my neck, hands curled on my chest, letting out the contented sigh of a house cat. I hold her against me, stroking her hair with one hand, my other splayed over her thigh.

And all I can think is that this—the four of us tucked inside, safe and cozy and together—this is better than any grand adventure.

This is it for me.