When I walked through the door, I was greeted by Summer and Ocean sitting at the table with their afternoon snack of milk and cookies. The cookies were from a package. It was their routine. You could track time by their feeding schedule. Becca said they were like trained dogs. She never had to wonder what time it was.
“I hit a bullseye today,” Ocean said.
“You did?” I opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of juice.
“Yep! Right in the middle.”
“I got close,” River said. “I’m not good at it.”
“You’ll get better,” I told her. “It takes lots of practice to get good at something.”
They were in day camp, which was basically daycare, but they got to learn all kinds of cool stuff. And it gave Becca a break. Six hours of Mom time. Becca worked part-time when the kids were in school and did a few odd jobs during the summer, but being a single parent was a full-time job in itself.
“Next month we’re doing climbing camp,” Ocean announced.
“No, you’re not,” Becca said from the couch. She was stretched out, the fan blowing directly on her. “I am not buying all the gear just to have you bounce off a cliff. I told you to pick something else.”
I laughed. Ocean was a lot like me. Always moving. Always chasing the next thrill. He was never going to be satisfied with art camp. River would be thrilled, but Ocean had the energy of twenty boys.
I snatched a cookie and sat down at the table with the kids. “What else did you do today?”
“I think archery is hard for moms,” River said.
“I think you’re probably right,” I said with a grin.
“What’s hard is watching your children shoot arrows at each other,” Becca said.
I looked at the kids. “Were you shooting arrows at each other?”
Ocean looked guilty. “I didn’t aim it at her. I was just showing Mom how to hold the bow. I lost my grip. It has a rubber tip. No one got hurt.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I think you’ll have to be extra careful in the future.”
“No more bows,” Becca groaned. “Why can’t you just paint? Or origami? There’s a calligraphy class.”
River scrunched up her nose. “What’s calligraphy?”
“No one is taking calligraphy,” I replied. “Where’s the brochure? Let’s find something a little safer.”
They had both done the surfing camp and they had both been bored to tears. They lived on the beach. With me. They could teach the instructors a thing or two about surfing.
“I think it’s sandwiches for dinner,” Becca said. “No one tells you becoming a mother means you have to make dinner every night. Every. Single. Night.”
I looked at both kids who were completely unbothered by their mother’s crash out. It happened once a week. We were all used to it and no one was complaining about eating sandwiches for dinner. It was her that said it wasn’t healthy.
I finished my cookie and stood. “I’m going to shower,” I said. “We’ll go for a walk and give your mom some time alone.”
“I’m fine,” Becca said.
“Of course, you are.”
CHAPTER 12
COLT
The morning run started the way it always did—just me and the sand and the sound of the Pacific keeping rhythm. I had my earbuds but didn’t put them in. My phone was in my pocket and shut off. I only brought it in case I twisted my ankle or something. I almost did a barefoot run, but there were rocky areas I’d be going over and my feet were not ready for that.
I ran south, nodding at the other joggers I passed. I nearly got taken out by a very exuberant dog chasing a stick, and I waved at the owner, who apologized. In the two weeks I’d been back in California, I could already feel my stamina improving. Soon, I’d be running all the way to San Diego. Then again, no thanks. I’d run at Mission Beach about ten years ago and the Marines that lived there made me look like a fool with their speed and endurance. I knew my place.