Page 48 of From Maybe to Baby

Holy shit, are there media spies everywhere? I thought this place was safe. That no one would bother us here.

Without meaning to, I look around at anyone who might be paying attention to us. Problem is, a lot of people are paying attention to us—guests, staff, and most likely even the annoying drone circling overhead.

Fuck me.

I turn back to see Alexa with my kids, showing them how different rocks catch the light and turning science into stories in a way only a writer can. She's nothing like Genny—where Genny was soft edges and careful plans, Alexa's all sharp wit and spontaneity.

But maybe that's okay. Maybe that's exactly what we need.

"Daddy." Jace waves to grab my attention. "Miss Minty's gonna try my special shave ice."

"Brave woman," I mutter, crossing my arms.

Whatever this is—this pseudo professional, pseudo research, pseudo vacation—it’s not real. And it’s not permanent. Writers leave. Vacations end. Shave ice melts.

Same as hockey seasons. Same as careers. One minute you’re a big deal, and the next, you’re yesterday’s news. Everything has an expiration date, whether it’s a story, a job, or even people.

I should know better than to think this is any different.

Our two-bedroom suiteis finally quiet, miraculous given the sugar high from Jace's "special" shave ice creation. After three bedtime stories, two glasses of water, and at least fifteen minutes convincing Lukas that tomorrow's beach crabs will still be there in the morning, both kids are down. Jace is curled around her favorite stuffed unicorn and Lukas is on the other side of the bed, sprawled out like he always sleeps.

I meet Alexa outside where she’s waiting on the balcony, staring at stars that seem close enough to touch. She's still wearing her sundress from dinner, and the way it catches the breeze makes my heart do complicated things.

"Both down for the count?" she asks without turning.

"Finally. Though Lukas is still convinced we could fit a volcano in our backyard. He's already sketched out plans for the lava routes through the neighborhood."

"You could always get him a science kit. Much more HOA-friendly."

"Where were you when I tried to explain that to him? Apparently, my suggestion of a model volcano was 'boring' and 'not magic enough.'"

"Future volcanologist?" Alexa asks.

"Future something. Yesterday he wanted to be a hockey-playing astronaut who also drives trains. Last week it was a professional dinosaur trainer who moonlights as a pirate."

"Dream big or go home?"

"That should be the Knight family motto. Though sometimes I think it should be 'expect bedlam, embrace adventure.'"

We fall into a silence, watching the resort's volcano perform its cheesy hourly show. The fake lava catches real starlight, creating an illusion of magic that's not entirely artificial. Kind of like this moment—something real hiding behind something that's supposed to be for show.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asks suddenly.

"Miss what?"

"The… hopes. The plans. The expectations. The ones from before... before everything changed." She gestures vaguely at the suite behind us, where the kids sleep.

I consider this, a not-so-casual question, while watching Alexa’s profile in the mixed light. The way she asked makes me want to give real answers, not the media-trained responses I’m using to spitting out.

But the real answers are not so pretty.

"The dreams… at first it was like they all died with Genny. The pain was so devastating, you find yourself wanting toforget… everything. At the same time, you are terrified of forgetting, because the memories are all you have left.

“So I guess, over time, they’ve changed shape, if that makes sense," I say after a moment. "Funny how it goes. Now, instead of worrying about game stats, I worry about whether I'm reading enough bedtime stories."

"Big shift,” she says without pity.

"Bigger than you can imagine. But you get through it, because you have no other choice." I turn to face her. "Life sneaks up on you. I never planned on teaching them about volcanic rocks—or watch them try to play cupid with a travel writer. They're very determined little matchmakers."

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