Page 59 of The Prodigal

“We’re not staying long,” Remington barks, pulling into the park that claims to have river access. “I suggest you be quick.”

I don’t let his negativity kill my high at seeing the huge river. It’s as long as my eyes can see and rushes over every stone that dares to hinder it. It’s a beast—a force the land couldn’t contain. “It’s magnificent,” I praise softly.

“If you say so.”

I turn to Remington, the sour puss, and sigh. “It was a boner, not a monster zit. You don’t have to obsess over it all day. It happens. Get over it.”

A hint of a smile plays at his full lips, but he doesn’t let it go. “Your river awaits, or have you lost interest already?”

I tsk him just like he does me. “Always trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not changing anything. I’m simply reminding you that your time with yourmagnificentriver is limited, whereas your time with my monster cock isn’t. I suggest you prioritize accordingly.”

I swear. I don’t know how he’s lived this long. Surely, someone has tried to smother him.

“You know,” I say, opening the car door, “you might not need so many cigarettes if you tried smiling every once in a while.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Phil.” With a smile that I bet strains his cheek muscles, he turns up the radio and drowns out anything else I consider saying.

But it’s fine.

Because the river awaits me.

I don’t wait another second before I sprint to the edge of the water and take it all in. The wind in my hair, the sun on my face, and the mist from the water on my skin. The whole moment feels surreal. This isn’t some dirty pond or backyard creek—this is a startling entity that is nothing but pure untethered power. I can’t even put into words what—

“It smells like bad tuna.”

Whipping my head to the left, I find Remington standing with his hands in his pockets, his nose turned up in disgust.

I smile. “How often have you had bad tuna?”

Even I haven’t had the privilege of smelling that.

His gaze never leaves the water. “Six times.”

For a second, I don’t have control of my muscles. My mouth drops open, and my entire body freezes. “What? I—” The words just aren’t coming as I turn to the man at my side.

“Now, who’s being dramatic?” he teases, taking one look at the shock on my face.

“I mean—how?”

One time, sure. But six? How does that even happen?

“I haven’t always been a surgeon’s son” is the only explanation he offers, and my heart absolutely crumbles in my chest. Is he saying he chose to eat expired food? Was he hungry when he hid in closets? I have no idea, and I’m not brave enough to ask. So, I stick with what he’s used to.

Teasing.

“So you’re saying bad tuna made you grouchy for years.”

He flashes me a grin that feels genuine. “Exactly. I recommend sticking with chicken.”

And this is why I can’t stay away—he’s adorably sarcastic. While that might be a defense mechanism to keep people away from him, I find it only reels me in closer. Remington and I are similar. We’ve both seen harsh realities, but we survived. We might have scars and wounds, but we made it through. Maybe not whole, but we made it. We still have time to replace what was taken from us.

We may not have had happy childhoods, but our future isn’t determined by our parents.

Our future is determined by our decisions, and while we may make the wrong ones from time to time, they don’t cause permanent scars unless we let them. I don’t want to always be the face of a heinous crime. I don’t want to be remembered as a tragedy. I want to be known for what I gave to the world despite my circumstances.

“You’re making this awkward for everyone,” Remington says flatly. “Even the fish are scattering.”

---