Page 101 of All Saints Day
“You did it. You actually did it,” he breathes, somewhat incredulously.
I blink away my tears, reaching out to run one of my hands through his dark brown hair, to smooth a thumb over one of his brows.
“Yeah—somehow I managed it,” I sniffle back an outright sob.
“Now you can finally begin to move forward,” Mike sighs, unfolding his legs—turning himself to face me on the narrow stretch of rock.
“But what about the others?” I turn down the beach to hazard a cautious glance at them; other reflections of myself. Francis, the wounded child, Rook, the dangerous sadist.
“Your pack is committed to you, Frank. All of you,” Mike counters me, reaching out to cup my face in his hand. “Look again.”
When I dart another glance back over my shoulder, Louiseand Caz are playing with young Francis at the water’s edge—shouting and laughing and splashing in the waves.
Just beyond them, Sébastien and Quentin appear to be having a butterfly knife twirling contest with Rook—keeping him a conspicuously large distance away from Louise.
“But what if I fuck it up?” I manage to choke out, my voice evaporating as the horrible thought grips me.
“Frank—you’re going to fuck things up. All of you are. The point is to be accountable, not to just disappear into Rook or to go on a fucking bender to hide yourself from the pain if you do. All of you are connected now—even if I'm lost,” Mike croons, glowing gold in the setting sun, fading at the edges.
“But you can’t go, you can’t leave me—I know that I have my pack, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you,” I sob, trying to will him to stay with me.
“Frank, I’ll always be a part of you—of all my fated mates. But now it’s time for you to focus on the living—to focuson living. I love you. This isn’t goodbye—justuntil next time,” he soothes, little bits of him dancing away into the falling night like tiny shimmering particles of starlight or fireflies.
“Easy come, easy go.” I send him on his way as the glittering bits of light dance off into the night sky—the waves still breaking softly on the shore as my pack closes around me—their embrace bringing me back into the waking world, to our lives together.
Five Years Later
Louise
Almost an entire week Dennis and I have been away from home, and I have never been more ready to retreat to the pack Penny estate nestled quietly in the shadow of Mount Greylocke; our forested grounds kept blissfully locked away from the public and the chaos therein.
Caz had been there to pick us up from the airport, our oldest, Aurelia, clutching a glittery poster her fathers helped her make, that reads—“Welcome home, Mama and Papa D.”
Dennis takes the handle of my rolling suitcase so that I can properly swing Aurelia up and into my arms—pushing her mop of tight, dark red curls out of her face before I cover her round rosy brown cheeks in kisses.
“Maman!” she crows happily, her maroon eyes sparkling with delight as she dives right into the house update—ever my little informant. “Papa ‘Bastien is making homemade pasta for dinner, and I picked all the basil from the garden to make the pesto!” She beams as I set her back down onto the ground.
“Homemade pasta and pesto!?” I exclaim, not having to feign my excitement. “Well, better tell Daddy Cazzy to step on it—I’m hungry!” I grin, taking her little hand in mine as Caz leans in to claim his ownwelcome-homekiss.
The ride back to the house takes a few hours, but we spend the entire time getting the low-down from Aurelia—on what happened while Dennis and I were away—who is more thanhappy to tell us that they ordered pizza not once buttwicethis week, adding in her officious little tone, that Papa Frankie has been incredibly lax about bedtime, especially with little Benedict.
“Daddy Q said it’s because Benny is a tyrant for the bottle—and he’s too cute to let him cry so loud,” Aurelia clarifies, and I can’t help but laugh at how serious—how perceptive she is at only five years old.
“He might just be right.” I peck a kiss down into her hair as the gates to the house swing open and Caz pulls us slowly up the drive.
As soon as we open the front door to the house, I can hear the booming of Sébastien’s voice as it carries from the kitchen, deep inside the house.
“Ay! Henri! Stop tugging at Genevieve’s hair!” Sébastien yells as the twins howl at each other until they hear the front door shut; then all I can hear is their triumphant whooping—followed by the pounding of tiny feet on hardwood.
“Inside voices Henri and Genni—and slow down Mommy will still be there if youwalk!” Quentin shouts after them—his own lumbering steps heralding his arrival just behind the four-year-old twins; Henri and Genevie, who explode into the front hall in a shrieking burst of delight.
Ever the mature big sister, Aurelia allows the twins to throw themselves at my legs; their towheaded blond hair almost the same shoulder length, full but frizzy like candyfloss, eyes like chips of brilliant blue diamond—just like their father’s.
I lift both the twins, balancing one on each of my hips—darting back and forth while making silly smacking noises with my mouth as I fervently kiss their faces and foreheads, squeezing their little bodies against me in a tight hug.
“Mumma, look!” Genevieve reaches into the pocket of her little pinafore dress covered in grass stains and poufs of flour, and produces a tiny gray tree frog. “Can I keep him?” she wails plaintively.
“Ewww, no! I don’t want a frog!” Henri, with his little blueplastic-framed glasses, tries to squirm out of my arms and away from his twin sister and her adventurous pet.
