Christopher "CJ"

Remember that feeling when you took the training wheels off for the first time?

That instant when you realized you were no longer protected, no longer relying on someone else to hold you up?

It was the taste of freedom, raw and real—like the world opened up and said, "Yeah, you can have this." I didn't understand it back then, but that rush, when the air hits your face and you're suddenly riding solo, is the kind of feeling that sticks with you forever.

All the other kids in my neighborhood were already riding their bikes like they owned the streets, while I struggled to even balance.

My dad?

He didn't just let me figure it out on my own. He spent hours—yeah, hours—by my side, holding me up, making sure I could do it. His hands steady on the back of my seat, ready to catch me when I fell, even though I hated the idea of needing the help. But the moment he let go? I was on my own. And nothing felt more real than that.

The thrill of speeding down hills, the wind rushing past, turning sharp corners like I was untouchable—those were the moments that made me feel alive. I chuckle, revving my engine at the red light, remembering how I'd pin cards to the spokes as a kid, making my bike roar just like this.  I used to imagine that my bike could take me anywhere. And I mean anywhere. I'd fantasize about heading out to places no one knew, with no map, no plan, just the ride. It wasn't even about the destination—it was the adventure, the unknown.

Except now, it's not a bike. It's this black beast beneath me, growling, ready to tear up the road. The night's air is sharp, the salty breeze from the coast slapping me awake like an old friend reminding me that I'm still here, still living. My hand moves without thought, twisting the throttle, and the bike responds immediately. The rumble pulses through me, deep in my chest, a hum that aligns with my heartbeat—each beat syncing with the engine's growl. It's instinct.

It's freedom.

I roll my leather sleeve up and glance at my watch—10:30 PM. Time to head home. My parents had Rio and Teal this afternoon while I was at La Vida. I'm sure they're both out like lights by now, exhausted from running my parents ragged. Teal? She probably conned them into buying every single baby doll in the store. I owe her at least an hour of playtime with those damn dolls now. Honestly, I think she's trying to start her own baby doll empire.

I chuckle to myself, picturing Teal strutting around like a little CEO, managing her army of baby dolls. "Guess it's time to 'play' catch-up with the boss," I mutter under my breath, shaking my head with a smirk. She's got me completely wrapped around her tiny finger—and I can't even lie, I wouldn't change that for the world.

Rio's probably still awake.

That kid's my shadow, always waiting up for me no matter how late I roll in. Most nights, he crashes in my bed, tiny limbs sprawled out like he owns the place. I don't mind. He's only three, but his anxiety? It runs way deeper than any toddler should have to deal with. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if it's trauma from the womb, after the accident losing Sienna. He was life but Sienna life was lost.

I sigh, gripping the throttle harder as I hit the straightaway. The engine growls louder, a beast beneath me, and for a second, it drowns out everything else. My mind drifts to Sienna. She used to take this same road to get to the hospital for work. She'd always call me after her shifts, telling me to be careful at this bend.

Damn, I miss her.

I lean into the ride, pushing forward as the bridge lights come into view, flickering in the distance like tiny beacons. The blackness of the night swallows the path ahead, but I don't ease up. The salty tang of the ocean air fills my lungs—it should feel light, freeing, but my chest stays heavy. It always does when I think about her.

At the next red light, the rumble of my bike gets drowned out by an assault of bass and off-key yelling. I glance to my right, and there they are—a Jeep full of bros. Jean jackets, oversized crosses swinging from their necks, and backward ball caps, looking like a youth group meme come to life. The driver is hyped, shouting lyrics to some Christian rap song, while his buddies holler and wave their phones around like they're filming the next big revival TikTok.

I let out a low groan. *This town, man...*

The kid behind the wheel catches my eye, throws me a grin like we're about to race. I roll my eyes and rev the engine just enough to let him know he's not worth my time. The light flips green, and before they can even think about flooring it, I twist the throttle.

The black beast beneath me roars to life, and I'm gone. The road stretches ahead, open and endless, the wind whipping past me as I leave the Jeep and their wannabe worship concert in the dust. The salty air hits my face, sharp and clean, and for a moment, it's just me, my bike, and the night.

I slow down into my neighborhood because mom was telling me the HOA has sent an official letter now about a noise complaint from a motorcycle.  Every house looks the same: white siding, blue shutters, manicured lawns that don't have much personality. But there's one thing that stands out, even in this sea of suburbia—the ocean. You can just barely see it in the distance, past the rooftops and palm trees, its dark expanse swallowing the horizon. That view used to make this place feel bigger when I was a kid, like maybe the world wasn't so damn small after all. Now, it's just a reminder of how far I've come—and how far I've fallen. 

I ease the bike into the driveway, killing the engine as the porch light spills a soft glow across the front yard. My parents' place hasn't changed much. Same brick steps, same potted plants my mom fusses over, and the same warm light they always leave on when someone's out late.

I swing my leg over the bike and stand, letting the quiet settle around me for a second. The only sounds are the hum of crickets and the faint crash of waves in the distance. I unclip my helmet, shaking my head slightly as I slide it off, running a hand through my hair to push it back.

I climb the steps, every movement deliberate, each creak of the old wood beneath my boots grounding me. The house smells faintly of salt and cedar, just like it always has. For a second, I stand there, staring at the door, my fingers resting on the handle. I turn the knob and step inside, letting the warmth of home wash over me.  The house smells like it always does: a mix of sea salt and sun-bleached driftwood, with a faint trace of coffee that's probably still lingering from this morning.  The soft hum of the TV is the first thing I notice—some late-night show droning in the background—but it's clear no one's really watching. My dad's in his favorite chair, head tilted back, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. The TV's watching him more than anything, the flickering light casting faint shadows across the living room walls.

I walk over to my dad quietly, careful not to wake him. His once-strong frame looks smaller now, the illness stealing pieces of him bit by bit. It makes my chest tighten, but I don't let it show. Instead, I grab the knitted blanket draped over the couch and gently lay it over him. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake.

I lean down, brushing a kiss against his forehead, murmuring softly, "Buenas noches,"

Straightening up, I glance toward the kitchen where the faint clink of dishes and papers shuffling pulls my attention. My mom's still up. Of course she is. She's always the last one to bed, always carrying more than she should. I walk toward the light spilling from the doorway, the familiar creak of the floorboards announcing my presence.

There she is, sitting at the kitchen table, her glasses perched on her nose as she sorts through a pile of bills. Her brow is furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. The table is scattered with bills, some opened, some still in their envelopes. The harsh light from the overhead lamp casts long shadows over the kitchen, making the old wood of the table feel even more worn, just like the house, just like us.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in." She looks up as I step into the room, and even though she's tired, she still manages a small smile.

I pick up one of the open bills—nothing new, nothing special. Just a pile of numbers that keep growing and growing. The figure on the paper makes my stomach tighten.

"Is everything alright?" I take a sit next to her.

"With God, we will get through it." Her fingers tap lightly on the edge of the table.

"Mom," I start, my voice low, like I don't want to disturb the quiet of the night, but I can't help it. "What's the number at now?"

She sighs, the kind of sigh that comes from years of holding things together. "It's... it's close, Christopher. I don't know what else to do." Her voice cracks slightly, but she clears her throat.

"I can help out more." The words slip out before I even have a chance to think about them. But it feels right, even if it means taking on more than I can handle.

She glances at me then, her tired eyes searching mine, and there's a flicker of that old strength she always hides behind. "Honey, you are helping. Just by being here. Just by taking care of us." Her voice softens. "You don't need to do more. You've already given up so much."

I run a hand over my face, shaking my head. "I'm living here, Mom. I'm not gonna just sit back and watch you drown in all of this. You've been carrying everything for so long. I just... I want to help more. Let me."

She presses her lips together, the frown deepening. I know she's trying to protect me from the weight of it, but I can feel it pressing on me too. "It's not that simple, Chris." She looks down at the pile of bills, a silent prayer to the numbers in front of her. "I'm not sure what else we can do. Your dad's been getting worse, and with the bookstore... it's hard."

I pick up another bill, the cold, sterile paper making the pit in my stomach tighten. The number's higher than the last one. Higher than what we can handle. Higher than it should be. "I don't get it. Why can't the church help? " My voice sharpens as the frustration rises.

She gives me a long look, her fingers brushing over the edge of the paper, smooth and slow, like she's trying to hold herself together just a little longer. "Because they're too busy and I don't want to burden them. Besides, Pastor Carrington is really busy lately. He sent his prayer and love, that's all we need." She sighs tiredly. 

I hate hearing her like this.

She's always been the rock, the one who holds us all up. But even rocks crack under pressure, and I can see it in her eyes now. I can feel the weight of it in the air between us, like a storm that hasn't hit yet but I know is coming.

Thats fucking bullshit. My hand tightens on the paper, almost crumbling it.

"Mom, I can do more. I can work more shifts. I'll figure something out." I don't know how, but I will. I'll make it happen.

Her voice trembles a little, "Chris... I know you will, but you don't have to carry everything. We'll get through this. I have faith." She looks down at the bills one last time, then back up at me. There's a kind of softness in her eyes that makes my heart hurt. "And, Beth Carrington... she's offering to help, you know? Through the women's ministry."

"Beth Carrington?" I raise an eyebrow, the name like a bitter taste in my mouth. "You mean Pastor Carrington's wife? The same woman who lets her husband talk about prosperity gospel and rakes in all that money?" My voice is low, almost a growl, but I can't help it.

Something about that church... about the way they've turned faith into a business... it eats at me.

She sighs, rubbing her temple. "I know. But she's offering to help with meal prep nights, with taking your dad to appointments. It's something. She's trying."

I exhale slowly, the air coming out in a long, frustrated sigh. "I guess."

A voice, small and quiet, suddenly cuts through the heavy silence. "Daddy?" Rio's standing there in the doorway, his small frame bathed in the dim kitchen light, his little feet shuffling across the floor like he's not sure if he should be there.

I turn to him, my heart softening in an instant. His wide eyes are barely open, the sleep still clinging to him, but when he sees me, his face breaks into a sleepy grin.

"Hey, Bub," I murmur, pushing back from the table. I reach out to scoop him up, feeling the weight of his small body against mine, the warmth of him seeping into my bones.

"Rio Sol Reyes, what are you doing up?" Mom teases, her voice soft as she looks at him, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

I press a kiss to the top of Rio's mess of curls, my heart swelling with love, but also a touch of guilt. I know I'm not home enough for him. Not nearly enough. The weight of that sits on my chest, heavier than anything else in this house.

"It's okay, Mom, he just can't sleep without me," I tease, my voice low so it doesn't wake Teal. Rio nestles into the crook of my neck, his tiny hands clutching at the collar of my shirt, his little face warm against my skin. Mom lets out a soft sigh, running her fingers through Rio's hair before she lightly tickles his belly. Rio lets out a sleepy giggle, snuggling further into me like he can't get close enough.

"We said a little prayer, I thought it would work," Mom murmurs, a faint smile on her face, but I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. She's tried everything to get him to sleep, even bringing out all the little remedies she's read about online.

"He likes stories, Mom," I chuckle softly, rubbing Rio's back, feeling the tension of the day start to ease off my shoulders as I hold him close. It's a little thing, a simple thing, but in these moments, everything else fades away. I feel like I can breathe again, even for just a minute.

"Right," Mom replies, the smile in her voice matching the one in hers. "Let's get you to bed."

I give Rio one more squeeze before I start walking toward the stairs, my hand still rubbing his back. I lean down and kiss Mom on the forehead, my lips lingering for just a moment, letting the comfort of her touch remind me that even when everything seems heavy, I've got her. We've always had each other.

I start up the stairs, my mind a tangled mess of thoughts, mostly of how bad I feel for them—how much they're carrying, and how much I'm not doing to help. The financial struggles they're facing are bigger than I thought, and that feeling of helplessness gnaws at me. When Mom first told me about their situation, I thought she meant there was a $5,000 hole we'd need to fill. But it's way worse than that. They're sitting on the edge of a $50,000 hole, and the bookstore's barely bringing in any money anymore. They're one step away from losing everything.

Nobody wants to see their parents struggle.

Especially not like this. I can't sit back and let it happen, but I don't know what more I can do. The thought of selling Abuelo's Mustang— Abuelo's Mustang—makes my stomach twist. I know it's the right thing if it means helping them stay afloat, but it feels like I'd be losing something important. It feels like I'd be betraying a part of him.

"Daddy read," Rio whispers, his voice thick with sleep, the soft pull of his words filling the space between us.

"Of course, bub," I answer, my voice soft as I try to keep my emotions in check. I walk into the room Teal and Rio share, my heart lightening as I set Rio down on his toddler bed. The small room is quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of blankets. I lean down, brushing a lock of hair away from Teal's forehead as she stirs slightly in her sleep. Her face is peaceful, the last few hours of the day still clinging to her.

Rio's still holding Goodnight Moon, The worn-out pages are almost as familiar to me as the sound of my own heartbeat. The kid's obsessed with it, but I get it. It's not just the book. It's because Sienna used to read it to Teal every night before bed pregnant with Rio. It's part of her, part of what she gave them, and it's hard to let that go.

I sit down beside Rio, pulling the book from his hands and softly flipping through the pages. His little finger traces each image as I read the familiar lines, my voice a whisper in the quiet room. As I read, I feel that old ache in my chest, the one that never really goes away. The ache for the life we had, for the family we used to be.

But right now, I'm here. I'm here for them. I pull the covers up around Rio, tucking him in before kissing his forehead. The night settles in, the house breathing with us, the smell of the ocean outside mixing with the salt of the air inside. It's home, even if it's falling apart at the seams.

I turn off the light, the soft click of the switch the only sound that breaks the silence. And as I step back into the hall, I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything I've been holding finally settle in my chest.

This is my responsibility now. This is my fight too. And I won't let them lose this.

I close the door to the kids' room quietly, careful not to let the latch make a sound. The hallway is dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon spilling in through the window at the end of the hall. My boots thud softly against the floor as I make my way to my old room—if you can even call it that anymore.

Pushing open the door, I'm met with the stale smell of a room that's been empty too long. It's familiar and foreign all at once. The posters I used to have on the walls are gone, replaced by blank beige paint. The twin bed in the corner is the same, though. Still low to the ground, still creaking if you so much as breathe near it. There's a cheap dresser shoved up against the far wall, and the old desk is covered in some of my dad's books and papers.

But the patio door—it's still there, still mine. The glass reflects the faint light of the moon, and beyond it, I can see the dark expanse of the ocean in the distance. It's quiet except for the sound of the waves, like a heartbeat that's always been there, steady and constant.

I drop my jacket onto the bed and pull out the stash I keep tucked in my bag. Rolling a joint doesn't take long—muscle memory by now. Once it's ready, I slide open the patio door and step out into the cool night air. The breeze carries the salty tang of the ocean, mixed with the faint scent of pine from the trees lining the edge of the neighborhood. It's grounding in a way I didn't know I needed.

The patio isn't big—just a small square of space with an old chair I used to sit in when I was a teenager. I lean against the railing, lighting up the joint, the orange glow illuminating my face for a moment before the smoke drifts into the night. I take a deep inhale, letting the warmth of it settle in my chest before exhaling slowly, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the stars above.

The night is alive with sound—the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant hum of a car on the main road.  It's peaceful, but it doesn't quiet the thoughts racing in my head. I take a long drag, the smoke filling my lungs, the heat of it seeping into my bones.

I exhale slowly, watching it drift into the night, blending with the salt in the air. The stars above are distant, unfeeling, but in that moment, they feel like a thousand tiny eyes staring back at me. It's almost suffocating, the weight of it all.

The house, the debt, my dad's illness, the kids—it all feels like a weight pressing down on me. And then there's the Mustang. Selling it feels inevitable, but it's not just a car. It's my grandfather's legacy, his pride. Letting it go feels like letting go of a part of him, of everything he taught me about hard work, resilience, and love.

I wish I could talk to Sienna. She always knew the right thing to say or do.

Damn I need her.

I take another drag, the cool night air mixing with the warmth of the smoke in my lungs. I think about the ocean, the way the waves crash endlessly against the shore, their rhythm soothing yet relentless. They never stop, never pause for a second. I've been like that too, pushing forward, keeping my head down, doing what I'm supposed to do. But tonight... I don't want to be like the waves anymore. I don't want to be caught in this cycle of survival.

I want to break out of it.

Something new.

Something real.

I don't know what it is, but I feel it—a pull, like a magnetic force drawing me in, promising something I can't quite grasp yet. Maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me, but I'm pretty sure that what I'm craving is out there.

I just have to find it or maybe Sienna is speaking to me or this weed is a little too good. I lean back against the railing, letting the cool breeze hit my face, trying to clear the fog in my head. The night feels endless, like the beginning of something new, like the world is waiting for me to make the first move.

I just need help getting here.

.

Author's Note

Now we have CJ and Grace beginning introductions. I'm so excited about this journey and you should be too! Next update will be Sunday! Make sure you vote, let me know your thoughts and feelings so far and of course we are doing long chapters!