No one in the house is an early riser, and all of us went to bed late. The clock was a few ticks away from midnight by the time Maverick and I climbed into bed. We were barely awake enough to have a conversation, but I poured us both a glass of Jameson. It was our gift from Ghost last Christmas. We haven't touched it. Waiting, I guess, for the right moment. I figured it'd be some celebration. Maybe if things had gone differently yesterday, I would've busted it out. If things had gone different. If Cain hadn't showed up to collect; if Maverick made it to Mach 9 and Mach 9 only...he'd have come home to table laden with Mongolian beef and rice and Jameson. A meal fresh out of the American melting-pot.

Instead, we had Jameson and a few crackers in the middle of the night.

We talked about Bradley.

About the night that's haunted me for five years.

Maverick looked like a stranger at the end of a bar. His skin dark and sallow and his eyes so heavy, I wouldn't have been surprised if they fell out of his head onto the table. "I don't know what I'm going to do," Maverick said again and again. So I told him what he was going to do. "You're going to show up. You're going to walk the kids through the Maverick way of doing things because we both know your way is the reason you were hired. Kick the book, kick the rules, and teach them from your experience. And Bradley? Maverick...this is your chance. This is your chance to mend things. Be a teacher first. Be on his level. One pilot to another. Rebuild your friendship and then what happens happens."

"That's a lot to remember."

"You'll be fine. You've taught Top Gun kids before."

"Yeah," Maverick knocked back his third glass. "And look how that turned out."

I put a cork in the conversation. We'd chewed it down to the bones, but clearly Maverick wasn't in a state of mind to draw the right conclusions. Shelfing the rest of the Jameson and flicking off the kitchen lights, we shuffled arm and arm down the hall. Maverick made a pit stop in our daughters' rooms. The twins were out cold, but even in her sleep Violet curled towards Maverick when he kissed her forehead. I held my breath as Maverick entered Presley's room. He left the door open for me to follow. Squinting through the palpable shadows, I saw only one person in the double bed. Thank God. Presley was awake enough to recognize Maverick in the dark. Her eyes cracked open and she smiled lazily. "Hey, Daddy." Maverick's teeth shone like stars before he kissed the crown of her head.

"I might not see you in the morning," He whispered.

"M'kay...love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, pretzel."

The nickname never fails to make me smile. By some miracle, she's let Maverick keep it alive. It's one of the few things she's let us maintain from her childhood. She really was the kid who wanted her independence quick and easy. As soon as she was old enough to shop or see movies with her friends without a guardian, she was out every Friday night and weekend on the town. Presley slaved for her driver's license. I actually prayed she'd fail her test the first time, just so she wouldn't run off on us every chance she got. Well, as they say, 'God's will be done' 'cause not even all the powers of Hell could stop Presley Mitchell from getting her license. And she used her independence as liberally as I expected.

But she also came home.

At the end of everyday, Presley came back.

I'm told that's special.

Presley is special.

All our girls are.

It's too bad Maverick won't see them this morning. He's got to leave for Top Gun by six. There's farm chores to be done, so I get up with him. There's no way any of the kids will be up before seven. While Maverick kissed Vesper and Violet goodnight, I switched off their alarm clock. One morning of slack won't hurt anyone. I never got a shower yesterday. Oils have pooled along my scalp, unable to travel down my ringlets. The roots of my hair are dark and grimy. A thin layer of dandruff salts the top of my head. Gross. Maverick went down to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I forget the unmade bed and hurry into our bathroom. The shampoo's hardly penetrated my scalp when a pair of arms wrap around me. I laugh and lean back against Maverick's bare body.

Our shower takes a little longer than normal.

"Really?" Maverick raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Those pants with that top?"

I chuck my pajama pants at him. Laughing, Maverick dodges. The pant legs flare like jelly-fish tentacles as they torpedo past him. "A man who only wears white shirts and jeans can't talk."

"It's my style."

"If lazy is a style."

"What do you call that then?" Maverick gestures to my lose, white blouse and dark green cargo pants.

"I call it, 'You married this, so deal with it.'"

Maverick smirks. I stick my tongue out, to further my point, before focusing on the button on my cargo pants that never wanted to click into place. My tongue gets trapped between my teeth, wetting the corner of my lip as I furiously clack the metal together. The floor creaks and the breathable fabric scratches like a camping tent. Anyone whose set one of those up know the earsplitting sound. Half the torture is the frustration of mixing up all the poles and spending your whole trip getting the damn tent up straight. A colorful word or two slip as the button refuses to—

Click.

Two hands cover mine and snap the button in place.

"Beginner's luck," I huff.

"Yeah," Maverick murmurs. "I'm better at unbuttoning."

I can't help but laugh at his smoldering gaze and pouted lips. A couple minutes ago, I could've fallen apart at the sight of him. I did, but it took a lot more than just his handsome face. He's persuasive, I'll give him that. Maverick hooks his fingers under the waistband and reels me flush against his chest. His signature white-tee is practically sheer; every hard edge and slope of his body obscenely obvious. Twenty-nine years, I've been allowed to memorize the ill-concealed body. I could map Maverick blindfolded. I know the language of his breath and footsteps and the tone of his voice. I know Maverick, better than I know myself, I think. Still, he manages to surprise me, but I know that about him, don't I? I know he'll kiss me every chance he gets. Sneak into my showers, laugh when I complain that my hair is disgusting and he still wants to touch it. He's always going to poke fun at the clothes I wear now, not because he hates them or thinks I'm not pretty but,

"I miss you in nothing but white shirts and jeans."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'll tell my designer."

Grinning, Maverick leans in for a quick kiss.

"Have coffee with me?" He murmurs against my mouth.

"Always," I smile.

We wander down the hallway, like a pair of intertwined moths drawn to the light-shower raining from the kitchen. The second we're in range, I grab the door frame and haul myself out of Maverick's reach. His arm plummets from my shoulder. Laughing, I spin myself through the doorway, intent on pouring my coffee first. It wasn't a race until I made it one. Why not? We have the morning to ourselves.

Or...we did.

Vesper and Violet are sitting at the kitchen table.

An elevator drop scrambles my insides the second I notice them. I hadn't expected anyone to be in the kitchen but definitely not the twins. You'd have thought we'd walked into The Shining and encountered the Grady Twins. I swallow a gasp whole, and gravity drags me back against Maverick's chest. He catches me by the shoulders.

"Girls—you're awake?"

It's a stupid question, but it's too early for smart questions and they surprised the Hell out of my nervous system. I can't handle questions or surprises without a cup of coffee.

"Barely," Violet groans.

She could've gone with a shower last night. As if to prove they aren't identical, Vesper sits up straight, bright eyed within the bruise-like bags dripping down her cheeks while Violet welds herself to the table.

"We didn't want to miss Dad."

I press my head back into Maverick's shoulder, just in time to catch him smiling. Although Violet looks half-alive, her dad's smile chases the shadows from her face. The girls clamor off of their chairs. Twenty-four hours have passed since they saw each other. I guess I've hogged Maverick plenty this morning. I peel myself away from Maverick willingly, albeit tempted to grumble at the sudden lack of contact. The twins dash my attitude to pieces as they dog-pile in their father's arms. Maverick ruffles Vesper's already sleep-disheveled hair. The bridge of her nose crinkles like a deflated accordion before she decks Maverick in the shoulder. I laugh and spill a bit of coffee on the counter-top. Vesper and Maverick's sparring jostles Violet, who koala-bear clings to Maverick for dear life. He finally turns his attention away from Vesper and surprises everyone by hooking both hands under Violet's armpits and hauling her up into his arms.

Fourteen.

She's fourteen, but she still looks sweet and small in Maverick's arms.

Maverick's coffee is done first. Black. All these years, I couldn't even get him to use sugar. He'll try anything, but he finds his rhythm and sticks with it. At least he tries, I hum as I stir two teaspoons of sugar into my coffee.

"Did that kid really think you were an alien?"

"I think so," Maverick laughs. "You should've seen his face."

"Wish I could've seen yours," Vesper scoffs. "Musta been something wrong with it if he thought you were from outer space."

"Hey."

Maverick pinches Vesper's nose.

"For the record," I start as I hand Maverick his mug. "he looked like an overcooked marshmallow."

Violet leans back, keeping a firm hold on Maverick's neck as she examines his face. "Hmmm, I see it."

Maverick glares at me from under his dark brows. I wink and sip my coffee.

"You like marshmallows," Maverick points out.

"Marshmallows are made from pig's hooves," Violet tells him.

Maverick grimaces like someone squeezed a whole lemon in his coffee.

"I...don't know how to feel about that."

"How to feel about what?"

Jamie trudges into the kitchen; slouchy as a Saturday demands. The umber, cotton tee hangs off Jamie's lean frame like a tent, dipping below the waist of his joggers. I pity his bare feet on the cold kitchen tile. At the very least his eyes are free of dark circles.

"Marshmallows being made from pig's hooves."

Jamie wrinkles his nose. "That's disgusting."

"So is jell-o," Vesper adds.

"I never liked jell-o."

"Nobody should," Maverick's mutter bubbles the surface of his coffee.

Laughing, I grab another mug from the cabinet, "Coffee, Jamie?"

"Sure, thanks."

He joins me at the coffee station, adding sweetener while I fetch a jar of milk from the fridge. The edges of Jamie's mouth turn up as I pour just enough milk to caramelize the coffee. "You remembered?" He muses.

"Twenty-five years is too long a time to forget."

Jamie grins, but he moves to whisper in my ear. "Twenty-six."

"Shit," I laugh. "There goes my memory card."

"Nah, there's too many of us to keep track."

"Someone better tell your parents to stop making more," Maverick snorts.

Everyone laughs.

"Yeah," Jamie chuckles and blows on his coffee before taking his first sip. "I don't think they'll be making more anytime soon."

Our laughter dies with the mood.

Maverick stares at the bottom of his coffee mug. From the coffee bar, I can't tell if there's anything left — not that it matters. Whatever Maverick sees isn't front of him. Violet links her hands together so she doesn't tip sideways out of Maverick's lap. She looks at me; doe eyes sleepless, swollen, and sympathetic. Vesper picks at a nick in the table, unable to look at anyone. A slow, muted burn reopens in my stomach. A second ago, we were laughing, drinking coffee; one big happy family. For a second, I forgot the many ways this family is splitting at the seams. Bradley is only one fray. Iceman is far more threatening, and there's nothing any of us can do. I can negotiate with Bradley.

There's no negotiation with throat cancer.

I clear my throat, and hopefully the mood.

"Breakfast anyone?"

》 》 》

By the time Presley wakes up: Maverick is gone, the morning chores complete, and the twins have tacked up for a ride down to the creek. A pleasant quiet relaxes the kitchen. Jamie reads the paper and edits some shots for the San Diego Union Tribune on his laptop while I clean up after breakfast. Every five minutes, he looks up from the computer screen and stares with soulful conviction.

"No, Jamie."

"I feel bad, sitting around while you do all those dishes."

"Got nothing better to do. You tryna take my job?"

Stifling a smile, he sticks his neck back down his keyboard. "You're like dad, ya know that?"

I nearly choke on my own spit. "Your dad?"

"Yeah," Jamie laughs. "Stubborn as Hell. Won't take help."

"Yeah, well...not all of us can be angels like your mom."

Jamie drags a hand through his hair and shakes it out. Dimples form in the orbit of his cupid lips. A nerve pinches each time I strain my neck looking over my shoulder at him. Ghost's first child. He's forgotten the photos, the laptop, the world. Jamie's got the chair tipped back, balanced by his knees hooked under the table. He smiles just like his mother, even as he thinks of her. He smiles like he did last night when Presley yanked him around the corner. It's different, but it's still love, and it still blows my heart up a couple sizes. Does he have any idea how much of him is his mom? Unfortunately, Iceman and I take after each other...in enough ways to get Jamie's attention. Along with everyone else's, I huff. Too much of my life has been Charlie bending the finger I point at Iceman right back towards me. Stubborn as Hell. Won't take help. Stubborn, sure, but I take help. Iceman takes help.

As of now.

Thirty years ago...

Now that's a different story.

He was such an asshat.

Luckily, none of that's been inherited.

Ghost's goodness must've been the dominant gene. Jamie, Seamus, Ronan, and Rory are all right little angels. Fairies, Ghost calls them.

I toss the dish towel on the rack and rinse left over crumbs and suds down the drain. The mesh strain catches large chunks. Over the rush of the water, I hear Presley's voice. The oven clock reads 10:30 a.m.

"Hey." In the microwave door reflection, Presley drapes herself across the back of Jamie's chair. He snaps out of a daze as she pushes his seat back to all fours and runs both her arms down his chest.

Smiling, Jamie tips his head back against her shoulder.

I bite back a smile of my own as I go about my business. If they want to pretend I'm not here, I'll pretend right along. So long as the twins don't come bursting in. I see no problem with them being affectionate. It's not all that different from what Maverick and I got up to at Top Gun. And by all means we did worse. Hell, one time he flipped me over his shoulder. I think he might've spanked my ass too. Goose was right there — laughing, thinking nothing of it. God, it's some miracle no senior officers caught us fooling around like that, PDA and all. You'd have thought we were horny sixteen year-olds. Twenty-three is close enough. Brains don't develop 'til twenty-five, or so science says. As long as they tell Maverick soon, they can kiss in my kitchen, I laugh under my breath.

"G'morning, Sherlock."

"Morning, dear Watson," Presley giggles. "Didya catch Dad?"

Jamie's Adam's Apple bobs.

Well, at least telling Maverick is on their mind.

I can't have them chickening out of their responsibility, even if that means setting up a blind date between them and Maverick.

Whatever it takes to prevent bloodshed.

"It...wasn't the right time."

Presley considers his answer. "M'kay." She relents and gently combs her fingers through his dusty blonde hair. "Just...don't let it slip away."

"I won't." Jamie catches her hand and turns it to his lips. "Promise."

Presley is still smiling when she flags me down. "Hey, Mama?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you want us sticking around today or...?"

I turn around.

Jamie's holding her hand over his heart, and Presley's propped her elbow up against his shoulder. They're all grown up. They're holding each other to a promise. They're adults. And they're asking if I need them here.

"I always want you two around. But you don't have to stay."

"Does Dad know when he'll be home?"

"I'm not sure."

Presley chews her lip. A silent thought exchanges between Jamie and Presley.

"Wanna head back?" She asks him.

"Sure," Jamie hums. "So long as we aren't needed?"

He directs the question at me.

A laugh tears through the seams of my throat.

"Jamie Kazansky, if you ask to stay and help one more time."

Presley pushes Jamie's head playfully and he throws up his hands, laughing. Truthfully, I'd keep both of them here forever. Not for an extra hand, just to have them; their laughs and their smiles all to myself. But they've got a whole life in the city, and there's not much here for them. There's hardly enough for me. When the kids were younger, they were more work than the farm itself. I know exactly what time the horses need feed, exercise, water. The hen-house has to be checked at sun-up, the cow-milked before bed, and the horses let out after dark. The animals run a tight ship, but the girls were an entire circus. I was up to my neck in diapers, fevers, Crayola-marker murals, dolls with the worst DIY bangs imaginable, and don't even get me started on the clogged drains. Being a Mom to three daughters, two of which test everything and trust nothing, was an overtime job.

Twenty-four hours.

Seven days a week.

And when my country needed me, I had the jets.

They haven't needed me in two years.

The girls need me less and less everyday.

So it's me and the horses and the chickens and the cow.

"How'd you two feel if we got a dog?" I ask once Jamie and Presley have disappeared over the hill.

"YES." Violet squeals.

"What kind of dog are we talking?" Vesper asks.

"Well, let's see..."

As I reach into my back pocket, my phone buzzes. I side eye the girls. Violet's dragged Vesper down the rabbit hole of dog breeds. I take this chance while they're distracted to punch in the code. Once my phone's unlocked, I pivot my screen out of sight. Force of habit. I was never this secretive before. A lot of parents I've met yell the love out of their kids eyes when they mess around with their phones. It's scary how afraid people are of their activity being seen. Personally, I never minded the kids trying to crack my password — until Vesper and Seamus put their Ivy League brains together and combed through my emails. Aside from private, military messages, I have nothing to hide.

Had nothing.

Now Bradley is hiding in my phone.

From the girls.

From Maverick.

He used to have a contact card. His name was Little Rooster, with a rooster emoji that Violet added. The photo was one of him, playing the piano in one of Goose's old Hawaiian shirts.

I deleted the contact, and buried our thread in my archive.

He's faceless.

Nameless.

Just a number that pops up now and again, like right now.

619-232-1080

Hey, I don't know if you saw my message, but I thought I'd let you know that I'm at an In-and-Out, getting a bite before I head to Top Gun. Would love some company.

Bradley and burgers.

I thumb through our texts, my eyes light on every mention of In-and-Out he's ever made. I laugh before responding,

Burgers sound good right about now. I'll be there

An ellipsis blinks in the corner of the screen and then,

619-232-1080

So it's just about the burgers, huh?

Goose never held a phone like these, with their screens and apps and infuriating tiny digital keyboards. But if he had, he would've texted exactly like Bradley does. Maybe worse. Goose would've loved emojis. I use some in honor of him along with my short and sweet retort.

I hear the company are only as good as the burgers

All I get back is a crying laughing emoji.

》 》 》

Lunch rushes are no joke. Families, young couples, and large gaggles of teenagers off their first pay-check flood about me the second I set foot inside the building. It's too pretty a day to drive with the windows up, so my hair sits funny on my head. I feel like a retarded bird of paradise. No one looks twice at me. Still, I pluck the aviators off of my nose and smooth down my hair, all while scanning the tops of heads for my mysterious contact. So covert — we could be in a Bourne movie. I imagine myself finding Bradley's table with my shades back on so I can tip them down and say, "The crowds are a nice touch."

Life is rarely the stuff of movies.

When I lock eyes with Bradley, it isn't two spies meeting in secret.

It's an estranged son, jumping from his seat and his suddenly emotional aunt, bursting through the crowd, all elbows and frustration until she's got him in her arms.

"Hey, Auntie," Bradley murmurs against the top of my head.

"Hey, Roos," the shards of my voice fall between the creases of his shirt. It's another one of Goose's. It smells nice. Like a tropical cocktail. Rum, coconut, pineapple, and sunscreen. That last note is no small-comfort. I spent his entire childhood telling him that just because he tanned well doesn't mean he doesn't need sunscreen. I had no intention of crying. Somehow, I convinced myself I would hug Bradley tight and look him over just to be sure he wasn't broken or sick and then we'd eat In-and-Out like it hasn't been a year since we last spoke. A wild overestimation on my part. "You've grown," I choke out.

"Uhh, I don't think so. You've shrunk."

I laugh into his chest.

"I'm glad you reached out."

Bradley rubs large, intersecting circles across my back, squeezes me in his arms and then casts off. No, he's definitely grown. I can already feel the threat of a kink in my neck having to stare up at him. He smiles sheepishly. "Couldn'ta lived with myself if I didn't see you again, since I'm stateside."

"Good. We raised you right."

We.

Nice and vague.

I meant Maverick and Carol and I.

But if Bradley counts Maverick still, he doesn't show it.

"Wait—" I gasp and catch Bradley's chin. "Is this what I think it is?"

Bradley laughs from his stomach as I twist his face this way and that. He's gone and grown himself a stache! I need every angle available. A moustache! When he was a kid he said he'd grow one and he'd look 'just like daddy' but then Carol made him swear not to murder his 'sweet baby face with a hairy, upper lip worm.' None of us wanted to admit there'd be a day when Bradley had the power to grow a hairy, upper lip worm, but Carol most of all. I'm guessing she knew just how much closer he'd resemble his father, and the drawbacks of that are obvious. 'Course, she's not with us anymore, and Bradley's his own man.

"You look like a guy I knew in school."

"Oh yeah?" Bradley grins.

"Yeah," I muster a shitty mob-accent. "real piece of work. Named Pigeon or something."

"Goose?"

"Sure, Goose."

Bradley's eyes crinkle.

His smile looks so much better in person.

"Wanna order?"

"Lead the way."

"I'm buying."

Bradley's generosity is non-negotiable. The manners instilled in me by my Southern-bell Mother require a polite amount of push back. Smirking, Bradley refuses every bribe. Had this not been a covert lunch date, I wouldn't have given up so easily. These days, I've got to get my fill of competition wherever I can. Bradley wins this time, only because I let him. The girls think I'm out making good on a tractor-trailer store coupon. There's no coupon, but I will swing by the tractor-trailer store for more chicken feed so Vesper doesn't launch a full investigation. Maverick has access to my bank account and my receipts. Maybe he wouldn't bat an eye at a withdrawal from In-and-Out, but the less explaining I have to do, the better. I'm hiding again. This time, I'm hiding in Bradley's tab. A nameless, faceless order of an everything Cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake.

"Hey—" Bradley lunges for the shake I stole.

Whatever I just drank, it certainly isn't strawberry.

Puckering my lips, I slide the shake back to Bradley's end of the table.

He laughs through a mouthful of fries. "Did you develop a chocolate allergy or...?"

"I thought it was strawberry!"

"I've...been into chocolate lately."

Well that's new.

It has been a year, I remind myself.

"So, Top Gun, huh?"

"Yeah," Bradley whistles. "Feels weird being back. Like it's too soon."

"It's never too soon to go back," I smile.

"Want to trade places?"

"You think you've got what it takes to be a mom?"

"Hell no."

A smile hides in the recedes of his eyes as he turns down my offer. Bradley Bradshaw is not green to the world of motherhood. In fact, he had nosebleed tickets to Carol's life-long battle as a single-mother. And yeah, Bradley had Maverick — has him, I bury a frustrated grunt in my burger patty. Tomato juice squirts down my neck. Bradley flings a handful of napkins across the table. I frantically chase the juice before it escapes under my shirt. I catch all but one fat, pink bead. Great. It's already made it under my bra. I crumple the napkins up in one hand, and sip from my milkshake with the other. Bradley's face twitches neurotically.

You sure you're cut out to be a mom? His eyes tease.

"So," I reach for a subject change. "Any idea what the assignment is?"

Bradley shakes his head. "That's what today's briefing is about. I'll have to head out in..." He turns over his wrist, assessing the clock-face. "An hour, if I want to be early, which...with my luck..."

Bradley's tongue rolls out of his mouth as he drags a finger across his throat. I laugh immediately. Proud and bright, a smile stretches from one cheek to the next, crumpling his moustache in on itself, like the accordion-back of a caterpillar. Alright, Carol, I see it. So maybe the hairy worm wasn't completely about the reminder of Goose. Bradley laughs off his own silliness and takes another bite. Even as we resume eating, I can't keep my eyes off the moustache. I could never have imagined Goose without the stache, but I never considered what Bradley might look like with one. There's a Hell of a lot of Goose in Bradley...but there's too much of Carol in him for a simple moustache to resurrect the dead. He does look a little more like his dad; a little more grown up. The sunlight brings out the strawberry blonde whisps on his head, in his brows, and of course, the hairy worm. A laugh bubbles in my chest. God, Carol really got that one stuck in my head.

Damn her.

"I met with the guys last night, and get this," Bradley hurries to blot at his mouth. His smile stretches beyond the napkin. Suspicion brews and slow my chewing. "We were at the Hard Deck."

The Hard Deck.

The bar.

Our bar.

Where I fell in love with Maverick, and I fell in love with everyone he loved; everyone who loved him. The old posters and peeling license plates and that beautiful, antique piano Goose would play incessantly. Maverick and Goose serenaded me there. Ghost and Iceman shared their first kiss on the dance floor. I did stupid things in The Hard Deck. Got drunk, bitter, sad...but the good times outweigh the bad. So many good times, they tip the whole balance into the torrent waters raging along my eyeline. The last time Bradley was at The Hard Deck, was the seventeenth anniversary of Goose's death. He sat at the piano with Jamie and Presley and played Unchained Melody at a haunting march.

A couple months later, the bar ran dry.

They boarded up.

It took a day for the color to come back to Maverick's face.

"How is that —...I mean, it's been fifteen years—"

"Someone musta bought it; cleaned it up," Bradley grins. "They moved locations. It's beach front property now."

"Oh."

Maybe a shake wasn't the greatest idea.

For a moment, I thought we'd gotten a piece of Goose back.

But it isn't our bar.

Our bar is done, much like our time.

Those times.

I change the subject again, Queen of re-opening wounds, apparently.

"Who all is on the bench?"

Bradley kicks back in his chair and starts rattling off call-signs by the count of his fingers.

"Coyote, Payback, Bagman—"

"Bagman?"

"Hangman, sorry," Bradley snorts. "He's a douchebag though so he gets Bagman a lot more."

I catch the milkshake's straw between my teeth. "I like Bagman better."

"He and Coyote are buddies, sort of. Hard to be friends with a dick like Hangman. And uhh, who else...Phoenix, she's pretty badass, you'd love her."

Her callsign alone has me convinced.

"She the only girl?"

"Nah, there's another girl, but she keeps to herself. Phoenix sticks it out with us boys. I'd say she's brave but she's better than us at everything." His hard laugh forces him to pause. In between breaths, Bradley sucks off the last of his milkshake. The straw screeches against the Styrofoam bottom. "Oh, yeah, she's got a new back-seater. Some kid and get this — his call-sign is Bob. His name is probably Robert, and I guess he's lacking a personality or some shit to be called Bob. Anyway...she's dealing with him, and we've got Fanboy, Fritz, and a couple others. Basically the better half of our graduating class."

"An unexpected reunion, huh?"

Bradley blows the breath trapped between his tongue and cheek.

"Yeah, you could say that."

I slide my milkshake across the table, counting on him to finish it off.

"You nervous?"

Bradley catches my eye. A hint of suspicion narrows them to slits. I fold and unfold my hands ontop of the table, praying I've got better control of my face than usual. Sadly, lying is one of the few skills I've mastered with age. Manipulating people ain't like manipulating machinery. When I mastered flying, not even the evolution of technology or technique disrupted my confidence. But with people, just when I think I've gotten it down, I'm sent back to square one. They're so uncertain; so different every second, every year. It takes time and practice to find the sweet spot where you've bluffed a person to conviction.

Sometimes, the easiest way to lie is to say nothing at all.

Don't let them force an answer.

People want to believe the best of each other.

That's the only reason I'm sitting across from Bradley right now. I'm glad I let him finish the shake. My stomach acids are rebelling and sending torrential waves into my boast, keen to sink it. The ship goes down hard. It sends a sick taste up my mouth, not unlike the mass amounts of vanilla and ketchup I've just consumed. Lying. God, I haven't touched a jet in almost a year, but here I am, proud of being dishonest. And they aren't white lies. They're not the kind I forgive myself for telling my children to keep them out of danger or protect their innocence. I'm lying to my husband. I'm lying to all three of my kids. I haven't had to lie to Iceman and Ghost or any of their kids, but where's the line between hiding the truth and twisting it? Is there a line? The air takes on a chill. An employee probably bumped up the thermostat to combat the midday heat. That, or my guilt's bleeding out of my stomach and down my arms and legs, raising tell-tale goosebumps as it goes. Am I such a good liar? Doubting reassures my sense of humanity, but then paranoia comes crawling. I couldn't say which is worse. Going home, anxiously dissecting every conversation with my family to be certain they haven't caught on to my secrets...or having the utmost confidence in my sins?

Let's just say, if I were Catholic, my priest would hate me.

Bradley looks almost half as conflicted as I feel.

A cold, tense shadow crawls over his face; breaking through the hot golden ray straight from the sun. Sighing, he scratches at the thin layer of stubble peppering his jaw. His moustache reacts to the touch.

It twitches.

Like Goose's used to.

"I dunno if nervous is the right word," Bradley mumbles. "I feel fine about flying...doing missions...I mean, I haven't had to actively take anyone on in a dogfight yet but...I guess everything feels a bit too real sometimes. And then I don't know if I'm supposed to sit in the chaos or distract myself from it. And which choice will bite me harder in the ass when I finally get up in the air."

A strained laugh tumbles off my lips.

Bradley perks up, like a curious pup.

He may have the moustache and the big arms but he's every inch the angel-faced little boy I helped raise.

"You just explained every pilot's pre-mission nightmares."

"So I'm not crazy," Bradley laughs light-heartedly, but his slumped shoulders and sunny face spell genuine relief.

"No, of course you aren't crazy!" I roll my eyes. "Roos, you're going up into the middle of the sky, faced with deadly levels of heat, natural forces, and you have to interact with enemy aircraft. You're doing something most of the world isn't cut out for. It's terrifying when you really think about it!"

Bradley leans forwards conspiratorially.

"Are you trying to scare me off?"

The milkshake was a terrible idea.

I hook my fingers under the opposite sleeve of my jean-jacket. It's a poor anchor against the bitterness behind Bradley's tease. Bradley's voice gives nothing away. It's all in his face. Sharp lines and hard eyes. The precursor to panic speeds my heart rate. I search Bradley's eyes, forced to decide my next move. What's the better play? Change the topic again? Address Maverick's mistake and act like an ingenuine neutral party? I close my eyes — and blindly reach for Bradley's hands. They're warm and strong, but they don't resist me. A half-hearted smile winds across my face as his hands swallowed mine alive.

"Bradley...believe me when I say we never wanted to keep you from this."

"I believe you didn't," He replies immediately. "I know you didn't, but Maverick still pulled my papers."

"He did, but it's not for the reasons you thin—"

"What reasons then?" Bradley all but barks. "Huh? Okay, so he doesn't doubt my abilities, and he isn't afraid of losing me, then what? What's the reason? Afraid I'll take his status as the Navy's golden-boy?"

The sarcasm ignites something in me.

"He's never been the Navy's golden-boy and you know it. And Maverick would never stop you from becoming the best pilot possible because of his ego! It's large, sure, and it's stubborn sometimes, but he loves you more than that!"

"Loved me enough to screw with my future?" Bradley snaps. "Yeah, I'm sure that's exactly what my dad would've wanted him to do; it's exactly the kind of love a father should have for a son—"

"That's enough," I growl.

Bradley's frown cuts so deep, it might very well scar. He releases my hands and throws his behind his head, digging through his hair in a fit of frustration. "Look," He sighs, and hunches back over the table. "I don't want to fight about Maverick anymore. It...happened, for whatever reason, and I can't forgive him for sabotaging me like that. I know you want me to but I can't. The best I can do is stay connected with you, maybe the girls too someday."

He cracks a smile at the end.

I can't smile back.

"They miss you, Bradley."

God is the only force keeping my tears at bay, but Bradley shows him a good fight when his face falls into his open hands and he mutters, "I miss them too."

Neither of us know how to go from there.

All four years of this torturous rift, our conversations unwillingly circle back to the gruesome heart of the wound. It's like death. Something in my family died that night, and I've been wearing myself to the bone, trying to resuscitate it. I have yet to discover a cure. Dancing around the wound won't work — we wind up falling into it's wide-spread jaws. Attacking it head on, like an emergency procedure in the back of an ambulance only leads to Bradley clamping up at the scent of a threat. Whether we have a levelheaded discussion about Maverick pulling his papers, or a political debate, nothing ever changes. Bradley won't forgive Maverick, and I can't abandon Bradley.

"You know...last night," Bradley shrugs off any evidence of heartache. "When I was out with the gang, Phoenix pitched a pretty good question."

"She ask you out?"

Bradley's eyes widen before he utters a blushing laugh. "No!—"

"Alright," I smirk. "What'd she ask?"

"She said we should be asking whose good enough to teach us. We're top of our class, the most recent batch of highly trained Top Gun graduates. We're up to date on recent equipment and techniques...She's right, you know? Who the Hell is gonna teach us?"

So he doesn't know.

Which means he's going to find out today.

In less than an hour.

For the first time in four years Maverick and Bradley will be in the same room.

My breath hitches, immediately drawing Bradley's attention. I rush to cover it with a mildly-offended scoff. "So...you'd be surprised if I was your teacher?"

Bradley quirks a brow.

"Are you?"

"Regrettably...no."

"Damn," Bradley raps his knuckles on the table. "I'd pay to see you chew Hangman out."

I bark a laugh. "Bring him by the farm and I'll do it for free."

Bradley laughs right along with me. Obviously, if we were being remotely serious, an invitation to the farm would be null. Maverick would override it instantly, and going behind his back meant reuniting the twins and Bradley, which meant swearing them to secrecy. And that's it. That's the line I cannot — will not — cross: coercing my children into lying to their father. I don't care that it means they'd see their big brother again, and probably heal the scatter of scars left on their little hearts watching him leave. I could never put Vesper and Violet in that position. Never.

It's a harmless joke.

That's all.

And it's our last for now.

"I uh, I better run," Bradley mutters. "Don't wanna be late my first day back."

My tremoring lips fail to hold back a smile. Looking up from his watch, Bradley catches me red-handed. A warm sting laces my eyelashes. Shit. It's so unfair of me to cry at our goodbye, but my body rebels against reason and pump a thick glaze of tears over both eyes. Maybe it's the sudden fog thrown over my vision that wobbles Bradley's meek smile. Maybe we're both utter failures when it comes to ending our secret chats. Our last goodbye lingered for twelve months; three hundred sixty five days. An entire orbit of the sun. In that time, the twins grew a couple inches, Violet upped her bra-size, Presley got promoted, Iceman's cancer came back, and Maverick started the Darkstar project.

How much will have changed when we meet again?

"I'm so proud of you, Rooster," I murmur into Bradley's shoulder.

He takes a feeble breath.

"Thanks, Mom."

I stiffen.

Mom.

He said, Mom.

I clench my eyes shut, denying the urge to break down into guttural sobs. Everything hurts as I swallow back the violent joy and anguish terrorizing me and push Bradley away. "I love you."

Bradley swallows hard. "Love you too."

"Thanks for lunch."

"Anytime."

We stand awkwardly, a solid five inches between the toes of our shoes.

He has to leave first.

I can't leave him.

I can't ever leave him.

Bradley rocks back a step, thinks better of it and hurries towards me. I open my mouth to ask what's wrong but all he does is plant a kiss on my cheek. The moustache screams against my cheek, yet another reminder of what time apart has taken. When Bradley backs away, he's got his aviators on and a cheeky grin crawling up his cheek. He salutes me goodbye. I laugh, and a few tears splatter free. They're a million times warmer than the air in this In-and-Out. Suddenly cold, I hug myself and wait for Bradley's jeep to disappear into traffic.

》 》 》

No questions are asked when I return with chicken feed and a couple tubs of ice-cream. The whole drive home, I kept the windows down in the hopes that the hard breeze would dry my tears and excuse any redness in my cheeks and nose. But, as I said, the twins ask no questions. We get on with our day. Violet finishes another chapter of The Witch of Blackbird Pond while Vesper challenges me to a barrel race. The horses could use the exercise. Yesterday threw our schedule for a loop, so today we stay out longer, bouncing between horses until they've gotten almost an hour each of riding time. I saddle Katiebug, my beautiful bay last. Violet gladly chucks the book and hops on her pony, Polaroid. She's the spitting image of that cartoon horse. Spirit, Vesper reminds me. Right, I laugh. The girls were obsessed with that movie growing up. Violet absolutely lost her mind when the horse we bought for her seventh birthday came straight out of the TV.

"Slide your hand down in preparation, sweetie! You'll take the turn smoother!"

Violet breaks her concentration for a brief nod.

When she circles back to restart the pattern, she neatly slides her inside hand down the reins before drawing Polaroid's head in for the turn.

"Beautiful!" I clap.

"HIT THE GAS, VI!" Vesper screeches.

She could make millions desensitizing horses for the police.

"Quiet, you'll spook her, you rascal."

Vesper twitches away from my tickling hands.

Violet clears the final barrel at the 47 second mark.

I call it out and Vesper lunges for my phone.

Her jaw goes slack. "That's a new record, isn't it?"

Violet slows to a halt. A hot pink shows through the shadows under her helmet.

"Not much of a record. You're both faster."

"But you're a little faster than you were," I argue. "And I think record-breakers deserve first pick of their ice-cream."

Vesper side eyes me with contempt. Grinning evilly, I tweak her ear.

"What'd you say to ice-cream for dinner and a swim before the sun goes down?"

"Is that even a question?" Vesper snorts.

"I call cookies and cream!"

Laughing, I swing a leg back over the saddle and drop to the silt-clay flooring. It compensates for my harsh landing, absorbing most of the shock thanks to the flaming June-tide sun. It'll harden back up over night, but never enough to risk any injury. Grasping Katie's reins in my hand I signal the twins. "Double time, soldiers! We ain't got much daylight left!"

Our energy electrifies the horses. They stamp and paw at the barn-floor like racehorses in the gate; oblivious to the fact that we're only untacking them to be let out. I wrestle Katie's girth free just just as Vesper hauls her saddle off Orwell's back. Goodness gracious, she's fast! I blindly fumble for the saddle and pad. Yanking them both at once will save time. Vesper catches me staring at her and sticks her tongue out. Oh it's on. Violet groans when she realizes she's been left in the dust.

"Seriously!? Not everything is a competition!"

"It can be if you make it one!" Vesper retorts.

A tidy twenty minutes later, we're floating around the pool, tummies full of ice-cream. Vesper and Violet didn't bother running in to change; the two of them stripped down to their underwear and hoisted themselves over the ladder.

"Girls!"

"What?" Vesper laughed and shook out her hair. "No one's around for miles!"

"Acres," Violet corrects her. "We haven't even got a mile on the property."

Vesper spoons water into her sister's face. "I know that! I was exaggerating!"

Sputtering, Violet launches a counterattack, and soon enough, I'm shielding my cup of cookies and' cream from their tidal waves. I hook one leg around the ladder and lay back on the body float, content to watch the twins chase each other around the circumference of the pool. The pools suffers a moon cycle as the sunlight recedes behind the trees. Vesper and Violet pop under the water and hold their breath. Unsurprisingly, Violet lasts longer. When Vesper resurfaces, her matted hair masks her face. She throws up her hands, chopping up the water as she claws the soaking chunks of hair out of her eyes and nose and mouth. I push my shades over my head — already hearing the strain in her chest with each panting breath.

"Ves, c'mere—"

"No, Mom," She scowls and waves me off. "I'm fine."

"You had ice-cream, you rode in a cloud of dust, and now you can't breathe — c'mere."

Rolling her eyes, Vesper wades over.

Violet springs out of the water. "Almost a whole minute!"

"Wanna trade lungs?" Vesper shouts and immediately after, collapses into a coughing fit.

Violet's eyes burst. Wordlessly, she kicks off the pool wall and swims freestyle like she's escaping Jaws. Violet clears the pool in less than five strokes.

"Hold this for me?"

"Yeah."

Violet takes the empty bowl and spoon off my hands. Vesper avoids any and all eye contact when I lower my ear to her chest and plug a finger in the other. The steady rock of the pool water dampens, allowing me to hear the erratic beat of Vesper's heart and a decible or two lower, her asthmatic lungs working twice as hard to reap oxygen. The movement I'm hearing isn't healthy, but it's not the worst I've ever heard. I'd hear clearer with a stethoscope, but that's in the linen closet, and decisions have to be made now. Drawing back, I place a hand on either side of Vesper's face. She works her jaw hard. The muscle cranks against my palms, jutting out periodically like a broken bone. That image leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

"Do we need to go in, Mama?" Violet whispers.

Vesper stares at the bottom of the pool.

To her, calling it day is a sign of failure.

It shouldn't be.

But she tries too hard — pushes past her limits — to prove to herself capable.

She's never said it aloud but I can hear her in the back of my head,

"If I can't do this, how will I ever be in the Navy?"

I brush away the droplets patterning Vesper's cheek.

The Navy isn't the end goal for everyone. It's an honor but there are other, better, more fulfilling honors in the world. One day, maybe, she'll learn to rest easy and take each win as it comes. Today, she deflates like a balloon when I suggest we go in and dry off. Violet puts her arm around Vesper and the two of them trudge indoors, soaked to the bone.

The only way to tell them apart is by who's shivering.

It isn't Violet.

》 》 》

Raised voices erupt close to ten o'clock. No one has had time to fix the front door. It slams full force after Maverick and...Presley? Vesper's headset muffles the noise. The swishing and clicking of her game-control are the only sounds beside the father and daughter screaming match none of us expected. Violet loses a grip on her trading cards when the door bangs shut; players scatter across the ottoman and onto the carpet.

"Dad would you just listen to me—"

"I did! I listened to you the whole way here but you haven't answered my question!"

I hop up from the couch and hurry into the kitchen before someone throws a dish at the other person's head. Maverick and Presley haven't fought like this in years. Even when they lose their tempers, it's never as snarling and unhinged as this particular argument.

Unfortunately, I'm the one who loses my shit when arguing with our kids. With anyone, really. Maverick was always adept at keeping his cool. He especially hates yelling at the girls and is sure to apologize once the air has cooled. The Maverick that peaceably navigates his way through conflict must be on vacation. Maverick's restraint is splitting at the seams but Presley shows no signs of backing down. Everything about her stance resembles a lion staking it's ground: from the wrinkles engraved along the bridge of her nose to the windblown and wild mane that frames her face.

"What Dad!" Presley snaps. "What question?"

Maverick stares her down. He grinds his jaw like he's sharpening his teeth before the attack, but when he speaks, his voice is subdued.

"Why did you lie to us?"

Jamie.

He found out.

After work, he must have seen them.

Where's Jamie?

I only heard one car rumbling down the driveway — did he separate them and haul Presley out to the farm so they could fight?

Presley dares to laugh.

Oh Pres...

If there's one thing that pisses Maverick off, it's a disrespectful attitude. There's no mistaking the sudden emphasis of a nerve in Maverick's neck, pulsing erratically.

"I didn't lie. I just withheld information. It's called personal privacy."

"We're your parents," Maverick counters. His eyes shift towards me. My heart lodges in my throat as I realize I've been drawn into this and onto Maverick's side, no less. So she didn't tell him that I knew? Perfect. As if matters weren't complicated enough, let's drag Mom into the mix. "You should tell us this kind of thing."

"I'm an adult. I don't have to report back to you!"

Maverick opens his mouth but I seize the chance to jump in.

"Everyone, slow down for a second — just...take a breath and let me..." I glance from husband to daughter, like tenis. The ball controls the court. For every lap I make between them, the tension lessens, and finally, I feel safe enough to turn my back on Presley and focus solely on Maverick. He sets both hands on his hips and begins a short, pointless pace between the sink and the fridge. "Pete." He answers to the call of his name, but his feet continue working off the anxious energy. Where to start? It was the first day of a new mission; not to mention one that by it's very nature unpacks a host of ghosts. Worst of all, his one living regret had to be faced, and I haven't heard how that went. Maverick looks like a man whose faced the undead and barely escaped with his life. He's running on empty, and now his daughter has a boyfriend.

The son of his school-day rival.

"You've had a long day, Maverick...and I know it must have been shocking—" Maverick looks up sharply. He's...he could be angry. "Sh-shocking," I continue, mildly put off by the intensity of his expression. "But Presley and I have already talked about this, and Jamie was with us. I told them it wasn't fair to sneak around and hide information, even if it's theirs to not share—"

"Mom!" Presley gasps.

"Presley, please, I'm on your side here, just listen—"

"No, Mom, really—"

"Because the Kazanskys are our closest friends, practically family, they shouldn't have been afraid to tell us they were seeing each other."

Presley utters a colorful word.

I whirl around and fix her a scalding glare. What has gotten into her? Interrupting me and using foul language when her sisters are in the other room?

"You're dating Jamie?"

Confusion mows me over. I turn back towards Maverick. How can he possibly be any more confused than I am?

"Yeah," Presley mutters.

"Shit," Maverick drags a hand across his jaw. He wanders about his half of the kitchen, staring upwards. While he's busy inspecting the ceiling, I'm stuck watching the walls close in around us. The air feels tight. Almost as if someone sucked the oxygen out and left us with all the carbon-dioxide. Brain function comes at a halting, one-bar speed. All three of us are straggling behind an understanding of whatever the Hell is going on. I work my jaw, unsure of what to say. I made things worse by stepping in, and I have no idea why. That seems like a reasonable enough question. I prepare to break the silence but Maverick beats me to it. "Do I even want to know what else you've been keeping from us?"

Presley flinches.

A gentle stream spills over both of her eyes and they crack open my heart.

"Maverick," I wait for him to look at me. "I don't think Jamie is worth all this worry—"

"It isn't, Jamie," Maverick sighs. "He's a good kid."

I frown. "A good kid? You decided to come into the house, after being out all day screaming at your daughter because you agree, Jamie's a good kid?"

"Mom—" Presley pleads again. "You don't understand—"

"What don't I understand?!"

"She was at the Hard Deck," Maverick mutters; his voice a heavy, damp handful of creek grit. Disappointment. Presley might as well have a blistering welt in the shape of Maverick's hand stamped on her cheek. Her eyes are beyond beautiful when they downpour, and it turns my stomach that she had to shatter for her eyes to shine. And it was Maverick who dealt the blow. Over what? A boy who we trust, and a bar that was once the heart of our friendship. The cold unease reaches a boiling point. A pressure squeezes the sides of my head in as I round on my husband.

"Pete Mitchell, she's twenty-four years old! She can go to a bar with her boyfriend if she wants—"

"She wasn't with her boyfriend."

"What? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she was with Rooster."

A pin could drop, but I wouldn't hear it over the drums beating in my ears. Presley folds over the back of a chair — the same chair Jamie sat in earlier today. When she draped herself over it, she was smiling from ear to ear and holding tightly to Jamie's shoulders. Now, there's no one to hold onto; no one to hold her up. Rooster. Bradley's call-sign packs a punch. It shreds a hole through my chest, deflates my lungs, and sends my heart into a spiral. Rooster. I'm saying she was with Rooster. She was at the Hard Deck...she was with Rooster. Bradley told me the Hard Deck had reopened. He went there with his Top Gun buddies and now...and now he went with — went to meet Presley. A chill infiltrates my veins. The hot, hard pumping blood freezes over.

Presley met with Bradley.

Presley disregarded the ban.

Hiding.

How long has she been hiding this? How long has she been meeting with Bradley behind our backs? Why didn't Bradley tell me? He made me think he hasn't had contact with any of the girls in years! And all this time...he and Presley...

A terrifying thought enters my mind.

Has Bradley told her about our meetings?

And if he hasn't...

Then we aren't just hiding from Maverick...

We're hiding from each other.