Who would've known that baseball would save us? 

Well, in fairness, Violet knew. She was the only one who came to breakfast smiling, and that smile stayed in place until we reached the field, where cool resolve flattened it. No one knows how to proceed after Maverick and Presley's fight. Home is where the heart is, but happens when the heart of a home is comatose? Maverick and Presley can't look at each other, and when Maverick wishes Vesper luck in the game, she won't even feign thanks. Only Violet forgave. I look at her sweet smile; I look at how she treats all of us no different than usual, and I wonder where the Hell she got her kindness from. It certainly wasn't from us. Neither of her parents are known to be forgiving. On the rare occasion we can make an exception...now that I think of it, there's only ever been two, and in the second I had no choice — He married my best friend, didn't he?

Maverick trades one war zone for another. I kiss him goodbye and remind him to go easy on Bradley, but Maverick makes no promises.

Yesterday is too fresh in his mind.

Tonight, I sigh. Tonight...we'll talk.

And by then, I'll have called Ghost and gotten some advice on how to fix this. There's gotta be a way to fix this. But a small, sinister voice somewhere in the recedes of my mind whispers a poisonous warning, 'if he could cut off one of his children...he can do it again...'

I watch as Violet crams their team's cap over Presley's head.

When they laugh, they laugh the same.

It was different with Bradley.

The voice practically cackles, and I realize I've slipped up.

"C'mon," I croak around the lump stuck in my throat. "You can't win the game if you're late."

At the end of the driveway, I send Vesper out to grab the mail.

She yanks a single letter out of the mailbox.

"There's no way that's all," Presley snorts.

"She's happy about it," Violet points out.

I slide the aviators down my nose. She is, isn't she?

Vesper grins in her own, restrained way, as she comes bounding back towards the pick-up, the letter billowing like flag from her fist. It's a good thing the wind is light and her grip is iron or the letter would be half-way across the country by now. Violet leans across the backseat to push open the door for her sister. Vesper launches herself onto the seat, panting.

"Aunt Meg wrote!"

I pass an arm behind the chair and wriggle my fingers until the letter drops into my hand. It weighs less than nothing and it fills my heart like helium. Letters won't ever make up the distance or replace the warmth of talking face to face, but she's reverse-Shakespeare, who is better performed than read. Poet's speak best on the page, and it's nice getting all Ghost has to say neat and whole, rather than in the halting, considerate way the words leave her lips. I flip the letter over in my lap and trace her perfectly printed letters and the way she makes my name on the send address pretty to read.

"It's so cool that you guys write to each other," Presley mumbles. "The art of the written word is dying a painful death."

"Oh God," Vesper groans. "Don't you start."

I stash the letter in the door compartment. Then, readjusting the rear-view mirror I find Vesper's pouty face. "Was that all the mail?"

"All the important mail."

Presley turns over the back of her chair and glares sharply at Vesper.

"Mom said to grab all of it."

"It's fine—" I put the car into drive and clear the driveway. "Win or lose, she'll get the rest when we come home."

I wink at Vesper in the rear-view mirror before resetting it.

》 》 》

The Riveters against the The Angels; the opposing ends of the female spectrum have finally collided. Both teams are successfully warming us up for Independence Day — which I realize with shock is only five days away. Red, white, and blue dominate the field. Since the Riveters are playing home, they reflect the sun off their crisp, white uniforms and buzz about the field like shooting stars. Accents of red mark their shoulders and socks but drench their caps and pants. When the bench unloads and the kids on the field swap out, I wave my own Riveters cap in the air and enthusiastically embarrass the twins. Number 12 presses the ball and mitt over her ears on her way to the pitcher's mound, but Number 5 whips off her cap at first base and bows extravagantly. Beside me, Presley guffaws. It's such a shame Maverick has to miss their games for the rest of the summer. Vesper could do with one less person to show off to, but Violet sponges up Maverick's praise. I haven't seen her smile bigger than when she hits a home run and has her dad on his feet, screaming his throat raw.

He loses his shit at these games.

One time, Maverick clapped his hands so hard they bled.

When the girls ran to our seats after the game ended, he held up his bloodstained palm and said, "I'm wearing your colors!"

"Hey, Mama?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna go get a water, you want some?"

"Actually, water would be great —" I pull the red-cap off my head and fan myself with it. The air is so dense, it hardly budges. "If I had balls, I'd be sweating them off."

Presley laughs. "'Kay, I'll be right back!"

I take my eyes off the game for a moment and watch Presley cautiously weave her way through the bleachers, apologizing to everyone she steps on or knocks into. It's too bright to have wear a baseball cap backwards but she does anyway, and she looks awfully cute in her red tanktop, high-waited jeans, and white converse. It's no wonder a pack of what I assume are the players' older brothers gawk and ogle Presley as she scoots by. Mommy-Alarms still ring in my head, even if most of them are still in the throws of puberty. When Presley hops off the edge of the bleachers, I focus back on the twins. Honestly, it's a miracle I only had one Presley. Vesper is a handful, but not like Presley was — is. When Presley was the twins age, I not only had to make sure she didn't try sky-diving out of a tree, I also had to carry a bat for all the boys she wound in a knot by simply existing. Thank God Presley never let it get to her head. Her Disney Ride length line of admirers amused her, but she didn't play around with them. The only time I thought she was, she rolled her eyes and told me she'd 'never exploit a man's infatuation with her—'

"unless I need a testimony for an article, ya know, like espionage."

Oh yes, Presley the Bond Girl.

Maverick would love that.

"STRIKE!"

Violet catches the ball and winds back her arm.

"STRIKE!"

Violet stands still. The Angel batting nervously twists the bat between her hands. Movement draws my eyes to first base, where Vesper is shifting from one foot to the other.

The ball is in the air and—

"FOUL TIP."

The Riveter's catcher has Violet's ball in a tight fist.

Everyone in red cheers as the downtrodden Angel resigns the batting box.

Presley returns to the stands with two bottled waters and an unexpected face.

"Jamie, I didn't know you were coming!"

"Yeah," He shakes out his hair and drops his baseball cap into his lap as he plops down beside Presley. "I thought I'd follow you back to your place and wait 'til Maverick gets home to uh...to talk to him about yesterday."

The olive tint of my shades makes it difficult to tell if he's blushing or simply ducking his head to avoid my eye. It won't be lunchtime for another hour, but the sun is already at full capacity. With or without sunglasses, it'd be impossible to properly make out Jamie's face. I reach over Presley's lap and give Jamie's forearm a squeeze. Out of pure instinct he lays a hand over mine. Presley leans back, holding the bottled waters to her chest. I feel bad for awkwardly compromising her spot, but I can't let go of Jamie until I think of something to say. Something that at least tries to make up for the shit-storm they're both in, half of which has nothing to do with them and has everything to do with the crossfire between Bradley and Maverick and of course me, crawling haphazardly through no man's land.

"Jamie...I'm really sorry I spilled the beans yesterday. I wanted you to have a chance to talk to Maverick, man to man, but...the Bradley situation compromised that. I should've gotten to the bottom of their fight before assuming—"

"It's okay, really." Jamie sighs and lets go of my hand. "None of us expected it to go down that way but there wouldn't have been a chance for it to if I just manned up and told Maverick about us sooner."

"Here, Mom," Presley offers me a bottle.

"Thanks, hon."

She nods but doesn't reply. She doesn't even smile. I unscrew the bottle cap and drink thoughtlessly, completely distracted by Presley tucking her bottle between her thighs and folding over them until her hair spills like a golden curtain, hiding her face. Jamie eyes me over her head, wearing a tight smile to match my own. I shift the bottle to one hand and with the other, comb a layer of Presley's hair behind her ear.

"Hey...how are you holding up today?"

"Barely," She huffs.

"No contact from Dad at all?"

"Nope."

Jamie fits his cap back over his head and lays a hand on Presley's back. Her shoulders roll forwards when he lazily strokes her spine. "He just needs a second to process, Pres...he got hit with a lot of information last night."

"Yeah well, maybe he wouldn't have if he wasn't so impossible."

A knot forms between my brows. "Meaning...?"

"He makes lying and hiding the only option, because he can't apologize for what he did to Bradley and then he hates himself for it so now the rest of us have to pay because God knows Dad can't take a fall alone!"

"Presley," Jamie hums. "He's your Dad—"

"I know," She snaps. "That's why it's so disappointing. I mean, he couldn't give a shit about fear when he's flying a jet, but somehow he allowed the fear of losing Bradley to make him take a risk that's now blown up in all of our faces."

"He thought he was doing the right thing," I murmur.

It isn't rocket-science to discover the insincerity in my voice. Presley is far too smart, far too people driven to let it slide. She sits up and pushes her hair out of her face, already scrutinizing me. I summon an impassive expression to guard my racing heart.

"Well, it wasn't the right thing...but you already know that."

Panic clouds my judgement. I lose control of my face, that is, assuming I ever had any. All my life I've been told I'm a 'heart on my sleeve' kind of gal, and I couldn't be mysterious and manipulative for shit. Then again, the ones who said that have no idea how I've spent the last four years, living a farce and banging my head against a yet unsolved, covert operation. Presley maintains severe eye contact. Now I understand why Jamie calls her Sherlock. I'm being interrogated...but my own daughter. And without uttering a single threat, she's already forced a frightened, "What?" out of me.

"Mom, I know you're trying to stick by Dad, and I think that's great, really."

Presley sighs.

Violet steps off the mound as the teams change positions.

"But I know you'd never do anything to push Bradley away. You kind of go out of your way to keep him close." Her mouth twitches but she hides it behind a fist. I react, setting a hand on her thigh. Presley's eyes flutter shut and she smiles behind her hand, but it isn't her smile. Whatever forgery this is, it's bitter and it's grim and it tries too hard to be genuine. I give her leg a squeeze but the smile sticks and when Presley opens her eyes there's a sheen to them. "That's why I did it in the first place, you know...to keep him close for you, 'cause I knew you would stick by Dad, even if it killed you inside."

If she only knew that it's her who's killed me inside.

I pass a hand over my face and breath hard and fast in a frantic attempt to recollect myself. What do I do? God, if only Ghost was here — all I'd have to do is look at her and read her mind. She always knows how to handle sensitive situations. She never raises her voice, never loses her cool, and always, always levels the sea before the whole ship does down. And I got a bad hand at birth when it comes to moments like these, 'cause I'm nothing like her. I'm brash and sloppy with words and I rile up too easily for my good...and I'm sitting here, staring at the softball game but seeing none of it, pretending to be shading my eyes when I've got on a hat and sunglasses already. I'm pretending. I'm so sick of pretending.

Tell her.

Tell her? I nearly laugh aloud.

After what she just said? After the praising me for my loyalty and honesty...tell her I'm a lying, conniving wife and mother?

"That's why it's so disappointing. I mean, he couldn't give a shit about fear when he's flying a jet, but somehow he allowed the fear of losing Bradley to make him take a risk that's now blown up in all of our faces."

Yeah, Maverick did all of that.

But so did I.

Presley believes the best of me and I don't have the strength to crush her.

There's still time. Maverick has to face Bradley now that they're part of the same mission. Sooner or later, old wounds will reopen, and either they'll be forced to make amends or split further apart. With any luck, four years of crawling between enemy fronts will allow me to turn the tide of this war. I can be the angel on each of their shoulders, urging them to forgive. Maverick still trusts me. Maverick knows I wasn't in favor of pulling Bradley's papers but he's never held that against me. One of us had to act on behalf of Carol's wishes. The other had to represent Goose, and I've done that. Just like Presley said, I've gone out of my way to keep Bradley close, to maintain his trust, his love.

But if I tell Presley now...

It might've been for nothing.

So I wrap an arm around Presley's shoulders and rope her into a hug.

"You know I love you so much?"

"I had a hunch," she laughs.

And she smiles. A genuine, megawatt Presley Mitchell smile.

》 》 》

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓢𝓽𝓲𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓼,

𝓐 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝔀. 𝓘 𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓭 𝓸𝓯𝓯 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓭. 𝓝𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓷𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷, 𝓘 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾. 𝓗𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓮 𝓭𝓸. 𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮! 𝓐𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮, 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓾𝓵𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓼, 𝓣𝓸𝓶 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓽𝓸 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓵𝔂. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓽𝓸𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓸𝓶, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓯 𝔀𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓷𝓸𝔀, 𝔀𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝔂 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓼 𝓪 𝔀𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷. 𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓣𝓸𝓶, 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝓪𝓼 𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀, 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓼. 𝓗𝓮'𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓵𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓫𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝔂 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓬𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓸𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓾𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴, 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓽 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓮'𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓼, 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷 𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓷, 𝓸𝓸𝔃𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓾𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓼, 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓾𝓵, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓮𝔁𝓱𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓦𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓘𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓘 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓪𝓼𝓽. 𝓘 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓯 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝔂 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮: 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓭𝓿𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓮.

𝓑𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾 (𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓲𝓷𝓰!) 𝓹𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷. 𝓢𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓾𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷. 𝓗𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓾𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓳𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓝𝓪𝓿𝔂. 𝓣𝓸𝓶 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓲𝓶. 𝓘 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓱𝓮'𝓵𝓵 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓹𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓪. 𝓡𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓡𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓮𝔁𝓬𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓿𝓮, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓼 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓭, 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂'𝓻𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓵𝓮𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓜𝓲𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓼 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷. 𝓐𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓾𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓙𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓫𝓵𝔂. 𝓘'𝓶 𝓼𝓸 𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓭 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱 𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓲𝓶.

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓮𝓵𝓼𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵, 𝓾𝓷𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓭 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓹𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓼.

𝓨𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓭𝓪𝔂, 𝓡𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓴𝓮𝓷𝓷𝓮𝓵𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓼 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓭. 𝓘𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓮𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓱𝓸𝓰𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪 𝓯𝓸𝔁 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓮. 𝓦𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝓴𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮 𝓘𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓼.𝓢𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓘'𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓮'𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼, 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴. 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓽𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓸𝓻 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝓮.

𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝔀𝓮'𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷,

𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼,𝓖𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽

》 》 》

There's plenty of cause for celebration in the Mitchell household. The Riveters won yet another game. Violet got two home runs and struck out almost every batter she pitched to. Vesper caught a field ball and made it through the game without needing her inhaler once. None of us would've withheld praise if she'd stepped out for a breather, but for her this is a big win. The twins chose the celebration dinner. Obviously, they've been cultured and chose the only acceptable celebratory food:

Pizza.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate two of the best up and coming softball players—"

Presley toasts her lemonade with a cataclysmic whoop. Maverick bites back a laugh and raises his glass as well. Soon enough, everyone's drinks are in the air, clinking cheerfully.

"But," I add.

And everyone stops.

"That's not all we've got to celebrate."

"Oh my God, please tell me you're not pregnant!" Presley gushes.

"What!?"

"Ew," Vesper wrinkles her nose.

Maverick is all but blushing. Jamie and Violet glance questioningly at each other.

"No, Presley," I huff and adjust my shirt to prove the small bump under my waistband is fat and nothing more. Vesper snickers as I pivot this way and that, posing with my nonexistent baby-bump. Presley throws herself down in a fit of relief. So she really thought I was pregnant? I'm not sure how to take that. Maverick hasn't taken it well at all. He stares blankly at me, silently asking, Did that really just happen? I stifle a laugh. "Okay...now that we're clear that I'm not pregnant...guess whose moving back to the states next month?"

"OH MY GOSH!"

Vesper and Violet shake each other violently. All three girls are screaming. Maverick laughs and plugs his ears. Jamie ducks and covers when Presley rounds on him and begins halfheartedly punching him in the shoulder.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

"Hey, I just found out three days ago!"

Presley turns back to me. "When did you find out?"

Obviously, Ghost's letter had crossed her mind, but Presley is nothing short of impressed when I dangle the opened envelope for all to see. Jamie laughs.

"Oh my gosh she sent you a letter," He mumbles into his hands.

Maverick smiles around a sip of his beer. "She's lucky it arrived in time."

"Yeah, well," I huff as I take a seat beside Maverick. "She's Irish."

The game was our only obligation; it ate up the entire day, and yet today feels far from over. The tensions that haunted breakfast don't affect dinner as overtly. A quiet truce must have been made between Maverick, Presley, and Jamie. We wolf down the pizzas and migrate to the living room where Vesper and Violet crowd their dad to show him all of the videos Presley got of the game. They beg to see the shots Jamie got on his Nikon, but he stoutly refuses until they've undergone proper treatment. Vesper, of course, sticks her tongue out at him, but he's got the reflexes of a cat and before she can run for the hills, Jamie's got her in his lap, mercilessly tickled. Violet scales the couch behind me and Maverick. The whole sofa jostles but I stay tucked under Maverick's arm, simply thankful no one is fighting. Last night was awful. Not only because Presley and Maverick went to bed fuming. Vesper missed half of their screaming match, but after Presley shut herself in her room and Maverick trudged down the hall to cool off in the shower, I went to check in on Violet and found both twins at attention. Vesper's headset hunt around her neck and the little creatures from the video game idly killing and running across the screen. Violet had a pillow in her lap, covered in creases.

I think it's fair to say they thought Presley might leave and never come back.

Why wouldn't they, after what happened last time?

I snuggle deeper into Maverick's side.

"What is it?" He hums against the crown of my head.

"Just happy everyone is happy, that's all."

Maverick's smile indents in my hair before he presses a warm kiss in it's place.

"Today was good, you know...with Bradley."

A double shot of terror and excitement buzz my nerves. I plant both hands on Maverick's thigh to help me sit up. His eyes are there waiting to catch me and the ghost of his smile remains tucked in the right-hand corner of his mouth as he waits for me to answer. "Really?" is all I've got.

"Yeah," He nods. "I mean, we aren't where we used to be. I can't say if we ever will be but class ran smoothly. Honestly he gives me less of a hard time then this one kid—"

"Hangman?"

Maverick blinks.

"Yeah..." A slow, sardonic smile stretches across his face. Maverick shakes his head, the way he does when one of the girls is melodramatic or has a less than savory attitude. "I guess I've already been complaining about him to you, huh?"

"Yeah," I sputter.

Lying.

Liar.

Maverick hasn't breathed a word about Hangman. We haven't even had an in-depth conversation about playing teacher to Bradley. The job was offered two days ago; the class has met twice. Presley and Bradley's visit to the Hard Deck and the consequent dissension cancelled the conversation Maverick and I would've had last night about his first day back teaching at Top Gun since '88. Maverick let me off the hook too easily. By all accounts, I shouldn't know the name Hangman. What's more? I shouldn't know that he's a pain-in-the-ass. Bradley told me that. Bradley warned me what a douchebag this guy can be. Bagman. Does Maverick know the nickname the class has for Hangman yet? No way I'm in deeper on the classroom lore than him. It's possible. Bradley knows these guys — and girl — better than Maverick. It will take time for him to gain their trust and respect.

I want to stay in Maverick's arms.

Out of every country I've visited and every house I've called home, my favorite place to be is in his arms.

But the guilt is eating me alive.

The longer I'm pressed against him, the more obvious it must be that I'm hiding something. Can't he feel the temperature I'm running? Can't he hear the beehive that's become of my nervous system?

Jamie dumps Vesper out of his lap finally and she rolls away like a ninja.

"Hey, uh, Uncle Pete?"

I take this chance to detach from Maverick, who answers Jamie with a simple nod. Jamie glances shyly at Presley. She crisscrosses her legs up on the sofa and gives him an encouraging nod. The room went silent the moment Jamie stopped tickling bloodcurdling screams out of Vesper. Now everyone is watching as Jamie musters the courage to stand up. The springs are louder than Jamie when he asks if he can speak to Maverick on the porch. Smart choice. Evidently, our kitchen is the worst place to have an inflamed debate. Acoustics like that should be for in a bathroom for shower karaoke. Maverick pats his thighs before he stands up and follows Jamie out of the room. We watch them go, but Maverick stops in the doorway. I don't have time to see what the girls are thinking.

"I promise, I'm not going to kill him," Maverick says.

And then he disapears around the corner.

The front door bangs shut like a pop-gun.

"We really to fix that door," Violet mutters.

"Do I hear a valid eavesdropping excuse?" Vesper wriggles her eyebrows.

"No," Presley and I bark.

Vesper immediately cows. "You guys are so boring."

"He said he wouldn't kill Jamie. Don't think that means he won't kill you if he catches you spying."

Violet slides down the back of the couch, hijacking Maverick's seat. The cushions bow and wave around her. It's old, second hand leather, but it's been with us since we got married. Violet bounces idly on on it's arthritic springs.

"Do Aunt Meg and Uncle Tom know?" She asks Presley.

"No," She utters a short laugh. "I kept telling him we needed to just call them and get it over with, but he wouldn't do it and every time it came up he said he wanted to talk 'to Maverick first.'"

"He knew they were moving."

Presley makes a tremendous show of rolling her eyes.

"Yeah. Would've been nice if he'd told me his little family secret sooner."

"Guess you'll have to unlock that feature once you're married," Violet shrugs.

None of us quite know how to respond; until I can't hold off a laugh and drag everyone else down with me.

"What?" Violet squeaks. "You guys know what I mean!"

Of course we do. Why else would we be laughing? And Violet knows we know, but she's terribly allergic to being the center of attention, and too insecure about herself to handle more than one person laughing at her. When none of us can put the breaks on, and Presley's laughter spirals so far out of control that she falls off the couch, Violet immediately begins to sink between the cushions. As small as she is, the sofa couldn't hope to swallow her whole. Violet's beet-red face sticks out like a sore thumb against the peeling, coffee colored cow-hide. I lean across the couch for a hold of her legs. Shrieking, Violet flails. I lose my grip on her left leg but haul her one handed to my side of the sofa.

"Is this tickle-round two?"

Presley hops up from the sofa with a gasp.

Violet goes limp in my lap.

I catch Maverick's wandering eye.

He scratches his jaw and smiles sheepishly.

Oh that bastard.

"So...we're good?"

Presley makes no attempt to weed the desperation out of her voice. I guess there'd be no point in it. The whole family has the inside scoop. Now all we need is the conclusion.

Jamie and Maverick exchange a look.

"Yeah," Jamie grins. "We're good."

"Yes! Ohmygosh, yes—" Presley jumps into Jamie's arms first, and then into Maverick's. "Thank you, Daddy, thank you a million times!"

"You really think I'd turn down Iceman's kid after all the messes he's gotten me out of?"

Laughing, Presley pushes up onto the balls of her feet and kisses Maverick on the cheek. "Yeah yeah, whatever, Dad, we know you're just sweet."

Maverick grins, but when Presley pulls away, he grasps her wrist and reels her right back in. He whispers in her ear and she nods, but the smile is missing from her face. Jamie may be off the hook, but Presley isn't out of the woods yet. 

》 》 》

Over the crushing, rush of shower water, I hear the bedroom door; a prelude to the bathroom door opening, and Maverick, shuffling barefoot to the toilet and then the sink. A silly smile paints it's way across my face. Violet's comment about 'leveling up' or however she phrased it, when Jamie and Presley get married was ten times funnier because of just how little she understands how you level up. Marriage, as I've discovered on this twenty-nine year journey, is a lot more than love and sex and children. It means forgetting to care that one of you is naked in the shower while the other takes a piss, among a million other awkward, uncomfortable domestics that after almost thirty years, become cozy rituals. I squint through the marbled effect of the shower doors and spot Maverick about to wash his hands.

"Don't you dare screw with my water pressure!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Maverick laughs.

"So," I squirt shampoo on my palm until it threatens to run between my fingers.

Having thick hair is expensive these days.

"How'd it go with Presley?"

"Good," Maverick calls out. "Mostly."

The shower flickers.

A blob of coconut shampoo rolls over my scowl. "Can't you wash your hands any faster?"

"I could, and risk passing you a disease."

"As long as it's from you."

The water pressure levels out.

"Thank you," I sing.

Laughing, Maverick moves to take a seat on the closed toilet.

"I told her she can go on seeing Bradley."

"Shit—"

"Remi?"

"It's okay!" I shout as I blindly fumble for my washcloth. "Just—got some soap in my eye like a total moron."

Only because he decided to drop a bomb on me right as I started rinsing out the shampoo. Maybe it's for the best we have this conversation while I'm in the shower and he's not. The privacy of the translucent glass restricts my face from betraying me.

"So you...you're alright with that? L-letting her stay connected with Bradley even though the rest of us aren't."

Lies, it appears, are best hidden behind glass and soap and water.

Maverick buys it.

Which makes me wish all the shampoo would run into both eyes.

"I mean, I wasn't...at first. I made the decision that we weren't going to reach out if he wasn't willing to accept what happened, and I expected everyone to see it through but..." Maverick sighs. I resist the urge to press my ear to the glass. Instead, I fix my gaze on the shower door's impressionism interpretation of him. He drags a hand through his hair and bows his head over his knees. "She's already been in contact with him for years, Remi. And she's an adult. I can't legally stop her, and I couldn't physically stop her either...it is what it is...I just wish she'd been honest with me about it from the beginning."

"You do realize why she couldn't be...right?"

"Yeah." Maverick groans. "God, this is all so much more complicated than I ever imagined."

A hard laugh flees my lungs and echoes off the tile. "It was always going to be complicated, Pete. I thought you knew that when you promised Carol you'd pull Bradley's papers?"

"I considered it, but I thought — I thought I wouldn't have to tell him his Mom asked me and after he got over being angry with me for pulling them, he'd re-up and we'd get on with life like it never happened."

I shake the dregs of conditioner out into my palm. The pump puts up a solid fight so I unscrew the top and fork the stuff out by it's straw. All the while, a putrid sense of disbelief crowds my lungs, cutting the oxygen from my brain. Steam gathers from the hot water and he seriously thought setting Bradley back four-whole years would go over like 'it never happened?'

"Maverick. You raised this kid. He's more like you than he is like Goose, I don't care what either of you say. Goose, now he'd be pissed about someone pulling his papers, but yeah, he'd get over it. But if someone pulled your papers? You know full well the Hell you'd wreak on their lives before the end! I can't believe you thought it'd go over that smoothly! And I," the conditioner bottle clatters to the ground and I simply kick it aside. "Can't believe I didn't pick up on that when we discussed this four years ago."

"I thought you knew," Maverick mumbles.

"Well, I didn't, and I would've put up more of a fight if I had."

"So you think the ban is a bad idea?"

I swallow the lump in my throat.

It takes like artificial coconut.

"Yeah. Yeah I think it's a bad idea."

Maverick doesn't answer immediately. I finish up hair-care and tie back the curls while I go through the motions of shaving. The silence is suffocating now that I've gotten used to the ping-pong of voices off the tiled walls. I wish I'd set up music on the Bluetooth speaker. It's too late now, and it doesn't feel appropriate to start nervously humming, so I grit my teeth against the quiet and sheer myself to baby-smooth perfection. Only as I'm rubbing a bar of soap down my body do I hear a sign of life from my husband. He gets up from the toilet. I see the abstract strokes of light warp when he pulls his shirt over his head. The white blur bleeds to the tanned expanse of his torso. His belt buckle snaps free and in less than thirty seconds, the shower door is opening. I pause and turn to face him.

"I um...I think being back at Top Gun is my chance. You know, to make amends with Bradley."

There's no soap near my face, but my eyes sting.

"Really?"

"Really."

I can't keep the smile off my face as Maverick slides the door shut behind him and goes for his bottle of shampoo. I step back to make room under the shower head — already struggling to keep my eyes off his body, especially once the water has accentuated every roll and stretch of muscle along his back.

"You know, we never did celebrate Mach 9 like we planned..."

Maverick glances at me over his shoulder, smirking.

"Oh yeah? What plan was that?"

I remind him, gladly.