Barn chores are a petri-dish for reflection. The air is heavy with the natural musk of the horses, the warm, dry scent of hay and wood and leather. It's a nostalgic aroma, the gentle push down the rabbit-hole of memory. I couldn't escape my thoughts if I tried. What else is there to occupy my mind in the monotonous ritual of watering and feeding the horses? I beat him. Ronan's words haunt me. It was nauseating to hear his sweet, crackly voice slither out something that threatening. The girls insisted Ronan started the fight, but it was Ronan who convinced me.

Dad wouldn't approve.

So there's something going on between Ice and the boys, or at least Ice and Ronan. Ronan threw the first punch, but I wouldn't put it past Seamus to egg Ronan on. It isn't that Ronan is stupid, although he's always been quick to believe it. Ronan just isn't...interested in the analytical, intellectual bullshit that Seamus is dedicated to. Seamus is probably smarter than me. Ronan is smart in ways none of us will ever be. He understands the natural world like an experienced explorer. He can build Lego sets without the instructions. He can climb trees like a squirrel. Ronan and Seamus are both certified experts in their areas of study. It would be stupid to compete with each other. Stupid to compete for their father's approval.

So who is the stupid one?

Who started the fight?

Seamus with his taunts or Ronan with his fists?

Even after hauling eight buckets to-and-fro for nearly an hour...

I still can't say for sure.

And that's only one of the mysteries I've got to solve.

What is holding Rooster back? It's more than the fear of death. If Bradley were afraid of the risk, he'd know the only cure is to fly better, fly smarter, and who better to learn from than the best of the best, even if he is the man who upended your life and banished you from your family. 'Cause there's no stronger motivator than the fear of death. If you don't want to die...you'll do anything. Bradley would follow Maverick's lead in a heartbeat if he was staring down a bogie.

But he isn't following Maverick.

So what is he running from? And why?
And how in the Hell is Maverick supposed to encourage Bradley? How is he supposed to mend all of the conflict in the classroom before the mission? How can he save them from themselves?

"Ow — dammit."

Nice, let's add tetanus to my list of problems.

I resist the urge to suck my sliced open thumb while I awkwardly lock up the barn with my non-dominant hand.

With rushed, rugged steps I retrace my way to the house. Maverick looks up from coffee and left-overs when I throw the screen door open. My mistake. It boomerangs right back at me and I narrowly denting the mesh with my face. Instead, the door clips my shoulder. I curse again. Maverick starts up from his chair. Like he wants to help. Help? With what exactly? He can't help. I'm supposed to be helping him and all I've done is injure myself on multiple doors. The faucet is stuck on cold. I wait for it to warm up and pump soap onto the cut. It's bleeding a lot less than I expected, but it sure burns like Hell. Water helps. I grit my teeth and gently scrub away the blood and bacteria.

"What's the matter?"

"Bad day," I huff.

I turn around for a towel but the girls must've thrown them all in the wash.

At least they finally remembered.

Maverick grabs my hand and angles me towards him. I jump at the contact — when did he get up? Smiling softly, Maverick shakes out a clean hand towel and gently blots my finger. It's so tender, I can't help but hiss each time he adds pressure and a little more blood oozes from the cut.

"That makes two of us," Maveric murmurs, referencing my previous statement.

"Bradley give you a hard time again?"

"Yeah. I thought...maybe if we just get it out in the air...a little competition might blow off some steam..." Maverick gives my finger one last squeeze. Sighing, he takes the towel away and rinses the blood out in the sink. "I made it worse. Cyclone was pissed."

"And Bradley?"

"What comes after pissed?"

I raise a brow. "Furious?"

"Well...yeah, then that."

It shouldn't be possible to feel any more tired than I already am. I'm tired to my very bones. But the defeat in Maverick's voice is a sucker punch in the gut. A cold reminder that I can't even lean on him in this moment, when I feel like shit, because he feels even shittier than I could ever imagine. He has so many lives in his hands; so much weight, of guilt and regret on his shoulders. Looking at him ages me. I place my uninjured hand to his cheek, and Maverick chases the touch. "I'm sorry, Pete."

He nods. There's not much else to say. We're stuck at square one with no solutions to our problems. Neither of us have the energy to formulate new strategies. It's a miracle we're still standing on our feet. Maverick sighs again and this time, takes both of my wrists in his hands to pull me into a gentle kiss.

I wish we could stay here.

Stay in a quiet, simple embrace.

Kissing Maverick is the easiest I've breathed all day.

"I've got to finish eating. Want to sit with me?" He whispers.

"Sure. Let me go check on the girls first."

"I asked if they wanted me to tuck them in, but they were still getting ready for bed."

I nod and kiss Maverick again; just a peck, just because I can.

The hallway has excellent acoustics. As soon as I'm out of the kitchen, I can hear the twins from their room. I follow the sound of their hushed voices, speaking like their lights are out. If they were trying to share secrets, they're not trying hard enough. In their defense, I can't make out every word until I'm directly outside their door which is when I hear Violet quietly ask,

"Do you think Bradley still loves us?"

I seize the doorknob. Of course he does! He misses you. He hates the years of your lives he's missed out on. He's your brother.

"No," Vesper answers firmly. "If he did, he wouldn't have ignored us. He always liked Presley best. He still talks to her. You talk to people you love; you don't leave them high and dry."

"But Dad won't let him talk to us."

"So? Real love finds a way. Always."

Violet hums in agreement. "I still miss him though."

Vesper doesn't answer.

Her quiet is as loud and violent as Ronan's fists.

》 》 》

Two text messages interrupt a rare, stolen moment between me, the porch, and a hot cup of coffee in the morning. Violet finished reading The Witch of Blackbird pond, and her essay rests on my thigh. It's a well disguised bare minimum. Five paragraphs made up of five sentences; introduction, three points, conclusion. Aside from basic spelling errors and grammatical missteps, there's little to no red pen on Violet's paper. You could color me impressed. Finally, she found a book she enjoyed. Hell, Violet must've read invisible ink between the lines to have written such profound thoughts about it. As their teacher, I have to read every book in the girls' curriculum. I can't fault the twins for disliking books; I don't have much fun reading them either.

The Witch of Blackbird Pond was an easier and more interesting read than I expected.

I scribble a huge, enthusiastic A+ in the right hand corner of the page.

Then, trading the pen for my phone, I scan the messages on the lock-screen.

Ghost

I'm so sorry about yesterday, Stirrups. No one regrets moving, but the change has been incredibly tough on us, the kids in particular. Ronan and Seamus have cooled off. You must have so many questions...could we meet sometime soon to talk it over?

Much love, your Ghost

Yes, I have so many questions. Yes, let's talk it over. If I had a bra on I would be in the pick-up and on my way immediately. As my finger hovers over Ghost's text, I can't help but read the message immediately below it.

619-232-1080

Hey, auntie. Thanks for letting Jamie and Presley spend the 4th with me. I introduced them to some of the gang. Presley got on so fast with Phoenix it's actually scary. But I miss you. You free to get drinks at the Hard Deck tonight? Presley says you haven't been to the new location yet.

Two invitations.

Not necessarily conflicting...but I'm not sure I can leave the girls at home at night with a clear conscience. Presley and Jamie could come out? That would guarantee they wouldn't make plans for themselves at the Hard Deck and run into Bradley and I. Then again, I'd have to explain where I was going, who I was meeting. And what about Maverick? Once Bradley is off, so is Maverick. Something tells me my husband wouldn't be too happy to come home to a wife-less house at the end of a trying day. Now it's Bradley's text my finger hovers over; indecisive. Better judgment says tonight is too soon, too short notice. Motherly instinct seizes full control of that finger and without a plan for the girls or checking with Maverick, I hastily type out:

What time?

619-232-1080

7 good?

Smiling, I write back,

7 is perfect.

To Ghost, I reply,

I'm glad the boys have settled down. Is today too soon to meet?

A bubble appears at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. Ghost's message comes through with a ping!

Ghost

It's never too soon to meet :)

I couldn't agree more. It's good to have you back. I missed this. The message burns holes in my eyes, waiting to be sent. I select all and delete. Ghost already knows how much I've missed her being within arm's reach. How I survived two years without stopping by her place daily, I'll never understand. Apparently, two years did a lot more than physically remove us. In the separation, we've sown secrets. I look down my nose at what's left of my morning coffee, lips puckered on the bitter-aftertaste because we ran out of sweetener. I'm not as good a friend as I used to be, not as good a mother, or wife. All I am is a hypocritical pretender. And as glad as I am to see Ghost again...I dread the answers she'll have for me. She's been keeping secrets about her family, and I've been keeping secrets about mine, but here I am, troubled that she hasn't told me everything. An eye for an eye. Whatever she confesses, shouldn't I confess the same?

That means coming clean about Bradley.

Staying connected with him for four years.

Not telling Maverick or the girls.

What Ghost doesn't know won't hurt her, but if I admit my secret plan, I'm basically corroborating her into lying to Maverick — worse, lying to the twins. And who's to say she won't tell Iceman? Would Iceman keep the secret? I'm not convinced Ghost would. Both of them are rotten, goodie-two-shoes. If they don't tell Maverick, they'll harass me into doing it.

It'll spoil my hard work.

I could lose Bradley.

And Maverick...

I don't...he wouldn't leave me—

But he would be devastated. Things will never be the same between us if he finds out before he mends his relationship with Bradley.

The jury is out.

I can't tell her.

"Hey girls?" I yell upon re-entering the house.

Down the hall, Beethoven is demolishing a ukulele. Frowning, I ditch my coffee mug in the sink and hurry after the raucous. I pass Violet in the living room. Her headphones are on while she picks apart a Lego-set. Vesper doesn't hear me knock. Her side of the bedroom is a disaster. Unfinished laundry in the basket that's been missing for days, her bed hap-hazardly made, and she's cross-legged in the eye of her own hurricane strumming hard and fast, both eyes clenched shut. I recognize the chords. It sounds like that Journey song...what's it called...Worlds Apart? but on metal-head steroids. I rest my head against the doorframe and watch her play like she's testing how far the frail little instrument will go; like she wants her fingers to bleed. Her fingertips are so calloused from climbing and playing I can't imagine they'd cut that easily. Still, I worry.

Vesper stops playing.

Her eyes open.

I wave. "Nice job, Jimmy Hendrix."

"You liked it?"

"I'd be stupid not to. Where'd you learn to play like that?"

Vesper shrugs. "Youtube."

"Right," I laugh as I move to finish her laundry. "I've been looking for this basket for a couple days now. You said you didn't know where it was."

"I forgot I had it. We've been out a lot."

She unslings the ukulele from over her shoulder and hops onto her bed to help me fold. I toss her a couple of t-shirts. They're a variety of forest green, black, red, and sometimes white with large, messy graphics on the front. Vesper always liked darker colors, but she stopped wearing the pastels and rare pinks a few years ago. Violet still prefers blues and jeans and lighter, more relaxed clothes. Both of them go through clothes like a baby goes through diapers. Anything new is dirty and torn before they've had it long enough to like it. I've decided not to care what the girls wear, as long as it's appropriate for their age, and appropriate enough to not give their dad a heart-attack.

Vesper dresses like all the other kids at the skatepark, but I wonder if she'd still wear pink if Bradley hadn't...

Who knows.

Violet won't touch the piano.

Vesper wears as much black as possible, even in the summer.

Right now, she's got on black shorts that fray at the ends, a baggy, gray Metallica t-shirt and a green and black flannel over-top.

But it suits her. And honestly...I like it.

It feels like her. The music feels like her.

I just wish anger wasn't such a huge piece of who she is.

"Ghost invited us back over today. You want to come?"

Vesper looks up from a pair of socks. "Yeah, obviously. Is it okay for us to go over though? Yesterday was...pretty crazy."

"Yeah," I mumble. "It was. But we should've expected that. I should've prepared you guys better. It's never been easy for Seamus and Ronan and Rory to handle their dad being sick, but sometimes we forget that. We get so used to coming and going and they have to face it everyday."

A nerve ticks in Vesper's jaw. She scoops up the t-shirts and runs them to her dresser. "They exploded. I didn't think Ronan had it in him."

She says it almost scoffingly. Sighing, I sit back on the edge of her bed.

"He's just hurting, Vesper." That extra-black coffee simmers at the back of my throat. "You know what that's like."

Vesper freezes, both hands on the handles of the drawer.

"I never punched anybody," is the closest she'll get to admitting.

"Everyone lets it out differently."

Without having to say it, we both glance at the discarded ukulele. Vesper slams the drawer shut and snatches her instrument off the floor. Her movements are rocky and careless as she hangs it up on the wall above her bed and finishes putting away her laundry. I stare at the ukulele. It's...different than I remember it. We've been busy lately, 'out a lot' like Vesper said, so I haven't watched her play in a while but...there's something about it and I can't put my finger on i—

"Was that ukulele always red?"

"No," Vesper answers coolly. "I spray painted it."

I bark a surprised laugh.

"When?!"

"While Dad was MIA. I needed something to do. Jamie helped me take the strings off and put them back on."

"Neat."

"Yeah," Vesper agrees.

Her eyes shine.

She smiles.

And that's all it takes for me to smile too.

"What song were you playing?"

"Separate Ways. Dad likes that one."

It takes everything in me not to point out that so does Rooster.

"You should play it for him sometime," I suggest.

Vesper gives a non-committal nod. Maverick would love to see her play. It'll knock the socks clean off his feet when he sees how much she's taught herself. I mean, the way her fingers flew across the fretboard? My smile widens. It's ridiculous how happy my children make me. When they succeed, when they're kind, sometimes when they simply walk into a room in their cute outfits and bright eyes...it's all I can do not to melt onto the floor. Presley is out there, writing for a newspaper. Violet is the best player on her softball team. Vesper can do anything she puts her mind to.

What did I do to deserve them?

》 》 》

We take our drinks outside: Ghost, armed with a quaint, artisan teacup, and me with my Gilmore Girls' sized mug of coffee. The fresh air is a welcome change. Inside, the floor feels off balance. Sharing smiles and laughs and simple greetings leaves me feeling disingenuous...and guilty. And that angers me, more than it should. I'm not angry at the house or the kids or even Iceman. How could I ever be angry at him? It's myself I'm angry at. Angry I hadn't realized something was off. Angry that Ghost, knowing how dense I can be, didn't bring it to my attention. I take in plentiful amounts of coffee and crisp, summer air in strict rotation. Ghost adjusts herself in the chair opposite me. Coin and Saint, Ronan's cats, decided to accompany us. Saint lounges in a lewd position on the third chair but Coin has wandered off. Unlike the cats, not one of the kids followed us outside.

Good.

That's what we wanted.

Privacy.

With five kids in the house, ten-minutes in private might be the most we'll get.

"I'm sorry—"

Our voices clamor overtop of one another.

We startle.

And laugh.

"You...you first," Ghost murmurs, cheeks pink.

I take advantage of her politeness. I'm sorry I'm angry at you. "I'm sorry I never noticed," comes out instead. I stare at her. Intense. Hoping she'll read all the things I lack the courage to say. Like we're back in the cockpit and we're speaking without talking. "I'm sorry I'm so...blind. And maybe the signs were all around me that there's been trouble with the kids but I didn't see and you didn't want to tell me because of what happened with Bradley—"

"You don't have to be sorry for something you didn't do, Stirrups," Ghost murmurs.

Her teacup is shaking, and she's wearing white pants.

I'm out of my seat like a bolt of lightning. Ghost watches me like she's in a dream while I take the cup out of her hand and set it on the wicker coffee table. Realization erases the wonder from her eyes. When she laughs under her breath, the air loses some of its weight. I breathe easier, my mind is sharper. I turn to go back to my chair but Ghost catches my hands to stop me. With a tilt of her head, she gestures to the teacup. "Don't you dare claim to be blind. We can't all have the same mind. If there was only one apple for all the world's eyes, how would the world survive? We need people who see one thing, and those who see another. It's my fault you feel in the dark, Stirrups.

"The one who sees should share. I knew Seamus and Ronan were at odds and I was afraid to tell you."

"Why?" I whisper.

"Because—" Ghost swallows hard. "Because I knew if I told you, it meant it was serious. I don't tell you everything, Stirrups. It would be impossible for us to tell each other every small trouble we've faced. But I always come to you with what I can't handle on my own; the problems that cut deeper when born in silence. If I told you what was happening between my boys...it meant they were really in danger. And the thought of imposing yet another dividing family into your concerns—"

"Ghost!" I exclaim and give her hands a firm squeeze. "That doesn't matter! You can tell me anything, anytime! I can't believe you didn't tell me all this time because you were worried about me!"

"You're my best friend," Ghost smiles shyly. "Of course I worry."

"You're my best friend too. So spill your guts on the altar of our friendship."

Ghost raises a brow, stunned by the metaphor.

"I think I'm rubbing off on you."

"Probably," I laugh. "Three decades will do that."

"You make us sound so old."

"Well, sorry to disappoint but we are."

Laughing, Ghost and I release our hands. I travel back to my chair, and my coffee. It goes down scalding but sweet. In a few hours, I won't be able to drink a hot coffee without breaking a sweat. The sun is still on its way up the sky; the dew hasn't fully evaporated. Ghost hasn't broken the habit of wearing a sweater outside. I'm amazed she isn't burning up. I've already stripped to a tanktop and jean-shorts.

"Thank you for saving my pants."

I bark a laugh.

She's nothing but sincere but how the Hell am I supposed to take that with a straight face?

"Ever since Ronan could walk, there's been...strain."

I'm still coming off the pants comment, but Ghost has moved on to spilling her guts. I drown the tail of my laugh in coffee and nod for her to go on. Excitement fizzes in my stomach. Answers. That's what I came for, that's what I'm about to get.

"We didn't understand why Ronan shied away from books. He would hide his homework, he wouldn't engage with anything that Jamie and Seamus gravitated towards even at such a young age. It was almost impossible to keep Ronan inside the house. He was naughtier than his brothers; he put himself in more dangerous situations. Tom was always frustrated by Ronan. I was exhausted by it but... I couldn't accept that he was simply a bad child.

"Then, when he started first-grade, a teacher approached us about his struggles in class. Iceman was upset, naturally. He always wanted the kids to excel in school. He wants the best opportunities for them."

The pieces are falling into place.

"The dyslexia," I murmur. "That was the year he was diagnosed."

Ghost nods. "Everything made sense. School wasn't tailored to Ronan's mind. He gravitated towards the physical. Hands on learning. Concepts had to be explained through interaction and explanation but to sit him in front of a textbook was like torture. I didn't mind. Obviously, we found the best help possible for Ronan so he would be able to keep up in class and learn to cope, but I knew it would only go so far. Ronan would never learn or behave like Seamus and Jamie did. Not that we could ever have expected him to in the first place. No child is the same."

"So what happened? I never remember Seamus being unkind to Ronan, you know, beyond typical 'boy brutality.'"

A wry smile unfolds Ghost's lips.

"Jamie and I went easy on Ronan. Perhaps too easy. Tom and Seamus saw Ronan's dyslexia as a...challenge. A false start he could overcome. They pushed him harder, out of love, hoping to help. Seamus only in passing. He was always ready to help Ronan with his homework, his projects. But Tom pushed too hard, I think. And somewhere, between the expectations and Ronan's disinterest and Tom's mission to conquer Ronan's dyslexia...all three of them broke something and I don't know how to fix it."

"Ghost..."

"When," Ghost hiccups, tears in her eyes. "When Tom was diagnosed with throat cancer, he let go of the reins and all of us had to fill his shoes in some way. Seamus took up the torch and started pushing Ronan harder. The harder he pushed, the less Ronan tried, the worse their fights got, and Tom...h-he can't interact with Ronan like he used to. They can't play in the backyard, they can't adventure. But Seamus can show Tom his grades and they can talk about his studies..."

"Dad wouldn't approve."

"I beat him."

"Ronan started it."

Jealousy. Favorites.

"They pushed him harder, out of love..."

It was love to Seamus and Iceman, but it wasn't the love Ronan needed. Iceman's love is a reward now. A prize that Ronan can't quite reach. If Seamus has the trophy, then Ronan has to beat him to claim it. It's a competition. A fight to the death, for Iceman's favor; for the love of the father.

It's Cain and Abel.

It's a tragedy.

"Shit, Ghost."

"Yeah," She sniffles against the back of her wrist. "Shit."

I don't know what to say. Neither does she. We sit in silence. The smell of coffee is too strong for my stomach, but with nothing else to pass the time, I torture myself by taking long, lingering sips. Ghost finally picks up her tea, cradling it in both hands this time around. It's uncomfortably quiet, in and outside of my head. Yesterday I was bursting at the seams with questions.

So where do we go from here?

"Pete Maverick Mitchell, listen to me: you cannot fight ten different fronts at once."

"So what? I give up?"

"No, you find a place to start."

If my advice was any good, would Maverick still be up against a brick wall? He's looking, but he hasn't found the place to start. He hasn't found the solution. And Ghost? She's been keeping this from me for years now and she hasn't found the cure to heal her family. The irony in that is criminally hilarious.

Where do we start?

"Iceman."

"Hm?"

"Sorry—" I swipe a bead of coffee off my lip. "Iceman. Have you told him any of this? Explained Ronan's point of view."

Ghost shakes her head.

"Meg — I understand he's sick, and he's gonna have more bad days than good, but he's not evil. He'd want to know if his kids were in trouble, if you were upset and he'd wanna fix it!"

"It's not that simple..."

"It should be," I insist. "It doesn't take muscle or stamina or even brain-power. All he needs is a heart and an apology."

"What if it kills him?"

Ghost voice is so hushed I nearly miss it. Nearly.

"H-he's been so weak lately," she whispers, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Yesterday, his conversation with Ronan exhausted him. He's fading, Stirrups. How am I supposed to tell him that his sons are two steps away from hating each other? What if the heartbreak kills him, and Ronan is left without ever —"

Without ever believing his father loved him.

And he'd blame Seamus.

The Iceman would leave Ghost grieving his death and the death of her son's relationship.

"What if..." a crazy idea enters my head. "What if Maverick talks to him?"

"Maverick?" Ghost echoes.

I nod. "When he isn't too close to the problem...when he isn't yelling," I amend, "he's really great at addressing conflict. Too good. It pisses me off that he can keep his head as easily as I lose mine."

"I wouldn't sell yourself that short," Ghost murmurs a laugh. "But I think you're right, about Maverick. Maybe if Tom heard it from a friend...and not his wife, who would most definitely succumb to tears, maybe then he would finally understand."

"Yeah," I sigh. "Maybe."