Seven o'clock couldn't come soon enough. Violet and Vesper were sad to leave before dinner, mostly because they prefer Ghost's cooking to mine. I can't bring myself to take offense. Hell, I prefer Ghost's cooking, but we've overstayed our welcome, and I'm in desperate need of a drink. Violet and Vesper chatter in the backseat even after cranking up the radio. It's a noisy, mindless drive home. I hope they weren't talking to me at any point, there was no chance of me hearing them. Finally, the truck bumps onto the crunch of gravel. I break in front of the house and unlock the doors.

"Mama?"

"Do you have your house key?"

Vesper frowns. "Yeah. Why?"

"I've gotta go into town."

"Why?" She insists.

"Is something wrong?" Violet asks delicately.

If I lie to them, all the thoughts brewing in my head will come burning up my throat. If I lie to them, it's game over. Besides, Vesper wouldn't believe me. So I evade. "You don't have to be worried. I'm just running an errand and I'll be home. There's a box of mac and cheese you can make. Dad won't be home for a while, I should beat him back."

"What about chores?"

"I'll take care of mine when I get back." I fix them an overexaggerated smile. "Buuut I won't be sad if someone lightened my load."

"Ha!" Vesper snorts as she shoves open the car door.

Violet ducks out after her. "Bye, Mama!"

"Bye, honey!"

I let the engine run and watch awkwardly over the back of my seat until the twins successfully unlock the front door and shut it behind them. Only then do I drop the smile and with an aching face and heavy heart, lift my foot off the break and tail it back down the driveway.

》 》 》

If I want to make the drive home tonight, I'll have to eat. So I take shots with a plate of wings. The recipe is different than the old Hard Deck's. Bradley laughs at me for remembering. I'd have to be braindead to forget the taste of (what were) the best wings in town. Once you get over the disappointment, these aren't half bad. Good enough, at least, to keep me eating more; metabolizing the tequila before it can go to my head. I ease up on the shots earlier than planned and start on my first beer while Bradley cracks open a second. He's smiling and talking in an outside voice to rival the jukebox. When he looks at me, I feel equal parts at home, and out in the rain, ashamed of the way I came in tonight. After confronting Ghost this morning, I felt worse. Ignorance might actually be bliss. Now I've added another crisis to my plate, and by agreeing to meet Bradley tonight, I've basically volunteered to reawaken the original crisis. We never can seem to get through a meeting without talking about that night. And even if neither of us loses our temper; even if it isn't a fight...the conversation hurts. It's an exhausting cycle. I could only see tonight being a nightmare to end my Hell of a day. More conflict, more despair, more exhaustion. So we hugged and sat down at the bar. We got a plate of wings to share but when Bradley asked for a beer, I asked for tequila.

The look he gave me won't wash away.

He's finished telling his story.

Phoenix is a prominent character. I smile whenever her name comes up. Either they're really good friends, like he insists...or he's kidding himself. Maybe if I get the chance to meet her, I'll know for sure.

Bradley takes a bite out of a wing and strips the bone clean. "So?" He says, mouth full. "What about you? No offense — you look like shit."

At that, I laugh.

"I feel like it. Today...it's been a rough day."

"What's wrong?"

What isn't?

Bradley uses my silence to jump to conclusions.

"It isn't..." He swallows. There's an orange smear like a lipstick-kiss around his mouth. "It's because of me, isn't it?"

"No." I grab the hand he's left on the counter. The corner of Bradley's mouth turns up, crinkling his mustache. I notice he's gotten some of the wing-sauce and skin in his mustache. Without thinking, I dip an unused napkin in my glass of water and lean across the bar to mop up his face. Bradley tries and fails to dodge me. "Relax, you got food in your hairy-upper lip worm. Don't you want to look good for the ladies?"

"Ew, I thought that phrase died with Mom."

"Oh my gosh, Bradley!" I fall back onto my stool, stunned and out of breath. "That's a horrible thing to say!"

"I know," He laughs.

He actually laughs.

About his mother being dead.

"Who are you and what have you done with Bradley Bradshaw?"

Bradley rolls out his shoulders. His face is red and swollen from laughter, but he takes a deep breath and scrubs at his smile. "I dunno, sometimes all you can do is laugh."

"Well, that you definitely did get from your parents."

Bradley grins. "So? You wanna laugh it off or tell me what ruined your day?"

I huff and take a swig of beer; stalling. "You'll pay for the wings if I tell you?"

"I'm already paying for the wings." Bradley smirks. "Now spill."

He might be a product of his parents, but he's also a product of his upbringing. And that was a Maverick line if ever I heard one. Cocky, irresistible little shit.

"It's the Kazanskys. Their...situation is worse than we imagined."

Bradley's brow furrows. Genuine concern purges his smile.

"The cancer took a turn?"

"No...it's what the cancer touches. The people around it. The kids."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"It's good that they're back then, right?"

"Yeah," I nod. "It's good."

"You know, on the Fourth, Jamie told me I should swing by the house sometime. He'd make sure you all weren't coming over, so I could see Ice and the others...but everytime I go to pick up the phone, I can't bring myself to do it. It doesn't seem fair to the twins, me seeing everyone but them."

"It isn't," I whisper, thinking of the hatred in Vesper's voice; the sadness and longing in Violet's.

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

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

Bradley has every reason to visit the Kazanskys. Iceman is a ticking clock. The twins have their life ahead of them. The smarter choice is obvious, but Bradley isn't swinging for smarter. I wish I could race home and tell the girls what Bradley is doing quietly on their behalf, but I can't. I'm trapped in my web. Bradley's trapped in Maverick's, but he still chooses love, even when it's the fool's road. Vesper can't see Bradley's love when all she sees is the shape of him missing in her life. Is it love even if someone can't see it? When they see it...will they understand that every string pulled, every secret was for love? Will they feel loved...

or betrayed?

I blink and suddenly see the plate of wings I zoned-out on about a millenia ago. A cool, glass kiss on my arm reminds me of my beer. I take a generous sip and over the blurred, brown horizon, there's Bradley. Munching a wing. Carelessly casting his eye about the bar. He feels me watching and looks back. I swallow and set down the bottle, but there's a powerful bubbling in my chest. Whatever happens...when my cards are all on the table, at least I'll know what Bradley's done for my girls.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, a deal's a deal."

He thinks I'm talking about the wings.

"No — I mean thank you. For thinking of the twins; what's fair for them before what's fair for you. For not telling Presley. About us."

Bradley rolls the bottom of his beer across the counter, and like a slug, a wet trail follows silently behind. "Yeah well, I didn't tell you about her either."

"That's okay. It...wouldn't be fair for me to demand that information with all the secrecy I'm already asking of you."

Maybe it's the lump in my throat. My tongue is heavy and hard to speak with, not to mention the tequila that dried out my mouth. Bradley's lips split into a gentle, pitiful grimace. I was never all that good at masking my feelings, but apparently the foundation shaking Guns 'n Roses can't cover my guilt. Mimicking my previous attempt to comfort him, Bradley reaches our plate of bones and crumbs and carefully wedges his fingers in between mine. I look down and hiccup at what I see. There was a time when my hands were bigger than his and his baby-carrot fingers disappeared when I took his hand. Now, my fingers are the invisible ones. The only sign of them is the sun-damage and wrinkles. Bradley's hand is bigger, but still young. Still young.

The warm lights and sweet, savory air move opposite to my mood. Everyone else is here to party or at the very least have a good time. I want to ignore everything sour in my life and have fun. Actually enjoy spending time with Bradley. But looking at his hands...his sweet smile — I...I can almost see the remains of his baby face hiding behind all his harsh angles and facial hair. He's a man, but he's still a kid. He's my kid, but for how long? His confidence issue, the lack of cooperation in class, the impending mission —

What if this is one of the last times I hold his hand?

"Bradley — I-I need you to promise me something."

A light goes out in his smile. "I can't—"

"Not that," I interrupt. "I know I can't make you forgive him, but when you're training for this mission, please, for the love of God, obey Maverick as your teacher. He wants all of you to survive. That's his goal. He has more experience than all of you. I don't care if you hate his techniques — they work. And if you all don't cooperate. If you don't let go of whatever is holding you back, Bradley —"

"Hey." Bradley covers our intertwined hands with his other and squeezes my hand tight. "That's not gonna happen. Don't think it."

"It could. It could if something doesn't change."

"Just because Maverick doesn't think we're flying right—"

"He knows you aren't, Bradley. Not just you, everyone. You guys have to be a team, you have to communicate and take risks."

"We will."

"So start now. Before it's too late."

Bradley sets his jaw. He's fighting me.

"I know you're a good pilot, Bradley. But every pilot can be better. And the best pilot doesn't let personal issues or pride interfere with their safety and the safety of the team."

"Is that what Maverick thinks? That I'm endangering my team?"

Is he even hearing me? "He thinks you're endangering each other!"

"I can't help it if the other's don't do their part," Bradley spits.

"Of course not! So do your part and let them do theirs."

"I don't get it!" Bradley pries his hands out of my grasp and throws them up. "Can't I do anything right? I'm trying. I'm a Top Gun graduate. I'm one of the best, just like him but it's never good enough! What more does he want from me?!"

"He wants you to let go."

"Of what?!"

"Fear."

Bradley scoffs and knocks back his beer. When nothing comes out, he raps his knuckles on the counter and calls for another. "I'm not scared."

I flag the bartender down for another beer as well. I'm gonna need it to finish this conversation. I need him to promise me he won't get himself killed.

"You're scared of something, Bradley. It's holding you back. If you aren't 100% then neither is your team."

A beer slides towards me.

Thanking the bartender, I snatch the bottle opener from Bradley.

"Right," Bradley mutters. "So what am I afraid of exactly?"

I take a drink. "You tell me."

He considers it. Gears churn in his head. Bradley flexes his hand against the dewey bottle and drags his eyes across all four walls but not once does he look at me. If he thinks dodging my gaze will prevent me from reading him, he's sorely mistaken. Tense shoulders, clenched jaw, unfocused eyes, and the slight unzipping of his mouth now and again, are so familiar and telling, you'd have thought I'd stepped back in time. I've seen myself do these things, I've felt all the twitches of denial and avoidance in my body, but I've also watched them dance across the person I know most intimately. Ironic, how Bradley fights tooth and nail to differentiate himself from Maverick, yet somehow always manages to echo him. So stubborn, those two. So damn stubborn.

"You said I should be afraid."

Cops would consider that a confession.

But I don't appreciate him turning this on me. Like this is somehow my fault.

"I said you will be afraid, I didn't say you should let it control you."

"Okay," Bradley huffs. "How then?"

Am I seeing things, or is that genuinely desperate curiosity in his eyes? Is he leaning in, afraid to miss a single word, or hunkering down to weather another lecture? Is that what I do? Lecture him? All our meetings ultimately turn off at the nearest disagreement. I can't help but present my case. Besides, I've lived longer. Bradley is barely scraping the tip of life's iceberg. Ideally, he'd be coming to me for advice like a kid having trouble with homework, not a delinquent consulting with his parole officer. I hesitate to answer. Does he want an answer?

Maybe not.

But I have to try anyway.

"Being afraid is a given. We're human; we're hardwired to run away from anything that could kill us. You're already brave to pursue a career that constantly puts you in the path of death."

"Not brave enough, apparently."

"The next part has nothing to do with bravery. Cowards horny for glory can be brave. Controlling your fear response is all about courage. If you're brave enough to stare death in the face, you're going to be terrified. You can run, or you can face it down. Fear doesn't wish away. It can't be killed, but it can be muzzled. You have to call it out; how it's hurting you, how it might hurt the people you love, and then you have to make the hardest decision ever."

I breathe so deep, my chest aches. Bradley seems frozen in place. Child-like rapture simultaneously softening and locking up his muscles. I can almost hear three-year-old Bradley whisper in my ear, What is it, Auntie Stirrups? What's the hardest decision ever?

"You have to feel the fear but make your next move anyway."

He blinks — the first movement in five whole minutes. Bradley blows the air from his cheeks and hangs his head. It's a lot to process. I turn back to my beer, let him sit with it. The bottle has only just wet my lips when I hear his quiet response between songs:

"What if I can't?"

Maverick was right.

He was right, and it breaks my heart.

"You can, Bradley. That's the thing. It's a choice. You're in control. You decide to relinquish control or keep it."

"There's no way it's that simple," Bradley snorts.

"Simple things can be so hard they feel complex. Trust me," A shudder runs through me like the breath of an oncoming storm. It's an ominous, dark sensation you can either cry or laugh at, but I'm too full of alcohol and buffalo-sauce to squeeze out a single tear. Bradley narrows his eyes at my blatantly nervous laugh. Decades go by and the world spins, but when I talk about her...of all that I went through in '86, I still feel like I'm giving a eulogy. "After Vixen died, it took me a year to find myself again. I was afraid of flying, but I couldn't find happiness anywhere else. I felt wrong for moving on when she couldn't follow, but I was scared of wasting my life. And that was on top of grieving my best friend. You're a step ahead. You haven't lost anyone yet."

"Yes, I have."

A lump forms in my throat. I wash it down with a drink. Bradley has the same idea. Our bottles land in unison. We stare at the wood. My ears feel tight and full of water; the music sounds far away. Vixen, Goose, and Carol. Loss is never a competition. It's incomparable. Heartache has no standard system of measurement. We all lost Goose. We all lost Carol. When Goose died, Maverick lost his brother, but Bradley lost a father. So maybe some shitty psychologist would say Bradley had it worse; that he'll feel it more. Maybe losing Goose has damaged Bradley infinitely more than I'll ever understand.

But to a small Bradley who could barely write his name, Goose simply vanished.

One day he walked out the front door and never came back in.

Yeah, he lost his dad. But—

"It's different when they go down right in front of you, with you."

Against all odds, tears fill my eyes.

"It's different when your hands are on the controls."

No one will know those scars of mine like Maverick does.

"I just, shit — I don't want you to understand what that's like, Bradley. Ever."

Bradley closes his eyes.

And nods, slowly.

"I won't."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He seems genuine, at first...but then a Gooselike grin unfolds the serious zip of his lips. "If you promise to stop nose diving our conversations into funeral territory."

I'm too tipsy to not laugh.

"Oh gosh," I drop into my hands and wait for the earth to swallow me up. "I'm so sorry, Roos, there's just so much going on—"

"Yeah, I get it," Bradley chuckles. "But sometimes it's better to forget than hash it out like we're in the shrink's office."

Right, forget. The very thing I came to do. Drink and be merry. Haven't quite nailed the last bit, but there's still time. Is there? I fumble for my phone. We've spent nearly two hours, rapidly descending from liquor and light-hearted small-talk, to this depressing back and forth about fear and death and 'funeral territory.' Bradley is right. All the shit I've lived through has turned me into some sort of psychoanalyst-shrink. Just about the last thing I want to be. I wish I turned out more like Carol. The 'cool mom.' When Bradley had baseball games or track-meets, Carol always baked enough cookies and pizza to feed an army. Other mom's brought gatorade, but she kept a cooler of cokes in her trunk. Everybody loved her, even the ones who couldn't stand her. Bradley absolutely adored her. Last I checked, he keeps a photo of him hoisting her over his shoulder at prom in his wallet.

Carol was his world.

I'm a pretty poor substitute, but I'm better than nothing.

"Hey," Bradley leans across the counter. "I've got a crazy idea."

"Oh yeah?"

Bradley gestures to the piano on the other side of the bar. It isn't the same piano, but it's antique, and it's vacant. No one even spares it a glance. Bradley has a Cheshire grin when he says, "For old times sake?"

"Oh my God, yes," the words come tumbling out of my mouth.

We giggle like school children. I almost trip over my untied shoelaces. When I bend down to tie them, Bradley stops me.

"Don't hurt your back!"

"I'm not seventy-five."

"Stop it, you'll fall over."

"I'm not drunk!" I insist.

But it's useless. Bradley is already down on one knee and finishing the second shoe.

"I remember when you couldn't tie your own shoes."

"Yeah—" Bradley stands up so fast we nearly bonk heads. "Me too. You and Mom argued with Maverick about which way was easier."

"Maverick is still wrong."

"Yeah well, it was the only way that made sense to me."

Bradley sees my eyes light up. "Don't you start!"

"Alright, play me a tune already, Mozart."

Bradley slaps down a couple bills and starts towards the piano. I'm not drunk. I ate too many of those wings, so I'll probably wake up fat, but I won't crash the pickup on my way home. Sober or not, the bar is a circus of lights and sounds and brightly colored people. I squint and focus on Bradley's nauseating Hawaiian shirt to keep from getting lost. All of a sudden, the orange, green, and blue palm-trees are glued to my eyes. Grunting, I stagger back.

"Bradley — a little warning next time?"

He acts like he hasn't heard me.

I inch around him, trying to catch his eye but they're trained on something else.

Someone else.

A group of kids, about his age. A few in casual clothes, except one tall, blonde guy in his tan-uniform.

"Shit, my class."

"Oh."

Bradley grinds his jaw and frantically scans the bar. "They can't see us together. If it gets back to Maverick—"

"Yeah, right."

One of his classmates looks over. He sees us. He recognizes Bradley, waves to him.

Shit.

"I'm gonna go," I mutter. "Thanks for drinks and wings. I'll text you."

We're being watched. I should disappear. I shouldn't show any sign of connection to Bradley, but I can't stop myself from giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezing his arm. Stupid, Stirrups. Unbelievably stupid. And that's my cue to bolt and leave poor Bradley weasel out of this. I turn on my heel, but a hand grabs my shoulder and spins me right back. Bradley smiles tightly at the crew and then fixes me with a steady, worried look.

"You good to drive?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll let you know when I'm home."

I don't mention that I have to run a 'fake' errand and bring something back so the girls won't suspect anything. Maybe I'll pick up some tampons. They'll stop asking questions once I set those on the kitchen table.

Bradley seems unconvinced, but he lets me go.

I hurry out without another word.

》 》 》

"Always tampons, never candy," Violet laments.

"Well, I didn't need candy, and neither do you."

"We need pads though," Vesper announces.

I look at her as I crumple up the plastic grocery bag. "Why didn't you say anything before I went out?"

"Slipped my mind," Vesper shrugs.

"I'll run back out tomorrow."

"And get candy?" Violet asks hopefully.

"We'll see," I laugh. "Off to bed you two."

Violet slips off the barstool. Vesper grabs her glass of water from the island, but hooks her other arm around Violet's shoulder. "She's a cruel mistress," she mutters without looking back. I snort, and Violet cranes her neck like an owl and smiling, mouths 'goodnight.' In return, I blow her a kiss. Waddling together like they're the kind of twins that are conjoined, they disappear around the corner. The minute their door shuts, I trip backwards into the countertop; heavy like a pair of soggy jeans. The feeling stays until Maverick gets home, asleep on his feet. We don't say a word. I forget to brush my teeth, and immediately regret it when I crawl into bed, tasting barley and buffalo sauce between my teeth. At that point, it's too late. No amount of bad-breath could get me out of the cool sheets and Maverick's warm embrace.