He wants his family.
Kona is selfish. He doesn’t care about the life they’d put on hold in Nashville. He wants to try, to fight, to start over.
The end notes vibrate and Kona feels them, lets them move across his skin and it is Ransom’s smile, the way he slings his arm across his mother’s shoulder that makes Kona smile, has his chest swelling with so much emotion that he ducks his head, rubs his face on his sleeve.
“Do you sing, Kona?”
A quick jerk of his head and Kona waves off his emotion with a laugh. “No, man. I sound like a cat dying when I sing.” He runs his thumbnail over the neck of his bottle and glances at Keira. “You get your talent from your Mom.”
“And your good looks from your father,” Keira says, eyes immediately round as though she can’t believe she’d said that aloud.
“No, sweetheart, that comes from you too. I just gave him a thick head and wide shoulders.”
Ransom laughs and beside him, the young girls sigh as though Kona was something out of a romance novel and not the knuckleheaded asshole who let his girl and son slip through his fingers.
“Play something fun,” Keira tells Ransom, breaking the long look she exchanges with Kona. “I’m gonna go pick up the kitchen.” And she is in the house, forcing a smile before anyone can stop her.
Leann’s loud exhale and the scratch of her chair on the patio tiles pulls Kona’s glance to her. “I guess I should help her.”
“Nah, Leann. I got it,” Kona says, darting out of his seat before the woman sits up.
Kona doesn’t say anything to Keira when she stops to look at him, hand gripping a wet bowl over the open dishwasher. He doesn’t stare too long at the counter or let himself recall the last time he’d been in this room. Instead he works at Keira’s side, silently scraping the plates, wiping down the counter and handing her a cup, a pot until the dishwasher is full and the faucet is off.
Hips against the island and a dishrag in his hand, Kona keeps his eyes downcast, sees her closing the door and the sound of the quiet machine is the only noise in the kitchen.
“He’s… God, Keira.” Kona folds the rag twice, messing with the worn tag in the corner, unable to look at her. “He’s amazing.” After a moment, Keira’s feet are in front of him and Kona stares at her small toes, at the tiny strap of her sandals between them and then he looks up at her when she takes the rag out of his hand. “Thank you.” Eyes to her, he knows he looks pathetic but he doesn’t care. His thoughts are knotted with hope, with want and all the things he cannot say to her. Not just yet. So he doesn’t pour out his heart, doesn’t beg for her forgiveness, once a day is enough, he thinks. “Can I?” he starts, grabbing her wrist.
“What?”
Kona doesn’t wait for her permission. She is under his chin, against his chest with his arms around her, tightening his grip in seconds. Kona thinks she might pull away. He thinks she will push at his chest, tell him not to touch her, but then Keira’s fingers tighten around his shirt and he inhales, bringing back that scent, familiar and characteristically Keira straight into his nostrils. He hugs her, smells her hair.
“You did amazing, Wildcat. He’s a great kid.” Her fingers tighten, pull on his shirt and Kona grins, breath deep before he pushes on her shoulders to look down at her. Her eyes shine, gleam like the bright reflection on the lake at sunset and Kona moves his thumb across her cheek.
He wants to tell her he’s missed her, that nothing has felt the same, tasted the same since she left. He wants to tell her that she cursed him that day at the jail. He wants to say “I need you” and “Have me again,” but this day isn’t for them. It is about the boy, their bright, beautiful son. “That’s all you.” Not for the first time today, Kona’s chest tightens, but it’s Keira’s look, the relief in her expression, the breath she must have been holding all day, maybe for years, that brings that warmth to his heart. A small kiss on her forehead and Kona returns his gaze at those shinning, bright eyes. “Only God could be prouder of his son.”
The last time Keira sat in these bleachers, she was sick, working up to a flu and Luka told her love made her stupid.
Now her son runs around the field, right alongside hundreds of other players, sprinting a 40 yard dash, pushing his body beyond its limits. Keira can tell he is making attempts, trying like hell to impress his father. She doesn’t blame him. Ransom always excelled, she guesses, because he wants to draw attention to himself, maybe subconsciously prove that he is worthy of love.