Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Rose is sitting stiffly, and she leans her head to whisper to me, “How’s the essay going?”
I could lie and boast about how spectacular my words are, but I wish to be honest with my wife. “Terrible, darling.” My eyes flick to hers. “Yours?”
“Not better than you,” she whispers. “Unfortunately, it’s a fucking disaster.” Her voice is tight. Sleepless circles line her eyes, still puffy from crying. Her hair is piled into a high bun.
We haven’t slept much, and I’ve contemplated how long we’ll cage guilt. How long we’ll burden ourselves with a feeling I typically shed.
Guilt.
Remorse.
Hurt. Human emotions that usually struggle to latch onto me. Human emotions that always seem made for people less than me. Yet, Rose is the one who reminds me to feel and to understand the value in being like everyone else. And the power of her burning love still makes me feel like I’m more. Even to this day.
But I can usually find a win somewhere. We had sex tapes leak without our consent, and I turned that into a lucrative and thriving diamond business. Yet, there is little victory in failing as a parent.
I tried my best to prepare myself for this, knowing that even perfection has limits. Knowing that being a father has had more challenges than running a multi-billion-dollar company. But the part I played in the cabin at Camp Calloway—the hurt I caused my daughter—is a mistake that’s been hard to bear.
I can’t plague myself with what ifs. What if I’d spoken louder? What if I voiced more reason and less doubt? What if I’d taken her side more fully and vocally?
My daughter wouldn't be this hurt.
And it wouldn’t feel like there’s an unhealed wound, trying to blister inside of me, but I can’t rewind. There is no point in mourning the rigidity of time, and even contemplating pointless things irritates the fuck out of me.
Rose swallows deeply, holding back a sharp emotion. It hurts seeing my wife like this. I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently. We’re in this together, darling.
I shift a flyaway strand of hair that’d fallen from her bun. My lips brush her ear as I whisper, “Ensemble.”
She intakes a strong breath and then nods.
Winona clears her throat.
She’s thirteen now, but at any age, Winona has always seemed ready to burst—like her emotions could explode out of her at any second. From excitement to joy to anger or pain. I figured this is something she’d grow out of—an immaturity dedicated to rambunctious seven-year-olds. But the older she gets, the more she just reminds me of her parents.
She can’t keep still like Daisy.
Her fuse is cut short like Ryke.
And she is greatly beloved among the entire family, just like they are.
“We’ve gathered all six of you here for a really important presentation,” Winona says, rocking on the balls of her feet. She claps her hands together. “We’d appreciate it a ton if you all took this one-hundred percent seriously.”
“Because this is serious,” Kinney emphasizes.
Presentation.
Rose and I share a look, and I lift my brow. It sounds intriguing.
Winona is wearing green plaid boxers, a baggy Camp Calloway T-shirt, and knee-high socks. Pajamas. So this isn’t something special enough to dress up for—or they didn’t think it’d help their cause. I can’t discern which.
“And we thank you all for being here,” Audrey says quickly.
“It was mandatory,” Kinney adds. Her black pajama top has skeletons printed with the words it’s my party.
“We’re here. It’s the butt-crack of dawn,” Lo says, through a mouthful of muffin. “What’s this presentation all about?”
I notice the remote in Winona’s hands and she clicks the button. The 100’’ projector screen starts lowering. She clicks another button and the first slide to a PowerPoint appears.
6 Reasons Why Winona, Vada, Kinney, and Audrey Should Be Allowed to Go On Tour
Ryke starts coughing on his oatmeal.
“Deep breaths,” Daisy encourages, and if I turned around in my seat, I’d imagine she’s patting his back.
“Kinney, we’ve talked about this,” Lily says.
They have?
Audrey hasn’t formally asked Rose and me to go on tour with the older kids, and I wonder if she was stalling and waiting for the right time. That's the thing about Audrey Virginia Cobalt. She appears young and innocent with her wardrobe of soft colors and pinks, her round orb-like eyes, and her whimsical inflection on certain words. But she's still our daughter. Born from lions.
I've seen her conspire with her brothers to bake "screw you" cupcakes for Luna's bully at school. Rose caught them before they were delivered to Dalton Academy, and she noted how Tom and Eliot were nice enough not to make their little sister write "fuck you" in frosting.
Audrey, my youngest, often begs me to play backgammon with her. She wants to get better. Just so she can one day beat Charlie. So for all her sweetness, there's cleverness. I don't underestimate my twelve-year-old.