Ryke’s one decision changed my world.
“When I think back to that day, or what I can remember,” I tell Ryke, “I don’t usually think about what a fucking asshole I was. I’m just grateful for the kind of guy you were then and the one you are now.” I flash him a half-smile. “I love you, man.”
“Fuck you,” he says lightly, his lips lifting.
Connor knocks on the passenger window, two bags of ice in hand. I pop the trunk, and after he sets the bags in there, he returns to the passenger window.
“He wants his seat back,” I tell Ryke.
Ryke flips off Connor though and says, “Fuck off.”
Two seconds later, he opens the backdoor and slides in. “I thought you enjoyed the backseat,” Connor tells him. “You have two windows to stick your head out of instead of one.”
“You’re getting him confused with Daisy,” I chime in, remembering a road trip with just the three of us and her. Every time Connor and I manned the wheel, our anxiety hit the roof, and we almost forced Ryke to drive the whole way.
“And she’s fucking cooler than both of you,” Ryke retorts while I drive back home.
Connor’s brow arches. “I take your opinion on the matter with low regard.”
“I’m not a dog, Cobalt.”
“But you are fucking Daisy Calloway,” he replies easily. “Logically, you’d believe that she’s about a blow job or two cooler than us.”
I switch lanes again. “You better add more hand jobs to that,” I tell him. “Lily said that Daisy hates giving head.”
Ryke pinches his eyes with his fingers. “I fucking hate you both.”
I glance at my brother beside me. “It’ll pass, bro. And if it makes you feel any better, Rose apparently hates blow jobs too.”
“Because she can’t take all of me in her mouth and it aggravates her,” Connor clarifies.
Ryke glares. “For fuck’s sake, you couldn’t let me bask in that for at least two seconds, could you?”
“I speak the whole truth. Someone has to.” Connor plasters on one of his fake grins that actually says, half of what I say is bullshit. He digs into a plastic bag at his feet and opens a package of vampire teeth. He mentioned how he didn’t have time to go all-out on a costume because he’s been working since five this morning. He wears his usual suit and tie.
I’m in a gray woolen sweater. Beneath that is a white button-down and a green tie. A green and black scarf lies on my neck. I drive up to the guards at the neighborhood gate and verify who I am. Half a minute later, I pull into our driveway and park in the garage.
We split up to find the girls, and I carry both bags of ice inside. “Where’s my ‘puff?!” I shout as I kick the door open to the kitchen.
Lily looks up from a giant vat of punch, stirring the chunks of fruit with a spatula. I find myself slowing my pace, just to engrain this image of Lily: her cheeks rosy-red as she exerts extra effort, her gangly arms hidden beneath a black sweater and robe, her yellow tie peeking out by the collar.
“Me?” she asks, her nose crinkling in confusion. Christ, I want to kiss her. Wrap my arms around her.
I near Lil, setting the ice on the counter. Then I mockingly check over my shoulder. “Is there another Hufflepuff in the house, love?”
“Maximoff could be Hufflepuff one day,” she points out. “We don’t know yet.”
I don’t have to search far for him. He’s right beside Lily, in his bouncer on the floor. He sleeps in his black wizard robe. We thought about dressing him as Harry Potter with the scar, but he hated the plastic glasses.
“Or he could be Slytherin,” she notes, not leaving out my Hogwarts House. He could be almost anything, and I’d still be proud to call him my son.
There are small moments where I still fear for him. Struggles he may face, mistakes I know he’ll make, but I just remind myself something that I never even considered a year ago.
I remind myself that he has us. And back then, I would’ve pitied him for landing a shit like me. But I’m not a shit. I’m not worthless or pathetic. If my son ever trips, I have no doubt that I can carry him as far as he needs to go. I love my child unconditionally, the way that I love my wife, and I will praise him. I will cherish him. And I will adore him.
I’ll give him everything that we were starved of.
“If he’s Gryffindor,” Lily muses, “does that mean he’s cooler than us?”
“No way,” I tell her. “Ryke is in that house and we’re a million times cooler than him. He started off tweeting one-word tweets for a full week.” I couldn’t believe the amount of people that retweeted his tweet that said: Wednesday. That’s it. Wednesday.