Back in the day, I was the quiet kid at school but the one everyone turned up to his shindigs. My parents had always encouraged my popularity by ensuring I had brothers and sisters in the form of friends, even though they’d tried for another child and failed.
And I didn’t take their efforts for granted.
I hosted like a king.
I mastered the art of small talk.
I bridged the gap between cliquey groups and hard-to-break gangs.
But that was before I went to prison. The day the lock slammed shut, my willingness to reach out to others and find friendly ground disappeared.
I thought I’d lost the desire forever. But that was before Estelle crashed into my life (literally).
Glancing at the pinking sky, I estimated I had a couple of hours before sunup. Estelle would keep the kids in bed and I would do my best to give Pippa the best eighth birthday she could ever have.
.............................
Sweat ran down my naked back as I ducked into the hut and froze at the heart-twisting sight of Estelle fast asleep wrapped around Pippa while Conner slept at the bottom of his sister’s bed like a small tabby cat.
Despite puberty hitting and Conner’s hormone swings (not to mention the body odour as testosterone kicked in) he was still a caring brother who would give anything to protect his flesh and blood.
Just like I’ll do anything to protect Estelle.
Chugging some water from one of our always-full bottles, I cleared my throat.
One by one, three pairs of eyes opened, harpooning my chest and ensuring I would never be free of these people.
Clapping my hands, I smiled at Pippa. “Can the birthday girl please follow me? I think there might be a surprise for her outside.”
Instantly, Pippa's tanned, skinny face lit up like a damn survival flare (if only we had one of those).
She leapt from Estelle’s embrace and charged toward me. “Really? What?”
“You’ll have to wait and see, impatient Pippi.” I wrapped my arms around her, scooped her up, and carried her outside.
“What is it? Where?” She bounced in my arms.
The extra weight and uncoordinated balance hurt my barely-healed bones. My shin was the one part that felt semi-ordinary. The bone had a bump but it was strong. My foot was still mottled with bruising, but at least, the metacarpals had healed enough to wriggle my toes (ignoring the ache, of course).
However, my ankle was a bitch.
It’d knitted together but not correctly. It wasn’t perfectly straight and the joint where my leg became my foot wasn’t normal. I didn’t let Estelle know how badly it hurt to have something so broken—not just temporarily but permanently.
I could walk but not run. I could move but never fly.
I was damaged goods.
But despite the ache every time I put weight on it, I wouldn’t put Pippa down for all the diamonds in the world.
Squinting against bright sunlight as I stepped onto the beach, I said, “First, let’s start this party off with a bang. What do you say?”
Her response was slapping a wet kiss on my scruffy cheek. “I say yes!”
I couldn’t move for a moment. Her tiny lips stole every motor control.
Footsteps sounded behind me as Estelle and Conner joined us in the hot morning.
Estelle wore her black bikini (which threatened to make me hard remembering the night I’d taken it off her) and Conner opted for his shorts with a baseball cap. All of us had stark hipbones, angular ribs, and the elongated skinniness of no fat reserves.
But to me...they were beyond beautiful.
Putting Pippa down, I turned to the largest bonfire I’d ever created. I hadn’t lit it, but it was stacked and ready, symbolising the start of a new year of her life.
Turning to the group, I held up an already flaming stick from the fire pit we never let go out. Passing it to Pippa, I said, “Go ahead, birthday girl.”
She took it, her face dancing with flames. Carefully, she shoved the stick in the heaped twigs and branches, doing what I taught her when dealing with fire and dangerous things.
She was more responsible than any kid her age.
She could make a brand new blaze from my broken glasses (I’d taught the kids just in case anything ever happened to Estelle and me) and she could fish better than any angler. Plus, she’d learned from Estelle how best to trial food and prepare new edibles to avoid gastric complications.
I’m so damn proud of her.
Of all of them.
The fire crackled and spread, greedily transforming dormant fuel into heat and light.
Estelle came closer, looping her fingers through mine.
I hissed a little at the wound on my palm.
Narrowing her eyes, she held up our linked hands and gasped. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing. Just a nick.”
“Now what did you do? You’re always blooming bleeding.”
“Blooming?”
“Don’t change the subject. How did you do this one?”
Her concern avalanched me in love. I kissed her. “You’ll see.”
Her face scrunched as if to argue, but then she softened, trusting me.
Trust.