Heart's Desire

Chapter 12 - Monty

No one in my family likes to fly.

Noah gets sick every time, and Freya hates sitting still and standing in lines. I take up two seats (and even then it's not comfortable) and somehow Dane always gets flagged by airport security (when he was a cop he could just flash his badge and say 'fuck off,' in so many words, but now he has to go through the same shit as everyone else). 

In this case, though, Dane and I would gladly opt for the two-hour flight over the twenty-hour drive from California to Montana, but we each have liabilities.

For him, it's Julian and the kids — they draw stares — and the sight of two men traveling together with two unnaturally beautiful children is sure to attract unwanted attention.

It's not as if Luna and Luca have proper birth certificates to prove their fathers' parenthood.

For me, it's Kit. He's got no ID; as far as official records are concerned, he doesn't exist, and people like that aren't allowed on planes.

And so we drive.

We take my car — the Navigator's big enough to seat us all — and Dane and I take turns at the wheel while Kit helps Julian keep the twins entertained.

As we pass over the majestic, tree-lined mountains of California and into the relative barrenness of Nevada, then up and into the wilds of Idaho, and finally into the rugged lands of Montana, we grow increasingly quiet and tense. Even the twins sense something is wrong, and only fuss when they're sleepy, or when they want Kit to play with them.

It helps when Julian sings to them in Fae. He says he didn't learn the tongue on purpose, but picked it up naturally during his stay there — as if it was something he'd always known, and had merely forgotten over time.

As we near our destination, our unease and anxiety increase.

Dane has the driver's seat, which gives my mind the freedom to wander.

Our parents' land — about ten square miles that's been in my mom's family for generations — is in the northern part of the state. It's 'ranch' land, but our parents keep it wild — a home for wolves. There are high hills and low vales, forests and fields, and flat plains crisscrossed by creeks and streams. It seemed like an endless wilderness when I was a kid, 'adventuring' out here — in the green of spring and the heat of summer, the decadence of fall and the chill of winter — and always there was the house, waiting to welcome me when I got tired and hungry, and wanted to go home.

The house, with its low, ranch-style roof and wrap-around porch; the big drafty kitchen with its high ceiling beams and cool stone floors, where my dad taught me how to cook; my room, with the custom-made desk where I'd sat as an over-grown teenager, struggling through my homework while rain streaked the window with a view of the woods.

The house, which is gone now, along with my parents. I haven't spoken to either of them recently, and can't remember the last thing I said to them.

And if it was the last thing I ever said to them... 

Dane taps my knee. I look down, and I see he's holding a paper napkin from our last fast-food stop. Then I realize my face is wet. I take the napkin and dry my eyes.

Dane glances in the rearview mirror. The twins are sleeping in their booster seats, and Julian and Kit sit in the back row, each looking out the window on their side.

"Try to keep it together," Dane mutters, glancing at me. "They're gonna need your strength — Sasha and Martin, too."

I nod, slip my sunglasses from my front shirt pocket and put them on. It's a trick I learned as a bodyguard: if people can't see your eyes, they can't read your expression.