Open When I'm Gone

27. Last Man Standing.

The house smells of fried fish and melting butter, the salty air getting fainter and fainter by the minute. Even though we're inside, the warmth from outdoors doesn't go away, with all the windows flung open and the door cracked to let in the sea air in. It's as if we're in a tent, not a real house.

"Oh good, you're home!" Mrs. Cherith exclaims, ducking around the counter and passing Jolie a pair of oven mitts. I have no idea where she found them, and considering there's more holes than actual fabric, I get the feeling they might not be new.

"Just take the salmon out of the oven in a minute." She shouts over her shoulder, "I'm gonna go get the kids out of the marina."

She doesn't even take a second glance at our dripping clothes, water pooling around our feet.

Jolie's eyes are alight when she looks at me, with mitts hanging off her hands and dripping hair hanging in her eyes. I can't help but smile, just because she smiles.

I don't think that's the worst thing in the world either.

"Come on," She tugs at my arm, grinning at me as I'm dragged over to the kitchen counter, the oven alarm beeping insistently at us.

I can hear the TV blaring at us from the living room, announcing the stats of some sort of sports game, though I can't hear exactly what it is.

The sound of people cooking and swimming and enjoying the sun rings through the open doors, echoing off the houses of the opposite edge of the canal. It's like the sound of perfect summers bouncing off the sky.

The whole moment seems so surreal, with the bright rays of sun shining perfectly on her sun-kissed skin, both of us shivering as the saltwater forms a stiff crust on our skin.

It's like I've dreamt of this before. Like I'm still dreaming.

I almost laugh as the kids walk in while Jolie and I are setting the table. Mitchell leads the line, dripping with ocean water and still fully dressed in his airport clothes. He has Alyssa slung over his shoulders, her small hands playing a steady drumbeat on his dripping wet hair. She's dressed in a bright orange one-piece swimsuit, her hair pulled into a pair of ratty pigtails.

Charlie comes next, a primal roar stretching from his small form, speeding past Mitch and Alyssa to stand in the middle of the room. He then proceeds to shake out his soaking hair over the room, his neon green swim goggles bouncing around his neck.

Arthur is last into the room, his dark camera bag slug heavily over his shoulder, his waterproof Cannon still out to document the whole scene. Unlike the rest of them, he's still fully dressed and only mildly wet, just up to the hem of his blue basketball shorts. He points the camera at the three of them, biting his lips to hold in a laugh that no doubt is resting in his throat.

Mr. Cherith strides into the roof, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. He stops in his tracks, taking in the six of us, all still dripping all over the wood floor.

"I guess I signed up for this." He sighs, taking the plates from Jolie and the silverware from me. "I'll set the table. You guys, go get changed."

We all try not to make eye contact as we file back to our respective rooms. But the second Arthur shuts the door to our bedroom, we all break down in gut-punching laughter.

There's no reason for us to be laughing besides the fact that it makes the room lighter.

Sometimes that's the best type of laughter. The type where it hurts to breathe and even the smallest moment of silence can spiral into another bout.

By the time we've all calmed down, Arthur has retreated to the floor, his camera propped on his lap. Charlie sits on the carpeted floor next to him, hauling a green t-shirt over his head and combing his hair into the normal slick-back style he loves so much.