Page 37

Except that’s a lie, isn’t it? In a few days, I’ll be back on this ridiculous show, and he’ll be back with my mother, alone with his grief and his bullies and his too-big brain.
A knock at the door interrupts our moment. Skye pokes her head in, her expression softening when she sees August’s tear-streaked face.
“Sorry to intrude,” she says, uncharacteristically gentle. “But we need to prep for the chess challenge. The women will be arriving in an hour.”
“Chess?” August perks up instantly, wiping his face on his sleeve. “What kind of chess?”
“Life-sized,” Skye says, stepping fully into the room. She’s toned down her usual flamboyance, I notice—wearing a turquoise pantsuit. “You’ll be playing against each of the women, directing them as human chess pieces on a giant board we’ve set up in the garden.”
August’s eyes glow with genuine excitement. “Real people as chess pieces? I love it.”
“He’s unbeatable,” I warn Skye.
“Perfect.” Skye grins. “We’re counting on that. Nothing like a child demolishing grown women at chess to reveal character.”
I’m not sure how I feel about my son being used as a psychological testing ground, but the light in his eyes at the prospect of chess is the first real enthusiasm I’ve seen since his arrival.
“Now, August,” Skye says, sitting on his other side, “part of this challenge is for the women to connect with you. You’ll have some time to chat with each of them before and during your matches. Any questions you’d like to ask them?”
“I’ve prepared a list,” August says, as if he’s a prosecuting attorney. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper. “I have categorized them by importance.”
Skye raises an eyebrow at me, clearly impressed. “May I see?”
August hands it over, suddenly looking shy. “The ice cream question is very important,” he explains as Skye unfolds the paper. “I don’t care what flavor they pick, but they have to at least like it because that’s something we need to keep doing as a family. Dad and I get ice cream every Sunday. Or we used to, before he came here.”
That stings, but I deserve it.
“These are awesome questions.” Skye scans the list. “‘What is your favorite thing about my dad?’ is particularly good.”
“I want to know if it matches my favorite thing. Which is how he makes me laugh. Mom always said that was his superpower.”
My throat tightens again. Sarah used to say that—on good days, when we were still happy, before my career and her exhaustion drove a wedge between us.
“Your dad is pretty funny.” Skye nods. “Though sometimes not intentionally.”
This earns a small smile from August. “I know. He thinks his dance moves are good. They’rereallynot.”
“Hey,” I protest weakly. “I’ll have you know my dance moves are legendary.”
“Yes, like dinosaurs are legendary. Extinct.”
Skye snorts, and even I have to smile at his quick wit. This is the August I know—sharp, observant, using perfect similes.
“There’s one more question.” Skye’s voice gentles as she points to the bottom of the list. “‘Are you afraid of dying too?’”
My heart stutters. August looks down at his hands.
“August,” I say softly. “Buddy...”
“It’s a logical question,” he says defensively. “Mom died. People die. I want to know if they think about it too, or if I’m the only one.”
His words make me want to bundle him up and take him far away from cameras and production schedules and this whole artificial world. But Skye surprises me, which isn’t anything new.
“I think about it,” she tells him. “Everyone does, especially after they lose someone they love. I lost my dad when I wasn’t much older than you.”
August looks up at her, really seeing her for the first time. “Did it stop hurting?”
“Not completely. But it changed. Like...” she searches for a comparison he’ll understand. “Like background noise. Always there, but no longer at the forefront.”