Page 60 of Unbroken

Because what we have, Ruthie and I, matters. It’s this delicate flicker of warmth in a world that’s been mostly cold and dark since Mariah died. And I’m so afraid that if I move too fast or make the wrong move, I’ll snuff it out. I’ll lose her. And I can’t afford that. I can’t lose Ruthie.

We get to the restaurant, and Ruthie’s a fucking wonder. Luka’s bouncing around, restless, and she just rolls with it. She pulls a crayon out from the table setup and starts drawing on the paper placemat—tic-tac-toe and little stick figures. Then she starts making up this ridiculous story about “King Luka,” brave and bold, ruling over his magical kingdom with his sword forged from dragon bones and his crown made of sunlight.

I sit back in my chair and just watch them.

“Papa,” Luka says, glancing over at me with that grin of his. “Do the voices.”

“Luka… not here. We’re in a restaurant. You’re playing with your aunt?—”

“Papa, please. Do the voices, Papa.”

Ruthie’s eyes sparkle with mischief. She smirks. “Yeah, Papa. Do the voices.”

Jesus Christ. I roll my eyes dramatically, grab a napkin, and wrap it around my finger like a makeshift puppet. And then I’m off—doing this whole ridiculous act with finger puppets and over-the-top voices. Ruthie’s laughing so hard she’s crying, and Luka’s clapping like he’s at a Broadway show.

And you know what?

It feels… nice. It feels like not solo parenting for once. And not because Ruthie’s like Mariah—she’s not. She’s nothing like Mariah. And I have to stop comparing them. Ruthie is Ruthie. And I love her just as she is.

It’s not a new realization. I’ve loved her for a long time… in different ways. I loved her when she was that awkward, gangly teenager who needed someone—anyone—to love her back. Back then, I was her sister’s boyfriend. I was her protector, her pseudo-big brother. I fought off her bullies, taught her how to drive, and helped her learn how to budget. With Mariah’s help, we made sure she had everything she needed.

But this? What I feel now? It’s not the same.

And I keep asking myself—do I love her because I’m vulnerable?

The waitress finally brings out our food—burgers and fries stacked high, trays of ketchup on the side. Luka dives in like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“Boy, this guy’s going through a growth spurt,” she says with a grin.

“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I’m fucked when he’s older.”

She chuckles. “Mariah would’vekilledyou for swearing in front of him.”

It’s the first time her name’s been said aloud tonight, and I don’t feel like curling into myself and crying. Progress, I guess.

“Sorry, Luka,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Don’t repeat that word.”

“I know,” he says, chomping on a fry. “I’m not supposed to sayfuck.”

Ruthie snorts. Little brat. Pretty sure she swears more than I do.

We’re halfway through dessert when the hairs on the back of my neck lift. That electric, crawling sense that something’s wrong. That someone’s here.

No fuckingway. Not now. Not when I’m out with my son and my sister-in-law.

But the Irish—they don’t stop. They don’t quit. And I know that. I know it too damn well. They’ve been too quiet, and I don’t trust it.

I tap the table twice to get Ruthie’s attention. Luka’s happily eating his ice cream. She looks over at me, questioning.

“Stay here a minute? I’ll be right back.”

She tilts her head, brows raised, but I just shake mine once. No. I’m not going to scare her over something that might be nothing. We don’t chase shadows. We don’t breathe life into ghosts.

I take the scenic route to the bathroom, a slow loop around the place. Everything seems fine—until it’s not.

There’s a table in the corner. Four men. Their eyes are locked on me.

I don’t look back. Don’t engage. Just slide my hand to the butt of my pistol, and feel the cool, hard reassurance there. Then I walk straight back to the table, grab my wallet, and throw down some cash.