Fuck. Mark should say something. Do something. And a weird part of him was jealous—Isaiah could feel so much more easily than him, let things out when Mark still wasn’t even sure what the hell he was feeling. Instead, though, he just watched as Isaiah started tracing something on the sand.
“That’s a C,” Zoe said excitedly, racing to Isaiah. “You spelling Cat? C is for Cat.”
“Cal.” Mark licked his lips, then found a stick of his own. “He’s spelling Cal.”
“Yeah.” Isaiah didn’t make a move to wipe his face. “Figure we can take a picture maybe before the tide comes in.”
“I wanna do a heart!” Daphne crawled between them, using her spoon to carve up the sand.
And so they all worked together, Zoe calling out letters she recognized, Daphne adding little hearts around the names, Isaiah spelling out Cal, Mark adding Dani because the nickname was all he could manage before he had to go back and sit on the rocks, try to gather himself. He wasn’t crying, but the way his insides were shaking made him think that tears might be easier.
“There.” Brushing off his hands, Isaiah came back over, followed by the kids. His eyes were dry, but his cheeks were still damp. “Think we could walk up to the overlook, get a picture from up there?”
“Yeah.” It was a long walk, but it was something to do. And carrying Zoe piggyback style grounded him, stopped the inner meltdown. They made their way to the viewpoint, and Isaiah took out his phone, took a number of pictures of their work. But Mark just stared, leaning against the wooden rails, soaking it all in, the dimming sky, the blue ocean, the sand, and the two names there, stark and bold.
Cal + Dani.
More than any speech, any bouquet of flowers, any prayer or song, that sight made this all so much more real and final. He made a choking noise and then Isaiah’s hand was on his, warm and steady. “I know.”
Mark supposed he’d held hands before. The memories were hazy, nothing earthshattering. Nothing that felt like the world shifted on its axis, a little wobble before resuming its natural rotation. But standing there, letting Isaiah hold his hand, gripping him back like Isaiah was the last life raft, Mark’s universe rearranged itself. This was solid and life-affirming and reassuring and the best damn thing to happen all day. So Mark clung to that contact, squeezing him back.
The girls were dancing right behind them, delighted with the view, chattering about being hungry, and still Mark held on.
“I don’t want to be here when the tide comes in,” Isaiah whispered.
“Me either.” Mark wanted to keep those names there, a firm declaration on the sand that they would be remembered.
“I know a good place near here for burgers and fries.” Isaiah’s voice was still soft, like he too was reluctant to break this spell.
“Sounds good.” Mark followed him back down the trail, carrying Zoe again.
“I want a hand too.” Daphne scampered between them. Crap. They were still holding hands.
Isaiah laughed, dropping Mark’s hand to pick up one of Daphne’s. “Want us to swing you?”
“Yes!”
Mark grabbed her free hand, watching Isaiah for directions on when to gently swing her into the air, balanced between the two of them, a bright beacon of hope. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d have to start making plans. Tomorrow he’d have to take charge, stop relying so much on Isaiah. Tomorrow he’d have to face reality and lawyers and hard conversations, but for that moment, he let Isaiah lead.
Chapter Six
“I don’t wanna go.” Daphne plopped herself down at the top of the stairs, right by the baby gate, still in her pajamas. “We didn’t hafta do school yesterday.”
“I know.” Isaiah tried to sound sympathetic even though he was running late and did not have time for this. “But it’s time to get back on our routines, okay? Uncle Mark and I have to go to the lawyer’s office, and trust me, you don’t want to come. It’ll be boring. School will be fun.”
“Fun!” Zoe marched out of her room wearing a tutu and nothing else. Isaiah had just put her in her school clothes five minutes ago.
“Mark!” Isaiah called down the stairs. He was going to need some reinforcements if everyone wasn’t going to be late. Mark had been subdued since their impromptu beach trip, helping when Isaiah prompted him, but keeping to himself. Which Isaiah supposed was only natural. He was having more than a small amount of post-funeral fatigue himself.
“Yeah?” Mark bounded up the stairs. Like Isaiah, he was in civilian dress clothes—khaki pants, blue oxford shirt with a tie hanging from the collar like he’d been caught mid getting dressed. A hint of shaving cream clung to his neck. He’d lost the beard before the funeral, but his hair was still on the shaggy side, tamed with some product, which along with the outfit had him looking far preppier than Isaiah had ever seen him. Isaiah had skipped the tie himself, but the reading of the wills had seemed like a good occasion to wear the gray pants and white shirt he usually reserved for job interviews. Which he supposed this was, of sorts.