Zane and Haley are playing checkers. Sam and Easton are playing fetch with Penny at the beach, and Dante’s taking his turn with the book, his feet sticking out of the top of the hammock.
“I’m going to go check on the boar traps,” I say.
“Didn’t you do that an hour ago?” Dante’s head pokes out of the hammock.
“No.”
“Yes, you did,” Zane says.
“I’m just taking a walk,” I shoot back.
“On this side of the island.” Haley holds up two of Zane’s checkers.
“Yes, on this side of the island.”
She’s worried that I’m going to wander off to Pomelo Beach. Which I haven’t done for a while, but soon we’re going to need some more fruit. And then... I can finish up.
I move the chicken tractor a few feet down the strip of land we’ve cleared between some trees. They race around, clucking excitedly at the fresh dirt to dig in. The little ones are getting big enough that I should make them a bigger pen. Soon. But not today. I’d have a battle on my hands if I interrupted a do-nothing week.
I really used to like this. But now this do-nothing thing makes me anxious. Walking helps to clear my head, but doing—doing helps turn things off. I’ve never been one to relax without doing. Sitting on a beach and not moving? Not for me.
We’ve only made two traps. And they’re not that deep and don’t have any of the spikes that we first thought about puttingin them. Not with Penny around. No, these would only catch the boars. It’s one of the reasons why I check them all the time.
The first one’s covered in its layer of palm fronds. But farther down the path, the second one’s open. The covering of fronds is partially gone.
“Holy shit, it worked,” I yell. Down in the pit is a boar. The thing landed right, so we didn’t need any spikes to finish it off after all.
“I can tend the fire,” I say to Dante.
“I’m good.” He looks up from a scrap of Sam’s wrapping paper.
“What are you doing?”
“Tomorrow’s New Year’s Day.”
“And I asked what are you doing?”
“It’s New Year’s.”
“And you’re writing your New Year’s resolutions?”
“Resolutions? That implies I have something I need to change. You fucking know I’m perfect, so no. But I always take the last day of the year to reflect on what I want to happen in the next.” Dante glares at me.
“So resolutions,” I say.
“No. I put it out into the universe what I want. And then I get it.”
“Well, fucker, why didn’t you tell the universe you wanted the yacht to be fixed when we still had it? Or a nice cargo captain to spot our fire? Or hell, I don’t know, plumbing? That would be fucking fantastic.”
“Because maybe I don’t want any of those things. Maybe I’m happy being perfect just the way I am. You, on the other hand, need to change your surroundings to be happy.”
“You’re telling me that you don’t want to eat in a Michelin-starred restaurant again? Or own a Michelin-starred restaurant?”
“Fuck no. That shit is toxic. I’m the best. I don’t need another owner of a tire company telling me I’m good enough.”
Like some sort of fucking Beetlejuice, Rockwell strolls out onto the beach. “What about a tire company?”
“Calvin thinks I need a Michelin star to have a good sense of self-worth.”
