(This is a dream Rhys has after Riley loses the baby.)
"Dad?" Rhys felt someone shaking him. "Dad! It's Saturday. You promised to take me fishing, remember?"
Rhys groaned, prying one eye open to look up at the eager, young face that was peering anxiously down at him. "What time is it?" he asked groggily, rubbing at an eye.
"Four o'clock," the six-year old replied.
"In the morning?" Rhys asked, appalled, rolling over and closing his eyes. "Go back to bed. The birds aren't even up yet."
"Mama said we should get up early. The fish bite best in the morning."
"Your mother loves to torture me," Rhys grumbled.
The boy grinned and flopped down on the bed beside his father. "I made you breakfast." He waved a slice of burnt toast in front of his father's face, hoping to entice him. "Mama said you'd wake up if you smell food, just like the fish."
Rhys pried an eye open again, the toast swinging back and forth in his field of vision, like a square, brown pendulum. "Your mother is a smart ass."
"Smart alec," he corrected. "Mama says not to swear. It's impolite."
Rhys cracked a wry grin at the irony of that statement. When Riley was angry, she was prone to use even more foul language than he did.
"Tell you what," he started, turning to face his oldest son. "Give me five more minutes, and I'll take you out for pancakes."
"Chocolate chip pancakes? Mama never lets me have chocolate chip pancakes. She says they make me hyper."
Rhys laughed. "They do. That's what's so great about them." He growled and grabbed the boy around the waist and pulled him down beside him in a wrestling hold that was more like a bear hug. The boy broke into a fit of giggles that ended in a contented sigh.
The cottage on the lake had been a godsend. Rhys had been promising to take his eldest son fishing for months now, and Riley had finally made him keep his promise. It hadn't taken much convincing really. These days, family came first; everything else came second. Riley had shooed father and son off to the lake, while she and the twins visited her parents in Boston.
"He needs some time alone with his father," she had insisted, knowing how their eldest son tended to be overshadowed by his younger siblings' more exuberant, outgoing nature.
Rhys knew it sometimes worried Riley how alike they were, and he'd done his best to make sure the boy had plenty of fun in his life -- the kind of fun he'd had very little of as a child. He remembered his first and only fishing trip with his own father and how much fun they'd had. He had vowed he wouldn't let Patrick be robbed of his childhood the way he had been.
And so, they'd found themselves at Lake George -- alone, just the two of them. No Riley, no twins, no cousins or friends to come between them. Quality time, Riley had called it, and despite the early hour of the morning, Rhys couldn't be happier.
"Dad?" Rhys felt someone shaking him. "Dad! It's Saturday. You promised to take me fishing, remember?"
Rhys groaned, prying one eye open to look up at the eager, young face that was peering anxiously down at him. "What time is it?" he asked groggily, rubbing at an eye.
"Four o'clock," the six-year old replied.
"In the morning?" Rhys asked, appalled, rolling over and closing his eyes. "Go back to bed. The birds aren't even up yet."
"Mama said we should get up early. The fish bite best in the morning."
"Your mother loves to torture me," Rhys grumbled.
The boy grinned and flopped down on the bed beside his father. "I made you breakfast." He waved a slice of burnt toast in front of his father's face, hoping to entice him. "Mama said you'd wake up if you smell food, just like the fish."
Rhys pried an eye open again, the toast swinging back and forth in his field of vision, like a square, brown pendulum. "Your mother is a smart ass."
"Smart alec," he corrected. "Mama says not to swear. It's impolite."
Rhys cracked a wry grin at the irony of that statement. When Riley was angry, she was prone to use even more foul language than he did.
"Tell you what," he started, turning to face his oldest son. "Give me five more minutes, and I'll take you out for pancakes."
"Chocolate chip pancakes? Mama never lets me have chocolate chip pancakes. She says they make me hyper."
Rhys laughed. "They do. That's what's so great about them." He growled and grabbed the boy around the waist and pulled him down beside him in a wrestling hold that was more like a bear hug. The boy broke into a fit of giggles that ended in a contented sigh.
The cottage on the lake had been a godsend. Rhys had been promising to take his eldest son fishing for months now, and Riley had finally made him keep his promise. It hadn't taken much convincing really. These days, family came first; everything else came second. Riley had shooed father and son off to the lake, while she and the twins visited her parents in Boston.
"He needs some time alone with his father," she had insisted, knowing how their eldest son tended to be overshadowed by his younger siblings' more exuberant, outgoing nature.
Rhys knew it sometimes worried Riley how alike they were, and he'd done his best to make sure the boy had plenty of fun in his life -- the kind of fun he'd had very little of as a child. He remembered his first and only fishing trip with his own father and how much fun they'd had. He had vowed he wouldn't let Patrick be robbed of his childhood the way he had been.
And so, they'd found themselves at Lake George -- alone, just the two of them. No Riley, no twins, no cousins or friends to come between them. Quality time, Riley had called it, and despite the early hour of the morning, Rhys couldn't be happier.