Alright, settle in. Grab a drink. Before we get to the Porsches, the penthouses, and the parade of women who learned to spell my name with a dollar sign, you need to see where it all started. You need to understand the man I became by first meeting the boy I was. So, let's go back. Welcome to Oak Creek, population… well, it doesn't matter. There were only two people in my world back then.
The treehouse was my cathedral. My father and I had built it the summer I turned eight, wedged high in the forgiving arms of a century-old oak. It was less a house and more a patchwork of scavenged lumber and defiant will. The sign on the inside of the trapdoor, painted in wobbly red letters, declared its sovereignty: "HQ - NO GROWN UPS ALOWD." They hadn't tried to test that rule in years.
Sunlight, thick and golden as honey, pressed through the gaps in the mismatched planks, striping the dusty floor. It illuminated a kingdom built of boyhood treasures. Stacks of comics with creased spines leaned against one wall, their heroes frozen in mid-punch. A legion of plastic soldiers, some missing arms or heads from past campaigns, were arranged in battle formation around a half-eaten bag of potato chips. The air smelled of old wood, sun-baked dust, and the faint, sweet perfume of the honeysuckle climbing the oak's trunk.
And in the center of it all, there I was. Little Johnny. Ten years old, cross-legged on the floor, tongue caught between my teeth in absolute concentration. Before me, a delicate, impossible structure was rising. A house of cards. Each placement was a surgical procedure, my fingers moving with a preternatural steadiness. King of Spades on the Queen of Hearts, a gentle slide, a release of breath. The tower grew, a fragile monument to order and balance in the quiet hum of a summer afternoon. It was all I wanted: a world I could control, one card at a time. The fourth tier was almost complete. Just one more pair…
WHOMP.
The entire structure shuddered as if struck by a meteor. The trapdoor flew open and a blur of denim overalls and pigtails shot into the sanctuary, rattling the floorboards and sending a cloud of dust motes into a panicked frenzy through the sunbeams.
"Beat my record! Three-point-four seconds!"
My house of cards, my carefully constructed universe, didn't just fall. It exploded. A silent, papery firework of collapsing royalty. Kings, queens, and jacks scattered across the floor in a mess of chaotic disgrace.
I stared at the ruins. "Emma! Look what you did."
Emma—all scraped knees and boundless, unapologetic energy—didn't even glance at the cardboard carnage. She was breathing hard, a triumphant grin plastered on her face. She was a storm in human form, the antithesis to my quiet control, and the undisputed other half of my world.
"It was just some cards, Johnny," she said, waving a dismissive hand as she flopped down beside me, making the floor groan again. "I was thinking."
This was usually a dangerous proclamation. Emma's thinking often led to frog-related experiments, ill-advised attempts to dam the local creek, or convincing me that we could, in fact, fly from the roof of my garage with trash-bag parachutes.
"About what?" I asked, starting to gather the fallen cards, trying to restore some semblance of order.
"About us," she declared, her voice suddenly serious. "We need a pact. A promise. So everyone knows. It's Team J&E against the world. Forever and ever."
I stopped sorting my cards and looked at her. Her usual whirlwind energy had focused into a beam of startling intensity. In her eyes, this wasn't a game. This was constitutional law.
"A pact?"
"A blood oath would be cooler, but my mom would kill me if I got blood on my overalls," she explained with practical gravity. "So, a pinky-promise pact. It's just as binding." She thrust her hand between us, her smallest finger crooked and waiting. "Come on. It's important."
It felt important. In the golden light of our headquarters, with the scent of summer all around us, it felt like the most important thing in the world. I put the cards aside and hooked my pinky finger with hers. Her hand was small and grimy, but the grip was firm. Unbreakable.
She took a deep breath, like a priestess beginning a sacred rite. "Okay. Repeat after me." Her voice dropped to a solemn whisper. "Cross my heart and hope to die…"
"Cross my heart and hope to die…" I echoed, the words feeling heavy and ancient on my tongue.
"…Stick a needle in my eye…"
"…Stick a needle in my eye…"
"…To always have your back, no matter what."
"…To always have your back, no matter what."
"Best friends," she concluded, squeezing my finger tighter. "Forever."
"Forever," I promised.
We unlinked our hands. The pact was sealed. A quiet moment passed between us, the air charged with the weight of our vow. In her dirt-smudged, earnest face, I saw a certainty that mirrored my own. Team J&E. It was us. It would always be us. Nothing and nobody could ever touch that.
Cute, right? Look at them. A promise made of sunlight and sincerity. Hold onto this image, reader. Burn it into your memory. It's the 'before' picture. And the hurricane is still years away, but it's already started forming, way out over an ocean they don't even know exists.