I don’t even know how to feel. There’s anger, somewhere beneath the surface, but it’s tangled up in too many other things to make sense of. I should be mad at Lark. She didn’t tell me, didn’t give me the chance to be there for him. For her. But the truth is, I can’t bring myself to hate her. It’s Lark. You know how it was with her. How it’s always been.
But I hate that I wasn’t there. I hate that I didn’t see his first steps, didn’t hear his first words, didn’t get to teach him how to throw a baseball. I hate that I’m a stranger to him, that he probably doesn’t even wonder about me. And maybe that’s what guts me the most—that I wasn’t even a missing piece in his life. Just…absent.
I keep thinking about my dad. About how he raised us, how he showed us love the only way he knew how—through tough lessons and long days and high expectations. I never doubted that he loved me, but I never really knew him, not the way I wanted to. And I don’t want that for Hudson.
I want to be the kind of dad who listens. Who doesn’t just tell him what to do but asks him what he thinks. Who teaches him the important stuff—how to fix a fence, how to ride, how to work, how to be a man—but also shows up for the little things. School projects. Late-night worries. The everyday moments that add up to something real.
But what if he doesn’t want to know me? What if he thinks his life is fine the way it is? What if I don’t deserve to be in it?
I don’t know, man. I feel like I just stepped into a life that was already built without me, and I have no clue where I fit in.
You’d know what to say. You always did.
I miss you.
—B
I sit there for a while after I finish, pen still in my hand, jaw locked tight.
Then I close the journal, push it aside, and lean back in the chair.
Tomorrow, I face Lark.
Then I figure out how the hell to be a dad.
**********
The Bluebell’s slammed.
Lunch crowd’s in full swing—plates clanging, chairs scraping, voices stacking on top of each other. Smells like fried onions, coffee, and fresh pie. Same as it always has.
Dawn’s in her usual spot behind the counter, running the show like she’s got eyes on the back of her head. Lipstick slightly smudged, pen tapping against her order pad, voice sharp as she snaps at a busboy and hands off a slice of pie without missing a beat.
She spots me and lifts a brow but doesn’t say anything.
I move through the tables, nod at a few familiar faces. Hank Tiller’sholed up in his usual booth, nursing his coffee like it’s keeping him alive. Mary Jo Henson and Becky Cane are posted at the counter, mid-gossip, and judging by the way they go quiet when I pass, I’m what they’re whispering about now.
I slap a hand against the counter. “Lark in the office?”
Dawn glances over her glasses. “She is.”
I nod and start to turn, but her hand catches my elbow. Grip’s firm.
“Play nice, Boone,” she says. “Keep your head on straight.”
My jaw tightens, but I nod.
I head through the kitchen—past the fryers, the ovens, the sharp scent of bacon and whatever’s baking in the back. They’ve cleaned it up some, but it still feels the same. Still the place we used to sneak into when Alice wasn’t looking, stealing sugar cubes like idiots and hiding behind the dry goods.
I stop at the office door. Knock once.
Pause.
“Come in.”
I do and it’s cramped as hell in here.
There’s barely enough space for the two of us in here, and with the way she’s seated at the desk, legs crossed, posture stiff, it doesn’t exactly feel like the most welcoming environment. Not that I expected it to be.
