There's something sitting on top of my laptop. A folded piece of paper.
My stomach does a weird little flip as I reach for it, already recognizing the handwriting before I even unfold it. Bold, a little messy, like he never learned the concept of writing inside the lines.
I smooth it open, eyes skimming across his scrawl:
Had to head out early for team's morning workout. Thanks for the talk last night. And... for drying my shirt. I owe you one.
And then, at the bottom, in all caps like he couldn't help himself:
P.S. I'M TAKING THIS UGLY JERSEY WITH ME. DON'T WORRY, I'LL BURN IT. NO MAN NAMED CLINTON IS EVER ALLOWED THIS CLOSE TO YOUR CLOSET AGAIN.
I snort so hard I nearly choke.
God, only Zach could turn petty jealousy into a postscript.
By the time I loop back toward the dorm, my lungs are on fire, sweat slicks down my back, and my legs feel like noodles. But in that good way—like I actually worked for it.
Endorphins, hello.
I slow to a jog, then a walk, tugging my scrunchie tighter as my Apple Watch buzzes.
It's Dad, calling.
I tap the green icon, air still heaving in and out of my chest. "Hey, Dad."
His voice fills my ear instantly through my AirPods. "Hey, sweetie. Good morning."
I smile despite the sweat dripping into my eyes. "Morning. What's up?"
"You tell me—did you just finish running?" There's a little lilt of pride in his tone, like he already knows the answer.
"Yep," I say between breaths, chuckling. "Just got back. How about you?"
"Oh, you know, getting ready for work. Be heading out soon." His voice is warm, casual, the same tone he's used my whole life when mornings were his busiest.
My dad's an architect—thearchitect, really. CEO of Pennington Architecture and Design. His company's name is plastered on half the skyline in Florida and creeping into Georgia, Alabama, the Carolinas. High-rises, resorts, big corporate towers—if it's tall and shiny, there's a good chance Dad's firm had a hand in it.
"And mom? How is she doing?"
"Your mom's doing great, sweetie."
Relief settles in my chest. "Yeah? That's good to hear. How's she feeling this week?"
"Better. A lot better. Doctor said her checkup looked solid." He says. "Although she's getting impatient about wanting her cast off. Says she's tired of clunking around the house like a pirate with a peg leg."
I burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Dad."
He chuckles too. "What? That's what she said. I told her to use it as a weapon, wave it around when the neighbors drop by."
"Poor Mom." I shake my head, still smiling. "Tell her there's only a week left, just a few more days. She can handle that."
"Mm, you tell your mother that," he teases. "She doesn't listen to me anymore."
"Like she ever did," I shoot back, and we both laugh again.
He clears his throat after, tone easy. "So, how's school? Everything going okay over there?"
I glance up at the dorm building coming into view. "Busy, but good. Classes are piling up. Capstone rehearsals are basically running my life. But, you know, nothing new."
