As I pad down the stairs, I can already hear music drifting through the house—soft, nostalgic, and way too romantic for this hour of the morning. My parents' Sunday playlist. Air Supply. Of course.
Every Sunday, without fail, they blast songs from the classics—Air Supply, The Carpenters, Chicago, The Beatles, all that "love lasts forever" kind of stuff.
They call it their"Weekend rewind."(Don't ask.)
It's not really my type of music, but honestly? I love it. Those songs sound like home—like Saturday pancakes, rainy afternoons, and being five years old again, dancing on my dad's feet in the kitchen.
When I finally reach the bottom step, I spot Dad at the stove, spatula in hand, dramatically belting out"Making Love Out of Nothing at All"like he's auditioning for a world tour. He twirls around with his ridiculous dad grin, setting down a plate of freshly cooked turkey bacon and omelets in front of Mom—who, by the way, lookswaytoo entertained.
My heart does this weird flip thing, because—God help me—the scene instantly reminds me of Zach who was serenading me in front of the entire arena last night.
The memory hits like a slap and a swoon rolled into one.
Cue mental highlight reel: him grinning like an idiot, the crowd screaming, his voice painfully out of tune but somehow still managing to melt my insides like butter on hot toast.
I sink my face in my hands, already blushing.Great.
It's barely 9 A.M., and I'm reliving my own public humiliation-slash-romantic-comedy moment.
Somewhere out there, an army of jealous Ridgewater fangirls is probably in a candlelit circle right now, crafting matching voodoo dolls with my face on them and taking turns cursing me.
Honestly, I'm half-expecting to feel a sharp jab in my leg or my arms breaking any second now.
Meanwhile, my parents are being... well,them.
Dad's serenading Mom like she's the only woman left on Earth, and she's looking up at him like she still can't believe he chose her thirty years ago. They're all smiley and flirty and heart-eyes over coffee and bacon, and I swear, sometimes it'stoo much.
When I was younger, watching them act like newlyweds made me want to gag.
Now? I kinda get it. I want that kind of love someday—the kind that's loud, ridiculous, and still full of music even after decades together.
"Morning," I say, walking in with a knowing smirk.
They both turn toward me at the same time, beaming like I just made their whole day. "Good morning, sweetheart," they chorus in unison.
I lean over to kiss Dad's cheek, then bend down to kiss Mom's. Dad gestures to the plate he's already sliding my way. "Sit, sit. Breakfast's hot. You look like you could use some fuel."
"Thanks, Chef Dad." I grin, dropping into the seat next to Mom. "You planning to serenade every woman you cook for, or should I be jealous on Mom's behalf?"
Mom chuckles, swatting his arm lightly. Dad just shrugs, puffing his chest out. "Hey, what can I say? The spirit of Air Supply moves me."
"Oh yeah?" I tease. "Pretty sure the neighbors are moved too. They probably think there's a karaoke bar operating out of our kitchen."
He points the spatula at me, mock-serious. "Don't mock greatness, young lady. You're looking at a man who once made your mother fall in love to this very song."
Mom sighs dreamily, smiling at him like he's still the boy who sat next to her in freshman econ and shared his notes just to have an excuse to talk to her.
And I can't help it—I smile too.
Dad finally slides into his usual spot at the head of the table, coffee mug in one hand, still humming the last line of the song under his breath.
"So," he says, glancing up at me with that knowing dad look, "how was the game last night?"
My parents share a quick look—one of those silent exchanges that basically sayswe're dying to know but trying to play it cool.
I knew this was coming.
I told them the other day that I was going to Zach's game and wouldn't be home early Saturday night, and they were... shocked, to put it mildly.
