Her already worrying she didn't belong in my world. The reporter calls that made her feel like a stereotype. And now this.
I dropped my head into my hands and stayed there until my neck ached.
Pops eventually shuffled in, poured himself some coffee, and sat down across from me without saying a word. He didn't have to. The phone between us on the table said enough.
"You told her yet?" he asked finally.
"Not yet," I said, throat tight. "She was already rattled after those calls. This will just confirm every fear she has about me. About this."
"Son," he said, in that gentle way that meant the words were going to land hard, "fear don’t go away because you hide the thing causing it. It goes away when you look it in the eye and choose anyway."
I let out a breath that felt more like a laugh and a choke at once. "What if she chooses wrong? What if she decides I’m not worth the trouble?"
"Then that'll hurt," Pops said simply. "But at least it'll beherchoice, not your lie."
I looked at the clock. They’d be a couple hours at least between trivia and Cassie antagonizing the Hendersons just for sport. I could put it off. Pretend this kitchen, this quiet, was all there was.
But Pops was right. I’d already lost so much of myself to my father's expectations. I wasn’t going to lose her because I couldn't tell the truth.
"When she gets back," I said. "I’ll tell her when she gets back."
Pops nodded, got up, squeezed my shoulder once, and left me to my thoughts.
The truck lights swung through the front windows just past eleven. I heard Cassie's cackle before the engine even cut—loud, triumphant, gloriously obnoxious.
The front door opened on a gust of cooler air and bar noise still ringing in their bones.
"We destroyed them," Cassie announced, staggering in with the swagger of a victorious warlord. "They will write ballads about this night. The Hendersons cried into their Bud Lights. Where's my trophy?"
"In your dreams," Winnie said, following her in, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. It took me half a second to clock the way she moved—steady, but looser. Tipsy. Not nearly as gone as she'd been the night before, but definitely softened around the edges.
She spotted me on the couch and her smile faltered for a beat, then slid back into place. Cassie flopped down into an armchair with a groan and immediately pulled out her phone, no doubt already crafting a group text brag.
"Hey, stranger," Winnie said, toeing off her boots near the door. "You just sit here and brood while we did all the work?"
"Someone's gotta keep the couch from floating away," I said. My voice came out rougher than I wanted.
Her eyes flicked to the coffee table, where my phone lay screen-down. "Headache better?"
"Not really." I swallowed. "Win, we need to—"
"Eat," Cassie interrupted, eyes still on her phone. "We need to eat. I am one shot away from doing karaoke and none of us deserve that."
Winnie laughed, and it eased some of the tightness in my chest. "Go raid the fridge. There’s leftover chili."
Cassie pushed herself up with a groan. "On it. If y'all start making heart eyes, I'm stealing Pops’ truck and driving to Tulsa."
She shuffled off toward the kitchen, muttering to herself about carbs and war prizes.
Winnie crossed the room, dropping onto the couch beside me, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her.
"Okay," she said, turning toward me, one knee folded onto the cushion. Her eyes were still bright with the buzz of the night, but there was a thread of curiosity there. "What’s going on, really? And don't say 'nothing' again."
I stared at my hands for a second, then reached for the phone and flipped it over. The lock screen lit up, and her blurred smile stared back at us from the article thumbnail.
Her brows pulled together. "Is that...?"
"Yeah." My mouth was dry. "There's a second article. This one's... about us."
