The smirk drains. I can feel his eyes on me. I’ve told him a little bit about my childhood. Nothing in great detail, just that my mother died when I was young, and my father was a shitty human being and is sitting in prison for money laundering.
“You’re going to go visit your dad in prison? In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never gone to visit him. What’s changed?”
I fidget in my seat at the uncomfortable conversation. I hate talking about my father. The thought of him, my childhood, makes my skin crawl.
“He’s up for parole and wants me to come speak on his behalf at the parole board meeting.”
Jaxon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I don’t blame him. Even I can’t believe I’m contemplating going. I haven’t been in the same room as my father for twenty years. The thought makes my stomach want to hurl.
I hold my hands up in defense, like they’re gonna protect me from the onslaught of my own thoughts swirling around in my head. “I haven’t decided whether I’m going. I just don’t want to leave you scrambling to move appointments if I decide at the last minute.”
He nods, the teasing gone. “You don’t talk much about your childhood. What you have said… wasn’t great. That’s a heavy decision.”
“I keep flipping the coin. Either way, I want him out of my life for good. I just don’t know which choice will let me sleep at night.”
Jaxon leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Here’s what I know. For the last few weeks, I’ve seen you smile more. The other day, you were laughing so hard you had tears streaming down your face. Don’t even get me started on the world’s worst dad joke.”
“It landed,” I protest.
“On the floor, sure.” He softens. “Point is, you’re not the guy I met years ago. You can handle more than you think. And you don’t have to carry it alone. You have people to lean on, like me… or Beckett.”
My head snaps up. He’s wearing that knowing grin that makes me want to throw a paper towel roll at him.
“Looks like things are getting serious,” he says.
“They are,” I admit. “He came with me to Aunt Sofia’s.”
Jaxon whistles. “Family dinner? That’s not casual.”
“It wasn’t.” I glance at my phone, still fighting the urge to text. “He makes the noise in my head… quieter.”
Jaxon stands and clasps my shoulder, steady and warm. “Then whatever you decide about your dad, decide it with the version of you who laughs now. The one who lets people in.”
I nod. “I will.”
He steps back toward the door. “And hey—if a pit mix named Meatball follows you home from the shelter, I’m not saying I told you so.”
“Get out,” I say, but I’m smiling when he goes.
The shop slows to a crawl after that. By the time my last client waves goodbye, my shoulders feel welded to my neck, and mylower back is filing formal complaints. Hours bent over skin will do that to you.
I’m so tired, I walk into my house on muscle memory—keys in the bowl, boots by the door, lights low. I open the fridge and pull out Aunt Sofia’s sauce, set water to boil. Noodles, sauce, done. It’s simple, but it tastes like being looked after. Beckett would approve. So would she. The thought sneaks a grin onto my face.
The quiet presses in, and with it the thing I keep circling: my father, the parole board, the ask I don’t owe him. Jaxon’s voice threads through—decide it with the version of you that laughs now. I don’t know what that decision is yet, only that it shouldn’t be made from fear.
Which is why I pick up my phone before I can overthink it.
Me: Home? Also, your enchiladas have ruined me. Rude.
Something in my chest unfolds when he replies right away. It’s ridiculous how fast the tension I didn’t know I was holding slips off my shoulders.
I eat at the counter, the house too quiet for how full I feel. When the dishes are done, I sit with the two big pieces of my life laid out like flash cards: the past that wants a favor, and the present that keeps offering me a hand. I picture Beckett arguing about bacon, stealing a forkful of my eggs, bumping my knee under the table, and not making a big deal of it.
Somewhere between the sauce simmering and his name lighting up my screen, I stop pretending this is casual. Maybe I decided that a while ago; I just know I’m falling. And as I turn off the lights and head for bed, I know two more things: tomorrow, I’ll keep figuring out what peace looks like with my father, and I’ll show up for breakfast.
“You know,”I say, coming up behind Beckett as he flips a perfectly cooked slice of French toast. “I think that someone should know the secret recipe to your bacon,” I tease as I cage him. “I mean, what if something happens?” He throws his head back in laughter, and I bury my head into his neck and breathe in his scent. Like cinnamon and vanilla.
“Are you saying I’m in danger, sir?”
