“Thank you for having me.”
She waves me off like this is the most absurd thing I’ve ever said. “You’re family now. You don’t thank family for dinner.”
Family.
I’m family.
Am I? Theo has certainly felt like family the last two years. But in a platonic way. In the way that Tate feels like family, like Cruz and Addison, like Kylie. But now …
Now everything is different and new, and suddenly something else is weaving its way through my veins—fear.
Fear of losing everything.
Because it’s happened before.
Just then, Theo’s dad—John, he’d told me in the car—appears at the doorway. He’s rugged like Theo—same jawline, same eyes, but with laugh lines around his eyes.
“Evenin’, kids,” he says, nodding at us. “Dinner’s just about ready.”
Inside, the house smells incredible—garlic, roasted herbs, butter, bread, something sweet in the oven. The house is slightly smaller than Theo’s, and older, but distinctly warm. Family pictures litter the walls. Theo’s an only child—I already knew that—and pictures of him are on full display all over.
Dinner is cozy and delicious and full of stories—mostly about Theo as a kid. Stories he groans through, rolling his eyesas his mom recounts how he once rode a steer because he swore he could “calm it with kindness.”
John chimes in helpfully. “Broke his arm in two places.”
Theo pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was eight.”
Trisha clucks her tongue. “Was a patient kid, even back then.”
“And loyal as a dog,” John adds.
Theo’s eyes meet mine from beside me—just a split second before he’s looking away again.
Heisloyal.
And patient.
And good.
God, he’s so good.
I find myself glancing between the three of them as the night continues, taking in their banter, their laughs, their little jokes. I try not to dwell on the losses in my life; I’ve never found it to be productive. But sometimes I can’t help it from getting to me. And this is one of those times. What would it be like to have a father who loved me enough to stay? Sitting across the dining table recounting stories of my childhood? What would it be like to have a mother who lived long enough to see me achieve my dreams, live my life, have kids?
What would it be like to have that again?
A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow, staring hard at the table in front of me. It’s never a good time to cry, but especially not now. So I bite the inside of my lip and blink my eyes.
Just then, a hand gently wraps around mind under the table, and I hike in a small breath. Theo. He doesn’t look my way, doesn’t make it obvious—and I hope to God that my brief moment of grief isn’t apparent to everyone. But Trisha and John continue chatting, seemingly unaware.
Theo’s hand gives mine a squeeze, and even after the potential tears have passed, he keeps it there, atop my thigh, simply holding me.
The conversation comes to a lull, and John glances over to us, his eyes warm and noticing. “Boy looks settled,” he murmurs, not quiet enough.
Theo grunts. “Dad.”
“I’m just saying,” John goes on smugly, “I’ve never seen you look so—”
“Dad.” Theo’s voice is a warning now.
