A kid on a scooter rolled by, paused to watch, then zipped off again.
I almost laughed.
The market crowd had shifted. Some people were pretending to be interested in the rhubarb or the cheese, but most were still listening. A few faces in the back row looked damp-eyed, but maybe that was just the pollen.
I sucked in a breath. This was the hard part.
“I don’t hate my father,” I said, soft but clear. “I just don’t care what he thinks anymore. He was never going to see me, no matter how hard I tried to be visible. And maybe that’s his problem, not mine.”
I met the eyes of anyone brave enough to hold the look—Rosie, the chess players, Mrs. Kimura. All of them, watching me with something like pride. Like maybe, in this one moment, I’d managed to do what no Bridger had ever done—tell the truth and not die from the effort.
“Anyway,” I finished, shrugging, “I guess I just wanted to say that. For me.”
The market was so quiet you could hear the sun shifting behind a cloud.
Then, slowly, someone started to clap.
It was the pickle guy, of course, hands going together in a deliberate, stubborn rhythm. After a second, Rosie joined in, then Mrs. Kimura, then the old men at the chess table, then a ripple of applause that grew until it was almost deafening. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, but I also wanted to keep standing, to let it wash over me and make me clean.
Knox stepped up behind me, hand sliding up my back, hot and sure. He bent low, mouth to my ear. “Proud of you, Bridger,” he said, and the words hit me harder than my father ever could.
I turned, buried my face in his chest, and let myself breathe again.
When the applause finally faded, and the market returned to its regularly scheduled programming, I looked around and realized that I’d survived.
No, I’d done better than that.
I’d won.
The applause was still echoing when the spell finally broke. A few people tried to pretend it was just for the free samples atthe next booth, but most of the market stayed watching, holding their breath as if waiting for the credits to roll.
James was nowhere to be seen. I caught a glimpse of his back—shoulders hunched, suit jacket twisted, the outline of defeat stitched into every step—as he made for the parking lot.
He didn’t look back. Not at the crowd, not at me, not at the trail of embarrassment he’d left in his wake. He was done, and for the first time in my life, I felt nothing for him.
Not pity, not guilt, not even hate.
I turned to Knox, who was still within arm’s reach, his expression unreadable except for the tiny crinkle at the edge of his mouth. He looked at me like I’d just personally delivered the harvest, or maybe solved some puzzle he’d been working on for years.
I shrugged, a motion that set the rest of me to trembling again. “Guess I’m not getting invited to Christmas dinner this year.”
He barked out a laugh—short, sharp, real. “Not unless you like prison food.”
The market resumed its heartbeat. Vendors hawked their last loaves and pies, parents wrangled kids, and a line formed at the coffee stand. But here in the middle of it all, the air felt lighter, like something toxic had finally evaporated.
I let the silence linger, then, almost as an afterthought, delivered the line I’d been saving for years. “I’m a McKenzie now. You mean nothing to me.” I said it soft, just for myself, but the words cut cleaner than anything my father could have screamed.
Knox heard. Of course he did. He stepped in, closing the space between us until I could see the pulse in his neck and the speck of gold in his left eye. He wrapped an arm around my waist—careful, gentle—and leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.“That was quite a speech,” he said, and the sound vibrated through my bones.
I wanted to play it cool, to say something witty, but all that came out was, “I may have practiced it. Once. Or twice.”
He arched a brow, amused. “In the mirror?”
“Maybe.” I could feel my ears burning. “Not that I was expecting—just that sometimes you have to be ready for things, and—”
He shut me up with a kiss. Right there, in front of the bakery, in front of Mrs. Kimura and the pickle guy and anyone else who cared to watch. It was not subtle. It was not polite. It was a claim, and a promise, and a reminder that I was, in fact, a good boy—his good boy—no matter what my last name said.
I melted. There’s no other word for it. My knees gave up the fight, my toes curled so hard I thought they’d fuse, and my hands found purchase in the fabric of his shirt like I was afraid I’d fall up into the sky if I let go.
