Brooklyn’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the defensive posture softening. “I know, Dad.” She hesitated, then added, “I think I’m just going to go start on my homework.”
“Okay. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
She nodded and disappeared upstairs, leaving Finn standing in the kitchen, worry gnawing at the edges of his composure. Something had happened—something significant enough to leave traces of tears on his usually stoic daughter’s face. But he couldn’t fix what she wouldn’t share, couldn’t protect her from hurts she kept hidden.
The helplessness of it sat heavy in his stomach as he began preparing dinner, the routine motions of chopping vegetables and heating oil in the pan providing little of their usual comfort. Being Brooklyn’s father was the most important job he’d ever have, the one role he couldn’t afford to fail at. And yet, there were moments like this when he felt completely inadequate, fumbling in the dark for the right words, the right actions.
How do you protect someone from something they won’t name?
He was halfway through cooking when his phone buzzed with an email notification. It was a short reply from Ollie, letting him know he’d received the estimate and was passing it along to his parents. Finn had been thorough, as always, but had also included a phased approach that would minimize disruption to the store’s operations. It had taken extra time to work out, but Finn hoped it would ease some of Ollie’s obvious anxiety about keeping the business running during repairs.
The thought of Ollie’s face—the genuine worry beneath the jokes, the way his eyes had looked so tired behind those glasses—lingered as Finn finished cooking. There had been something compelling about the bookstore owner’s resilience, the way he’d kept his sense of humor even while facing a disaster that threatened his livelihood.
Finn set two plates on the kitchen table. “Brooklyn! Dinner’s ready,” he called up the stairs.
He heard her bedroom door open, followed by the slow trudge of footsteps. Brooklyn appeared in the kitchen doorway, her expression carefully blank as she slid into her chair.
“Thanks,” she muttered, picking up her fork.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the scrape of utensils against plates uncomfortably loud in the quiet kitchen. Finn cleared his throat.
“How was that math test today?” he asked.
Brooklyn shrugged. “Fine.”
Not surprising, but Finn was grasping at something to talk about, which was a rarity with his daughter. “Do you think you did well?”
“Yeah.”
Finn took a bite, chewed slowly. “Coach Melissa sent an email about the softball fundraiser next weekend. Said they need parent volunteers.”
“Cool.” Brooklyn pushed a piece of pasta around her plate.
“I thought I might sign up to help with the concession stand.”
Brooklyn’s eyes flicked up briefly. “Whatever.”
His daughter’s gaze dropped back to her plate, that same shadow darkening her eyes. Finn’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, questions burning on his tongue.
What’s wrong?
How can I fix this?
But he swallowed them down with his next bite of food. The harder he pushed, the more closed off she’d become, if that was even possible at this point.
“Can I be excused?” Brooklyn asked, her plate still half full.
Finn nodded, watching as she carried her dish to the sink before retreating upstairs, the soft click of her bedroom door closing like a physical barrier between them.
With the kitchen spotless and Brooklyn sequestered in her room, Finn finally allowed himself to retreat to his own sanctuary. He settled at the desk, opening his laptop to the manuscript he needed to make some serious progress on tonight. The cursor blinked accusingly at him from the middle of a scene he’d been struggling with—a moment of vulnerability between his two main characters, where Wyatt finally admitted his fears to Eli.
Finn stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as fatigue settled into his bones. The scene wasn’t working, and he knew why. He couldn’t write about Wyatt’s vulnerability because he was avoiding his own. How could he craft an authentic emotional moment when he spent so much energy keeping his own emotions carefully contained?
You’re a fraud, Wilder. How can you write about connection when you can barely manage it in your own life?
He rubbed his eyes, the pressure of the deadline weighing on him. Three weeks. Twenty-one days to finish a manuscript that was stalled because he couldn’t access the very feelings that made his books resonate with readers.
With a sigh, Finn pulled out his notebook, flipping to a fresh page. Sometimes, when the words wouldn’t come directly, he found it helped to write about the characters, to explore their thoughts and feelings separate from the narrative.
