Finn reheated leftover lasagna, setting two plates on the table. He’d made it from scratch on Sunday—his grandmother’s recipe with the extra layer of cheese in the middle that Brooklyn loved. It was their tradition: Sunday cooking for the week ahead, Brooklyn perched on a stool at the counter, alternating between helping and scrolling through her phone.
Brooklyn reappeared, hair damp from a quick shower, phone in hand. She’d changed into the oversized Blackhawks sweatshirt he’d bought her last Christmas, the one she claimed was “too big” but wore almost every night anyway.
“Anything else from your mom?” Finn asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. He’d learned years ago that his own feelings about Holly needed to stay locked away where Brooklyn couldn’t see them.
She shook her head, dropping into her seat. Her shoulders hunched slightly, a telltale sign she was bothered more than she wanted to admit. “Whatever. It’s fine. Honestly, if she forgets, which she probably will, I won’t have to figure out how to tell her I don’t want to spend my entire winter break with her. Isabel and Mason are talking about going skiing on New Year’s Eve, and they invited me along.”
He probably should have lectured Brooklyn about how she needed to spend time with her mom and that there was plenty of time the rest of the year for her friends, but he figured this was partly Brooklyn’s way of coping with her flighty mother. Instead, he reached across the table and squeezed her hand briefly, long enough to connect, short enough not to annoy her. “You want garlic bread?”
She grinned, finally, the tension easing from her face. “Cheesy?”
“Of course,” Finn scoffed, already moving to the freezer where he kept the homemade garlic bread he prepared in batches. “What kind of amateur operation do you think I’m running here?”
Brooklyn rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. “You’re such a dad sometimes.”
“All the time, actually,” he corrected, sliding the bread into the oven. “It’s my full-time job.”
“Pretty sure your full-time job is making spreadsheets for Uncle Keaton.”
“That just pays the bills. The dad thing—” he tapped his chest “—that’s the career.”
They ate in companionable silence, the kind that only came from years of just the two of them. Brooklyn demolished her garlic bread first, then methodically separated the layers of her lasagna before eating them one by one—a habit she’d had since she was five. Finn pretended not to notice when she snuck a photo of her plate for her Instagram story. He’d learned to pick his battles.
“How’s the English essay coming?” he asked, refilling her water glass without being asked.
“Almost done. Just need to fix the conclusion.” She hesitated, then added, “Mr. Thompson said my analysis of the symbolism was really strong.”
Pride swelled in Finn’s chest. He wondered if it was strange to her that he was good friends with Noah, her English teacher, who was also his friend Luke’s fiancé. “That’s great, kiddo. You’ve always had a good eye for that stuff.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugged, but he caught the pleased flush on her cheeks. “I still thinkThe Great Gatsbyis overrated.”
“Blasphemy,” Finn teased, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Next, you’ll be telling me you don’t likeTo Kill a Mockingbird.”
“It’s fine,” she conceded, gathering their empty plates. “But Scout is annoying.”
“You take that back,” Finn gasped, following her to the sink with their glasses.
Brooklyn laughed, bumping her shoulder against his arm as they stood side by side. “You’re such a nerd.”
“Says the girl who built a self-sustaining ecosystem for fun.”
“It’s for science class!”
“Uh-huh.” He flicked water at her, and she retaliated by snapping him with the dish towel. “And I’m sure your classmates’ projects are all going to the science fair, right?”
He knew they weren’t. But Isabel and Brooklyn had started their project with more in mind than simply fulfilling the requirements for their science class. Overachievers, both of them.
“I’m going to head up to finish my homework,” Brooklyn said as she cleared the table. Once the dishwasher was running, she disappeared up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t forget to sign my permission slip for the museum trip. It’s on the bulletin board.”
“Already done,” he called back. He’d signed it that morning while she was getting ready for school, along with writing acheck for her yearbook and ordering the specific calculator her math teacher required.
Finn cleaned up the kitchen, wiping down counters that were already clean, straightening magnets on the fridge. The routine was comforting, each small task a reminder that he was doing okay at this parenting thing, even on the days when it felt impossible. He’d built his entire life around making sure Brooklyn had stability, consistency, and at least one parent she could count on without question.
He paused at the calendar on the wall, making a mental note of the upcoming school events, dentist appointments, and extracurriculars, all in his neat handwriting. There wasn’t much empty space between the obligations. He’d gotten good at filling those spaces with routine: laundry on Saturdays, bills on the first of the month, oil changes every three months. The rhythm of it was comforting, even if sometimes it felt like he was just marking time.
Once there was nothing left to do, he retreated to the quiet of his room. The house was still, the kind of hush that made it easy to imagine he was the only one awake for miles.
He flipped open his laptop, not because he expected inspiration to strike, but because the act of writing steadied him in a way nothing else did.
