“Seth—”
“It’s fine, Mom. Really.”
I finished the dishes in silence, then excused myself to my room. Lay on the bed and stared at my phone, reading Tanner’s messages from earlier.
She said love is always a risk. That the question is whether it’s worth taking.
I typed out three different responses, deleted them all. What was I supposed to say? That his mother was brave and mine was practical? That his family made space for him to be himself and mine would be happier if I crammed myself into the box they’d picked out for me?
In the end, I didn’t say anything.
Just turned off the light and tried to sleep, counting the hours until I could leave.
17
TANNER
The drive from Mom’s place to Huntsville took forty minutes, which was just enough time to convince myself this was all a terrible mistake.
I’d woken before my alarm, staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom while my heart beat too fast against my ribs. By six, I’d already showered, dressed, and changed shirts twice. By seven, I was pacing the kitchen while Mom watched me from behind her coffee cup with the kind of patient concern only mothers can manage.
“You’re going to wear a hole in my linoleum,” she’d said.
“I should go. I should leave early. What if there’s traffic?”
“Tanner. You’re going to be fine. Most people are off today, so as long as you avoid the mall area, you won’t hit traffic.”
She was right, of course. But she’d still handed me a thermos of coffee and kissed my cheek and told me she was proud of me, which was exactly the kind of thing that made my throat tight when I was already nervous.
The meeting wasn’t until noon, but I’d built in extra time because I was paranoid about showing up sweaty and frazzled to the most important professional conversation of my life. The highway stretched out gray and empty under a November sky that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to rain, and I spent most of the drive rehearsing what I’d say and then immediately forgetting all of it.
David Holloway. VP of Research and Development at Riddell. The company that made helmets for most of the NFL, half the college programs in the country, and roughly every Pop Warner league in existence. The man who could open doors I’d only ever pressed my face against from the outside.
No pressure.
Lincoln had set the whole thing up, of course. He’d called me the week before Thanksgiving to confirm details—lunch at the Brandywine Room in the Hotel du Pont, his treat, and I should bring whatever materials I thought would help explain my research. “Don’t overthink it,” he’d said, which was like telling water not to be wet.
I’d spent three days putting together a presentation I’d then scrapped entirely, replacing it with a simpler overview that actually made sense. Dr. Okonkwo had helped me refine my talking points, had reminded me that I knew this material better than almost anyone, and that confidence wasn’t arrogance when it was backed by data.
Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one about to sit across from a titan of sports equipment manufacturing and try to explain why a twenty-two-year-old college senior’s capstone project was worth his attention.
The Hotel du Pont was the kind of place that made me acutely aware I’d bought my nicest dress shirt at Target. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, staff in actual uniforms— I half expected someone to ask me if I was lost. But I found the restaurant without incident and spotted Lincoln immediately, his height making him impossible to miss even in a room full of people who looked like they belonged on the covers of business magazines.
Nixon sat beside him, and something about the sight of them together—Lincoln in a charcoal blazer that probably cost more than my car payment, Nixon more casual in a cream sweater that somehow looked equally expensive—made my shoulders drop half an inch. They were here. I wasn’t doing this alone.
Lincoln stood when he saw me, pulling me into a hug that was brief but genuine. “You made it. How was the drive?”
“Fine. Good.” I managed a smile that felt almost natural. “Mom says hi.”
“How’s she doing?” Nixon asked, rising to shake my hand. His grip was warm, his expression kind in that way that always made me feel like he saw more than I showed. “Still in the same house?”
“Yeah, she says she’ll never leave. Too many memories.” I glanced around the restaurant, all white tablecloths and muted conversation. “Is he?—”
“Running about ten minutes late. Flight got delayed.” Lincoln gestured to a chair. “Sit. Breathe. You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, sitting anyway. A waiter appeared with water I hadn’t ordered, and I drank half of it in one go.
Nixon’s mouth twitched. “Totally fine. Very relaxed.”
