Silas stirs when I slip out of bed, his hand catching mine before I can get far. "Where're you going?"
"Dad's move got complicated. I need to head over early."
He sits up immediately, shoulders rolling as he shakes off sleep. "I'll come."
"You don't have to..."
"Scout." His voice is gentle but firm. "I'm coming."
I lean down and kiss him, morning breath and all. "Thank you."
By the time we arrive at my childhood home, cars already line the street. Juliet's SUV sits in the driveway next to Sable's hybrid. Mollie's distinctive yellow bug is parked crooked against the curb, and Hunter's truck pulls up behind us as we're getting out.
"Did you call everyone?" I ask Silas.
"I mentioned it to Hunter. Juliet probably handled the rest."
The front door stands open. Voices and laughter drift out from inside. We walk into organized chaos that somehow feels exactly right. Sable has commandeered the kitchen, wrapping dishes in newspaper while giving orders like a general. Juliet and Mollie work on boxing books in the living room, and Jett and Hunter are already hauling furniture toward the door.
"About time you showed up," Jessa calls from the hallway. "We've been here for twenty minutes."
My throat tightens with emotion I wasn't expecting. "You all came."
Ivy appears with a roll of packing tape, raising an eyebrow at my surprise. "You think we'd let you do this alone?"
Dad emerges from his bedroom looking bewildered but pleased. He's wearing his lucky moving day t-shirt, the oneMom bought him twenty years ago that's more holes than fabric now.
"Scout, you didn't tell me you were bringing an army. I would have paid to have movers come. These professional athletes probably have way better stuff to do than be here."
"I said that to Silas and he acted like I was being crazy!" I hug him carefully, mindful of his bad back. "Everyone, this is my dad, Tom. Dad, this is... everyone."
The introductions happen in a blur. Dad shakes hands and makes his dry jokes while my two worlds merge without friction. Beck shows up with coffee and donuts, followed by Thorne with more boxes and terrible music that Mollie immediately vetoes.
"No oldies while we pack," she declares. "It's scientifically proven to make people slower."
"The fact that you think The Postal Service qualifies as an oldie means you’re disqualified from having an opinion," Thorne argues.
Mollie sticks her tongue out at Thorne, who cranks the music up another notch.
They bicker good naturedly while working. The sound fills the house with warmth it hasn't had in years. This place has been quiet for so long, just Dad and his memories rattling around too many empty rooms.
Silas and I work in the garage, sorting through tools and holiday decorations that haven't been touched in years. Every box holds some piece of family history. Mom's old camping gear sits in one corner. My first hockey skates, tiny and rusted, are wrapped in a beach towel. Report cards and art projects fill a box labeledTreasuresin Mom's handwriting.
"You okay?" Silas asks, finding me frozen over a photo album.
"Yeah. It's just... a lot."
He doesn't try to fix my mood or rush me through it. His hand settles on my lower back, steady and present, while I flip through pages of birthday parties and Christmas mornings and family vacations to places I barely remember.
"Your mom?" he asks, looking at a photo of her laughing at something off camera. “She was beautiful.”
"Yeah. She would've liked you, I think."
"You think?"
I lean into his side. "She had a thing for grumpy men who were secretly soft. Why do you think she married Dad?"
From inside the house, someone drops something that shatters. Multiple voices shout at once, followed by laughter.
