I'm setting out the good china—the delicate plates that only come out for holidays—when headlights sweep across the window.
My stomach drops. “He’s here.”
Mom smooths her dress for the hundredth time. “Do I look okay? Is this too much? Should I have worn the blue one?”
“You look beautiful, Mom.”
Dad grunts from the recliner, still pretending to read the same newspaper he’s had open for twenty silent minutes.
The doorbell rings.
I take a step, but Dad’s already rising. “I’ll get it.”
Oh God.
Through the frosted glass, Jordan’s silhouette stands tall and composed—broad shoulders, square jaw. He’s holding something.
Dad opens the door.
Jordan stands there in tan slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a navy blazer. No tie—not too formal. Smart. No jeans—not too casual. Even smarter. He’s nailed it.
In one hand, he holds a gift-wrapped package. In the other, a bouquet of chrysanthemums—Mom’s favorite.
I don’t even remember telling him about the flowers. Must’ve been some late-night half-sleep conversation. But he remembered.
He extends a hand. “Mr. Wells. Thank you for having me.”
Dad stares at it for just long enough to make me stop breathing—then grips it, firm and brief.
“Jordan.” My dad's tone isn't warm. Yet, not quite frosty. Just... neutral.
I’ll take neutral.
Jordan's eyes find mine over Dad's shoulder, and I see the question there.How am I doing so far?
I give him the smallest smile.
"Mrs. Wells," Jordan says as Mom appears, from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "These are for you." He offers the chrysanthemums. "Sabrina mentioned they were your favorite."
Mom’s lips part in surprise, and her eyes go soft. “Well… aren’t you just charming.” She takes the bouquet like it’s something sacred. “Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He steps inside, and I watch as he takes in our modest little living room—the sagging couch, the faded rug with holes in it,the crooked frame of my parents' wedding photo that’s been off-center since I was twelve. If he's unimpressed by any of it, it doesn’t show.
Dad remains by the door, arms folded like a bouncer.
Jordan turns to him again. “Sir, I heard you were a Larry McMurtry fan.” He offers the wrapped gift. “I came across a copy ofLonesome Dovein an old bookshop in Vegas.”
Dad's eyebrows shoot up. He takes the package slowly, then unwraps it.
When he sees the book—leather-bound, pristine—he goes very still. "This is a first edition," he mutters, running his thumb over the cover.
"1985," Jordan confirms.
Dad looks up at him, and something shifts in his expression. Not quite approval. But... recalibration. He clears his throat. "Thank you."
He walks to the mantel and sets it down with more care than I’ve ever seen him show anything that wasn’t me or Mom. Then he grunts, turns toward the dining room. “Let’s eat.”
We sit—Dad at the head of the table, Mom to his right, Jordan to his left and directly opposite Mom, me beside Jordan. The seating arrangement feels strategic, like a cross-examination.
