Dad’s expression softens. “Because it wasn’t mine to explain. Those were your mother’s wishes. I didn’t want to influence your choices, Jess. She set it up with the lawyers before she died, and she was very clear that she wanted you to make your own path, but she also wanted to give you something meaningful. When the time was right.”
I nod, swallowing past the unexpected lump in my throat. “So, you knew about the marriage clause?”
“I did,” he says quietly. “But I also knew how fiercely independent you are. If I told you, I worried you’d see it as manipulation, and that’s the last thing your mother would’ve wanted.”
“What about you guys?” I glance between Austin and Garrett. “Did Mom leave you anything?”
Garrett leans back in his chair. “Same rules. Found out when Kristy and I married. Came with a stake in the team. Just minority shares, but still. I think she knew I’d be the one to follow in Dad’s footsteps.”
I turn to Austin. “And you?”
He lifts a brow. “I’m not married, so technically, I wouldn’t know, right?”
Garrett and I exchange a glance, suddenly aware that we’ve said too much. We look at Dad to rescue us.
Austin speaks up. “Ok, wow. You all suck at poker faces.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he waves a hand. “It’s fine. I’m not mad. I always knew she had something linedup for all of us. I stumbled across some paperwork once. Nothing I could make sense of, but it had our names on it.”
He pauses, and his voice becomes softer. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see what she has planned for me.”
She knew us. All of us. Somehow, she’d carved out these wildly specific paths for each of her kids, trusting that we’d grow into exactly who she believed we could be.
Garrett clears his throat and shifts the mood, asking Austin how rehab’s going. Just like that, we all slip back into the familiar rhythms of teasing, storytelling, and avoiding eye contact when it gets too real.
Austin shares physical therapy war stories. I deflect questions about Lucas with carefully curated anecdotes from our dinner party. Garrett updates us on the team’s performance and his daughter’s first steps.
As we’re clearing dishes, Dad pulls me aside while Austin and Garrett debate pitcher stats in the other room.
“Walk with me?” he asks, and I follow him out to the terrace, overlooking the ocean.
We stand in silence for a moment, watching waves crash against the shore. It’s a view that never gets old.
“You know,” Dad says finally, “I wasn’t sure about this Lucas fellow at first. Seemed sudden, out of character for my methodical daughter.”
I tense, preparing for interrogation.
“But I see how you light up when you talk about him,” he continues. “Even when you’re complaining about his work habits. It reminds me of how your mother used to talk about me.”
The comparison steals my breath. “Dad?—”
“I know, I know. You hate the sentimentality.” He smiles, crinkling the lines around his eyes. “But let me impart some fatherly wisdom, if I may.”
I nod, my throat suddenly tight.
“Love isn’t what you expect it to be, Jess. It’s not the fairy tales or the romance novels. It’s finding the person who makes the hard things easier and the good things better. The person who sees all your jagged edges and sharp corners and isn’t intimidated by them.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
LUCAS
Dylan wants more B-roll of us being “domestically authentic.” Whatever that means. How soon can you get home?
Home. When did Lucas’s apartment become home?
“That him?” Dad asks, noticing my expression.
“Yeah.” I tuck the phone away. “Documentary stuff.”
