Dad studies me. “You know, your mother would have liked him.”
“Austin said the same thing.”
“Smart kid, your brother.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “She always wanted you children to find partners who challenged you, who made you better versions of yourselves.”
I think about Lucas, how he pushes back when I push, how he sees through my defenses, how he listened when he asked about mom.
“I should go,” I say, surprising myself with the urgency I feel. “Lucas is waiting.”
Dad’s smile is knowing. “Of course.”
Austin and I say goodbye, and as we head toward his Jeep, excitement settles in my chest. There’s a pull, a longing to be back in Lucas’s apartment, with its Disneyland posters and perfectly arranged kitchen.
JESS
On my way. Need anything?
LUCAS
Just you.
The smile creeps across my face before I get sidetracked by trying to dissect what he means.
“What’s got you grinning so big?” Austin asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, but I’m still smiling as I slide into my seat. “Just Lucas being Lucas.”
As we drive away, my father’s words echo in my mind:The person who makes the hard things easier and the good things better.
But this is a six-month arrangement with a clear end date. So, why does the thought of that ending make my chest ache?
sixteen
. . .
Lucas
By the timeI walk through the front door, the silence in our apartment feels like a gift I didn’t know I needed. No cameras tracking my movements. No Dylan directing our “authentic” interactions. No carefully orchestrated playing house for the documentary. Just blessed, beautiful silence.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. It’s one Jess bought last week because she was “tired of watching me lose my keys like some kind of stereotypical sitcom husband.” The memory of her rolling those blue eyes makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
The apartment is dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows, painting geometric shadows across the hardwood floors. For the first time in what feels like forever, we’re not scheduled to perform for anyone tonight.
I loosen the top buttons on my shirt and roll up my sleeves, heading straight for the kitchen. After a day of managing other people’s narratives, I need something real, something tangible.
Cooking has always been my reset button. It’s the one thing that makes my brain go quiet when everything else is chaos. There’s something almost meditative about it. The order, the rhythm. Chop. Sauté. Stir. Season. It’s the complete opposite of spin. No strategy required. Just food, focus, and the immediate satisfaction of creating something with my hands.
I pull ingredients from the fridge, including chicken breasts, lemons, a block of parmesan that cost more than it should have, and a handful of herbs from the planter Jess insisted would die within a week but has somehow survived our mutual neglect. By the time I’ve got water boiling for pasta and a skillet warming for the chicken, the knot of tension between my shoulders begins to ease.
I hear the front door open and close, and the faint scent of her fills the air. Jess’s heels click softly against the hardwood, moving toward the kitchen with a rhythm I’ve grown embarrassingly familiar with. I don’t turn around, but I can feel her presence like a shift in atmospheric pressure.
“Is this for more B-roll?” Her voice carries that edge of dry humor that used to irritate me but now just makes me want to smile. “Did Dylan hide cameras in the potted plants?”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s leaning against the doorframe in dark jeans and a crisp blouse, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that swings when she tilts her head. That ponytail does things to me. It makes me think about wrapping it around my fist, using it to gently tug her head back so I can…
I clear my throat and focus on the chicken.
“No cameras,” I say. “No audience. No Dylan. Just dinner.”
