. . .
Lucas
The drive upto Sacramento is quiet in the way that Jess and I have learned to make comfortable. Her shoes are off, and her feet are tucked beneath her as we listen to the playlist, which alternates between ’90s grunge and today’s Top 40. She’s scrolling through emails, occasionally muttering something under her breath about click-through rates, and I keep stealing glances at her when I think she’s not looking.
She catches me once.
“What?” she says, arching an eyebrow but not looking up from her phone.
“Nothing,” I say. “You’re just…being nice.”
Her lips quirk like she’s trying not to smile, but she doesn’t look away. “You say that like it surprises you.”
I don’t answer. But maybe it does.
When we turn onto my parents’ street, the air in the car changes. The weight of what’s waiting tightens across myshoulders like muscle memory. The tidy colonial houses feel too symmetrical, too polished. Jess doesn’t say anything, but I know she feels it, too. She leans forward slightly in her seat as we pull into the driveway, her eyes scanning the neighborhood.
“Nice place,” she says in a casual but observant voice.
“My dad picked it because three former governors lived on this street.”
Jess turns toward me, her brow raised. “Of course he did.”
I kill the engine and rest my hands on the steering wheel, letting the silence stretch for another beat. “Just remember,” I say finally, “I’m not like them. Not like him.”
Jess’s expression softens, and she reaches out to touch my arm. “I know.”
The front door opens before we even make it to the porch, and my mother steps out, composed and radiant in her usual, understated way. She hugs me tightly, long enough that I feel something inside me loosen. Then she turns to Jess and offers the kind of warm, practiced smile that’s managed fundraisers, foundations, and decades of high-stakes dinners.
“And you must be Jessica,” she says, pulling Jess in with ease. “I’m Katherine, but please, call me Kate.”
“And you can call me Jess,” Jess replies, hugging her back. “It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for having us.”
Once we’re inside, Mom leads us upstairs, chattering warmly about how thrilled she is that we came up early.
“I told Lance and Lucy not to bombard you right away,” she says as we reach the landing. “Figured you two might want a moment to settle in before the inquisition begins.”
She opens the door to my old bedroom, now updated toguest-room status. The baseball posters and dorm-style desk are gone, replaced by built-in bookshelves, a queen-sized bed with a navy duvet, and clean, neutral decor. But there’s still a photo of my USC team on the nightstand and a few worn spines of books I never took with me.
Jess steps inside and gives the room a once-over. “This is nice,” she says politely, her voice easy but curious.
“Let me know if you need anything,” my mom says, giving Jess’s hand a gentle squeeze before heading back down the hall. “We’re starting dinner in about half an hour.”
And just like that, we’re alone.
Jess eyes the bed the second the door clicks shut. I follow her gaze. One bed. Queen-sized. No sofa. There is an armchair in the corner, but I’m not sure my spine could survive one night, let alone two.
“Ok,” she says, then turns slowly to face me. “Well.”
“I can sleep on the floor,” I offer immediately, already glancing at the armchair and knowing full well it’s a death sentence.
She doesn’t even blink. “Don’t be ridiculous. The bed’s huge. We’re adults.”
My body disagrees. Loudly. But I nod. “Yeah. Ok.”
Jess crosses the room and drops her bag on the chair with dramatic finality. “Besides,” she adds, opening the zipper, “I snore, hog the covers, and talk in my sleep. I’m basically the nightmare version of a sleepover.”
“Perfect,” I say, dropping my own bag next to hers. “I grind my teeth, sleep shirtless, and have night terrors about bad press statements.”
