Red brick, white trim, flag out front that’s been faded by at least three Michigan winters. The bushes are too neatly trimmed, the lawn unnaturally green. Dad’s pride and joy. I swallow thickly as Silas pulls into the driveway behind Mom’s car.
“I thought you said you usually go out for these things,” he murmurs.
I stare at the front door. “We do. They usually pick some boring steakhouse where they can pretend to be perfect in public. But this time, Mom texted and said she was making pot roast. ‘Just like old times,’ her words.”
“Any idea why?”
I shake my head. “Maybe she wants to make it harder for me to leave if things go sideways.”
Silas doesn’t laugh, but I feel the tension in his knuckles as they flex around the wheel.
“You can stay in the car if it gets weird,” I offer, only half joking.
“No chance,” he says, voice soft. “Not letting you walk into this alone.”
The words land somewhere deep, warm, and fragile inside me. I nod and unbuckle.
When we step inside, the smell hits first—roast, carrots, thyme, and a sharp edge of lemon cleaner. Childhood memories swirl up uninvited. The rug is the same. The photos on the wall are the same—every one from before I came out. Before things got complicated. There’s no version of me here that isn’t still their perfect child with a football in hand and a bright smile.
“Luke,” Mom calls from the kitchen, a note of surprise in her voice when she sees Silas behind me. “You brought…company.”
I lift my chin. “You remember Silas Gray.”
Her eyes flick to him—tight, cautious. “Hard to forget.”
He nods politely. “Ma’am.”
It’s formal. Careful. His hands stay tucked in his coat pockets, like he’s afraid touching anything might break it.
Dinner is awkward from the start. Dad doesn’t even come out of the den until Mom calls for himtwice. When he finally joins us at the table, his gaze lands on Silas, then flicks away like he can’t quite stomach the sight.
No one mentions the scandal. No one says the words “coach” or “fired” or “inappropriate relationship.” But theyhang in the air like smoke. Thick. Cloying. Silas, to his credit, doesn’t flinch under it.
Mom keeps the conversation surface-level. Weather. Church. A new Aldi opening nearby. She doesn’t ask about football. Or school. But she does listen when Silas talks.
He tells her he’s originally from San Antonio, that he’s been working on his sports psych certification and doing part-time consulting work with a few teams. He doesn’t say which teams. Doesn’t mention Ravenridge. But he speaks calmly, professionally—measured without being robotic.
Eventually, she asks, “What made you choose that field?”
He meets her gaze. “Because I made mistakes I don’t want anyone else to repeat. And because I still care about the players. Even when I’m not on the field.”
Mom blinks, her posture straightening slightly.
And I swear—Iswear—something in her face softens.
“You always did love structure,” she murmurs. “Even as a coach. Luke talked about that when you first started coaching him.”
It’s the closest thing to an olive branch I’ve heard from her in years.
“I still do,” Silas says, smiling slightly. “But I’m learning when to let go, too.”
Dinner carries on. Still stiff, still loaded with unsaid things, but lighter. Mom refills Silas’s water glass without being asked. She actuallylaughs—softly—when he mentions I still don’t eat carrots even if he cooks them.
Dad doesn’t speak more than a few sentences. When dessert comes out, he quietly excuses himself and disappears down the hall.
But as we’re getting ready to leave, Mom walks us to the door.
She hesitates, then touches my elbow. “You seem…happy,” she says.
