I smiled, and the world felt a little less heavy.
We sat like that a while, not talking, just letting the river do its thing.
“I’m happy, Knox,” I said, after a while. “With Jo. With myself, for the first time in a very long time. I’m still a fuck-up, but I’m his fuck-up.”
He looked at me, the old, familiar steel in his eyes, and nodded. “Good. Just don’t let anyone else tell you how to do it, least of all me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
We stood, both of us stiff from the cold and the confessions.
At the top of the path, I saw Jo waiting. He must’ve heard everything, but he stayed put, arms folded, just watching us.
Knox nodded at him, then at me. “He’s good for you. Just… don’t make me watch the PDA.”
I smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll save that for Harlow and Dan.”
The air up on the bank was warmer than it had any right to be, considering it was late September and the last thunderstorm had rolled through just hours before.
I stood with the sun hitting the back of my head, letting it dry out the sweat still prickling my hairline. Jo didn’t move from his spot by the trail, but his eyes tracked me the whole way, dark and steady, arms folded like he was the sentry at a checkpoint only I was cleared to cross.
I could have gone straight to him, but something in Knox’s voice kept me hovering on the edge of the path. Maybe I was waiting for the other boot to drop. Maybe I wanted to make sure he wasn’t about to yank back every inch of acceptance I’d just been handed.
He didn’t, though. Instead, he picked up a stick, twirled it between his fingers, and said, “You know, Newt’s not half as vanilla as he looks.”
I blinked, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. Knox just smirked, half a dimple showing, and tossed the stick into the weeds.
“He’s a control freak,” Knox continued, like he was just talking about the weather. “Wants a spreadsheet for every meal, a bullet journal for our sex life, and God help me if I don’t log my carbs in the morning.”
It was my turn to snort. “Is that why you always look so miserable at breakfast?”
He shrugged, deadpan. “It’s not the oatmeal I mind. It’s the part where he makes me sit still for three minutes before I eat it.”
I imagined the look on Knox’s face—Marine-trained, battle-hardened Knox—being made to meditate in front of a bowl of cold oatmeal. I laughed so hard my ribs hurt.
He watched me, eyes crinkled at the edges. “See, the world’s full of idiots who think being a man means you gotta run shit. That you gotta be loud, or mean, or always the one in charge. It took me a long time to figure out that letting someone else lead doesn’t make you weak.” He paused, then added: “Sometimes it’s the braver choice.”
I was quiet, letting that sink in. I felt like I’d been holding my breath for three years, and finally someone had pried my mouth open and let the air in.
I tried to say thank you, but the words got stuck in the back of my throat. So I just looked at him, and he looked at me, and we both knew that the rest didn’t need saying.
Then, softer, almost like an afterthought: “You picked a good one,” he said, nodding at Jo.
I followed his gaze. Jo was still in the shadows, pretending to watch the clouds, but the muscles in his jaw had unclenched. He’d heard every word.
I reached up, ran a finger around the inside of the collar, and felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Not from shame—never again from shame—but from the way it meant something now, the way it didn’t have to hide.
“He sees me,” I said, the words coming out like a secret I’d kept since I was a kid. “Sometimes he knows what I want before I do.”
Knox snorted, this time with real affection. “Good. Maybe he can keep you from torching the barn again.”
“That was one time,” I shot back, but I was grinning now, the ache in my chest replaced with something sharp and bright.
The creek bubbled on, indifferent to our private little moment, but I swear the sun got a shade warmer, and the grass started to smell like the end of summer instead of the edge of rot.
We sat for a while, Knox and me, just staring at the water. He told me about about our twin cousins learning to drive and how they’d already put a dent in Ma’s old Buick.
I told him about the temporary bakery gig I’d started recently, how Rosie was training me to do the sourdough starts so I could make homemade bread, how I sometimes caught myself smiling oddly and then panicking, thinking someone would notice.
