Not yet.
Emmy frowned at the screen. Harper needed to focus on Cole—someone who'd filled out the questionnaire, who was actively looking, who was ready. Not the doorman who happened to have a nice smile.
You should
Cole's excited to meet you.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared.
Harper
Yeah. You're right.
On television, Grant threw deep. The ball sailed in a perfect arc, dropped into the receiver's hands at the thirty-yard line. The camera cut to Grant jogging back to the huddle, helmet obscuring his face.
"They're calling him 'surgical' today." Her dad shook his head. "Surgical. As if surgery isn't inherently violent."
"It's a compliment, Dad."
"It's a troubling metaphor."
The fourth quarter wound down. Emmy found herself tracking Grant's movements more than West's—the way he commanded the huddle, the small adjustments he made at the line. She'd watched him play for fifteen years, since peewee games and high school championships and that first NFL start when she'd cried in the stands and pretended it was allergies.
Today, though. The breadth of his shoulders. The economy of his motion. The way he read the whole field before anyone else saw what was coming.
Something had shifted in the frequency, and she couldn't find the dial. She was used to being the one who read the room first. Scanned the field, identified the coverage, called the play. But lately Grant kept seeing things before she did—the real Harper, the real Tyce, the real Emmy underneath the performance—and she wasn’t sure what to do with someone whose reads were faster than hers.
The final whistle. 24-17. West caught the last pass of the game, a short crossing route that sealed the victory.
"Thank god." Her dad set his phone down, then immediately picked it up again.
Emmy stood, stretched. "I'm going to see if Serle needs help."
The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasting chicken. Serle stood at the counter, slicing bread with the quiet competence she brought to everything.
"They won," Emmy reported.
"I saw." Serle nodded toward the small countertop television, still tuned to the post-game coverage. Her nails, Emmy noticed, were painted in careful red and blue stripes. "Your father's been in twice already. Once about the curcumin content in the turmeric lattes, once about whether the chicken was organic."
"Was it?"
"The chicken is always organic, Emmy dear." She set down the knife, wiping her hands. "I told him I could get a differentchicken next week if he'd like to research farms. He said that wasn't the point."
"It never is."
"No." Serle's mouth twitched. "Twenty years with this family—I know what I signed up for. Set the table? Everyone should be here by seven."
Emmy gathered plates from the cabinet, the good china her father insisted on even though it meant hand-washing everything afterward. Six place settings. Mom, Dad, West, Brynn, Grant. Her.
The same configuration as every month since West and Brynn got married. The same table she'd been sitting at since her feet couldn't reach the floor. She could predict every dynamic before anyone arrived—Dad's medical anxieties, Mom's Tudor tangents, West's competitive energy bleeding over from the game. She'd figured them all out years ago, every last one of them, and she loved them for it and it wasn't quite enough.
But when she set the plate across from her usual seat—Grant's spot—her hand trembled slightly.
The doorbell rang at 6:58.
"He's late.” Dad was already moving toward the door. "I hope he didn't speed. The roads are damp this time of year, and people underestimate how that affects braking distance."
"Dad, please don't interrogate him."
