Callan chuckles softly as he hugs her back. “Aye, I’ve had better days. I’m on the mend, though, thanks to your daughter here.”
Dad steps forward then, giving Callan a firm handshake. “Good to see you up and about, son. You gave us all quite a scare.”
“Believe me, I had myself worried, too,” he admits with a wry smile. “But I’m tougher than I look.”
Nugget, ever the little investigator, sniffs at Callan’s cast. His tail gives a cautious wag, like he’s not entirely sure what to make of it.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I say gently, kneeling beside him. “It’s still Callan.”
As if my words flip a switch, Nugget’s tail transforms into a blur of motion, and he jumps up, placing his tiny paws on Callan’s good leg. Callan flinches, a quick, instinctive movement that I don’t miss. He’s not entirely comfortable with Nugget’s sudden approach. But then he bends carefully, ignoring the obvious protest from his ribs, and scratches him behind the ears. “There’s my wee partner in crime. Did you miss me, lad?”
Nugget answers with an enthusiastic round of licks, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement.
“Guess he did miss you,” I chuckle.
“Hard to stay away from a face like this.” Callan grins, looking up at me with that familiar twinkle in his eye.
Mom watches the scene unfold, her smile soft and a little wistful. “It’s good to see you both doing well.”
I meet her gaze, matching her smile. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll take your bags up to the guest room. You guys sit and relax.”
“I’ll take them up with you,” Dad says, already reaching for one of the suitcases.
“I can manage, Dad.”
He raises an eyebrow, giving methe look. The one that says arguing is pointless. “Humor your old man, will you?”
I relent, rolling my eyes but smiling as I grab one bag while he hoists the other. The stairs creak softly beneath us as we climb. Behind us, Mom fusses over Callan.
At the top of the stairs, Dad stops, his voice dropping low. “So, how are you really doing, Bree?”
The question catches me offguard, and I pause with my hand on the guest room doorknob. “I’m…okay,” I say slowly. “It’s been tough, but we’re getting there. Callan’s getting there.”
He nods, but his sharp eyes search my face. “And the panic attacks?” he asks. “Your mom mentioned you were still having them.”
I sigh, nudging the door open with my shoulder and setting the suitcase down by the bed. “Not as often, but…yeah. I’m working on it.”
He stands in the doorway, silent for a moment before quietly asking, “Does Callan know?”
“Uh…no,” I admit. “I didn’t want to put anything else on his plate. He’s got enough to worry about.”
I glance up, expecting a nod or some sort of easy agreement, but instead, he sees right through my bullshit. He always has.
His face carries a quiet kind of exhaustion that comes from years of holding his own family together. It’s not disappointment, never that. But it’s a reminder that he knows I’ve been carrying more than I’m letting on.
And he’s right.
I’ve gotten good at hiding it.
The tight chest, the numb fingers, the dizzying swirl of thoughts that make my lungs forget how to work. I know exactly how to fake uniform breaths and crack a joke before the spiral starts. I know how to bite down on the edge of a panic attack until it feels like I’ve swallowed glass, all so no one notices. And when I can’t fake it well enough, I retreat to the kitchen or pretend there’s laundry that needs to be done so I can be alone for a bit.
I swallow hard, looking away as my throat tightens. “I’m fine, Dad.”
He steps farther into the room, setting his suitcase down beside mine. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Say you’re fine when you’re not.”
