I glanced over at Tucker, who was watching me like I’d hung the moon. Our eyes met, and for just a second, the hum of conversation around us faded. His gaze didn’t waver—steady, warm, like an anchor in open water.
He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against mine. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Just a simple touch that saidI’m here. I’ve got you.
“AndI’ve got someone who makes me believe I can actually do this,” I finished, my voice steadier now with his quiet reassurance wrapped around me.
My dad didn’t say anything right away. Nobody did.
He just sat there, hands folded on the tabletop, gaze pinned to the half-empty glass of cider in front of him. For a second, I thought he hadn’t heard me. Or worse, that he was figuring out how to frame another polite dismissal.
Then he looked up.
“You think I don’t understand what you do,” he started, his voice low but even. “You’ve always been . . . different. Not the kind of kid who wanted to talk about fishing lines or football. You had your head in books. You asked questions I didn’t know how to answer.”
He got up slowly and crossed to the old wooden cabinet beside the fireplace. He opened one of the drawers and pulled something out—a thick scrapbook, worn and softened at the corners, the cover faded from sun and time.
He walked it back to the table and set it down in front of me.
“I kept all of them,” he said. “Every article you ever published. From the local school paper to theTribunestuff. Hell, even that op-ed you wrote in college about banning plastic water bottles. I didn’t always get it, but I read every damn word.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the cover, my heart thudding like it might beat out of my chest.
Dad looked me in the eye. “I’m proud of you, Brock. Always have been. Even if I didn’t say it. And if writing this book is what makes you happy, then that’s what I want for you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
The room had gone completely still. My sisters were quiet. My mom dabbed at her eyes. Even Tucker, who had seen me at both my best and worst, looked like he was holding his breath for me.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
So instead, I just reached for the scrapbook, slid it closer, and laid my hand on top of it like it was some holy treasure from anIndiana Jonesadventure.
“Thank you, Dad.”
Later, after the leftovers had been packed into mismatched Tupperware and my sisters had disappeared to their bedroom—the one they’d moved into when I’d been thirteen, leaving me in peace—Tucker and I slipped quietly upstairs.
My room was exactly as I had left it—gray-blue walls that made my teenage self feel more mature, bookshelves sagging slightly with dog-eared paperbacks, a bulletin board littered with faded Polaroids and scribbled notes. The bed was smaller than either of us were used to, much too small for whatever nefarious activities Tucker had been planning.
The thinning of his lips told me he had the same thought, and my smile stretched a little wider.
“You know,” he said, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, “I half-expected posters of boy bands or anime girls with swords.”
“Oh, those are in the closet,” I deadpanned, tossing a pillow at him.
He caught it easily then crossed the room and sat beside me on the edge of the mattress. We both stared out the small window, the faint glow of the porch light casting shadows across the familiar furniture.
“You okay?” he asked eventually, his voice soft.
I nodded. “I think so. I didn’t expect . . . any of that.”
He leaned into me, shoulder to shoulder. “Your dad might be stubborn, but he’s proud of you.”
“I know,” I said, my throat tight. “I just— I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear him say it.”
Tucker reached across my lap and traced the edge of my hand with his thumb, slow and steady. “Well, I needed to hear that your sisters think I’m charming. So, I guess we’re both getting what we need tonight.”
I laughed, the sound muffled by the emotion still thick in my chest. “You’re a menace.”
“But I’m your menace.”
“Yes,” I agreed softly, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. “You are.”
