That was the real question. The one that always came first.
“Dad,” I said quickly. “We’re here for brunch, not to discuss finances.”
My mother waved a hand. “Inside. Everything’s getting cold,” she admonished, like we were late instead of five minutes early.
We followed them into the dining room, and the table alone had probably cost more than Ledger’s car. White linen. Real china. Fresh flowers arranged just so in the center.
Ledger pulled out my chair without hesitation beforetaking his own seat beside me. The small gesture made my heart flutter unexpectedly.
It wasn’t showy. He hadn’t looked around to see if anyone noticed. He’d just done it.
My mother noticed. Of course she did.
“Well.” She folded her napkin into her lap. “This is all very sudden.”
“That’s one word for it,” I said under my breath.
She ignored me. “We were shocked, Roxie. Married without a word. Without planning.”
Ledger’s hand came to rest lightly against my knee under the table. Not gripping. Not possessive. Just there. A quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone.
“I know it wasn’t how you pictured it,” he said calmly. “But Roxie and I were very intentional.”
Intentional. The word went up like a shield.
My father snorted. “Intentional is one thing. Practical is another.”
Brunch continued like that. Tight smiles, careful words, and questions lobbed like tests. Where Ledger was from. What his plans were. How long his swimming career could possibly last.
Ledger answered everything politely. Honestly. Without trying to impress them.
Which, somehow, only seemed to make things worse.
And every single time my parents aimed a question at me, Ledger adjusted—closer, firmer, supportive—like he was bracing with me instead of waiting it out.
Every time my mother made a pointed comment—about stability, about choices, about “opportunities Roxie used to have”—Ledger shifted closer. His arm brushed mine. His thumb traced a slow, rhythmic line along my wrist like he knew exactly when I needed it.
And the worst part?
He was very good at this.
At being attentive. At checking in with a glance. At leaning in to murmur, “You okay?” like it was instinct.
Like it wasn’t pretending at all.
It messed with my head.
Because this was supposed to be a performance. A temporary arrangement with clearly drawn lines and an expiration date. He wasn’t supposed to notice the exact moment my shoulders tensed or the way my breath hitched every time my father sighed like I was a problem he’d already solved.
He definitely wasn’t supposed to counteract years of quiet disappointment with a single touch.
I’d spent so long bracing myself in this room, learning how to sit just right, speak carefully, keep my reactions small, that I hadn’t realized how exhausting it was until someone else took over the job of holding the line.
Ledger wasn’t trying to smooth things over or placate them. He wasn’t trying to fix me. He was just there. Solid. Present. On my side in a way no one else at this table ever had been before.
And it unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
Because if this was how it felt to have someone in my corner, someone who didn’t flinch when things gotuncomfortable, who didn’t ask me to shrink or explain or apologize, then how was I supposed to go back to pretending I didn’t want it?
