“Ethan...”
“He gave up everything for me,” I say roughly. “NFL dreams, college experience, all of it. Just so I could have a family. How could I tell him I was throwing away the thing he sacrificed his own dream for?”
Piper squeezes my hand tight. “Because it's your life. Not his.”
“Easy to say.”
“No, it's not.” Her voice is fierce now, but there's something else there—a slight tremor, like she's holding something back. “But your dad made his choice. He chose you and yourmom. That was his decision, his life. You don't owe him yours in return.”
“He's still disappointed. Comes to game day and asks about intermurals, mentions quarterback camps for 'when I'm ready.'” I laugh bitterly. “It's been four years. I'm never going to be ready.”
“Have you told him about game design, about what you really want?”
“I've tried. He nods and calls it a nice hobby. Asks when I'm going to get serious about my future.”
“Your future is serious. You're brilliant at what you do.”
“You've never even played my game,” I point out, half-teasing.
She goes completely still. Her hand twitches in mine, and her face does this thing—like she's swallowed something wrong. For a second, she looks almost guilty.
“I'd like to,” she says quickly, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal. “But even just how you are with storytelling, you're good, really good. So your dad's wrong. You found your thing. It just wasn't his thing.”
She's not meeting my eyes now, focusing intently on our joined hands. Her thumb is moving in anxious little circles against my palm—the same nervous tic she had when she talked about Miles earlier.
This is too much for her. I'm dumping all my family trauma on a lunch date, and she's clearly uncomfortable. She probably thinks I'm some mess who needs constant validation about my career choices.
I turn our linked hands over, studying them, trying to lighten the mood. “Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd been honest from the start. Told him at ten that I hated football, loved video games instead.”
“He might have surprised you.” Her voice sounds strangled, and she's gripping my hand almost too tight now.
“Or he might have looked at me the way he does now, just sooner.” I force a smile, pulling back from the heavy stuff. She's practically radiating discomfort, probably regretting asking about my dad at all. “Sorry. This got heavy. We're supposed to be having a fun lunch date.”
“No, it's—” She starts, then stops, biting her lip hard enough that I worry she'll draw blood. “I mean, I asked. I wanted to know.”
But her shoulders are tense, and she keeps glancing at me sideways like she wants to say something else. Definitely overwhelmed by the parental trauma dump. I should have kept it lighter, saved the deep stuff for later when we know each other better.
She waits until I look at her. “This is a fun lunch date. Learning real things about you? That’s what I want.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Though if you wanted to dance badly on the sidewalk again, I don’t know if I could join in.”
“Your mockery of my moves offends me.”
She throws a chip at me. I catch it in my mouth because I’m smooth like that.
“Show off,” she mutters.
“You like it.”
“I like you,” she says simply, and my heart does something stupid in my chest.
“Good,” I manage. “That works out well with my whole liking you situation.”
We finish lunch, hands linked over the table, and I realize something. For the first time in four years, I told someone the truth about my shoulder. And instead of judgment or disappointment, I got understanding.
Maybe Piper’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop living for someone else’s dream. To stop being embarrassed and ashamed about my own.
