Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

hi friends! just popping in to say i’m so excited to finally share the first one-shot in Wishbone: The Long End! this series is gonna be a collection of cozy extras, holiday specials, milestones, random chaos, basically all the little moments that didn’t fit into the main story but deserved their own spotlight.

this idea did not come to me alone so thank you to rose for helping me out! much appreciated! everyone say thank you rose!

i truly hope you enjoy a very wilbran christmas. it’s everything i love about this found family. thank you so much for reading, for caring about these characters with me, and for giving me the courage to keep writing. 🫶

and as always, i want to hear from you! if there’s a scene, moment, or “bonus episode” you’d love to see, please DM me on tiktok (@wishhbonee) or drop your requests in the comments. this collection is as much for you as it is for me. You can also reach my at my email, [email protected]

with so much love,
— LD 💫

Chapter Text

A VERY WILBRAN CHRISTMAS

 

December 25th, 1995

 

The house was still asleep when Rose Copeland-Webber decided the world had waited long enough for Christmas morning.

She tiptoed down the hallway, curls bouncing, footie pajamas scuffing against the tile, until she reached the kitchen where Ella Sinclair was already perched on the counter like some overgrown elf. A half-empty mug of coffee steamed in her hands, her grin wild the second she spotted Rose.

“Well, well, well,” Ella said in a conspiratorial whisper. “If it isn’t my partner in crime. Up before the roosters, huh?”

Rose nodded seriously, clutching the hem of her pajama top. “Santa came. I heard him.”

“Did you now?” Ella’s eyes glinted as she leaned down. “What’d he sound like?”

Rose scrunched her nose. “Like… stompy. And he ate all the cookies.”

“Classic Santa,” Ella said, deadpan, before lowering her voice even further. “So what’s the plan, kiddo? We let these losers sleep ‘til noon, or… do we raise a little holiday hell?”

Rose’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Hell.”

“That’s my girl.” Ella clinked her coffee mug against Rose’s sippy cup, which was abandoned on the counter from the night before. “So. Strategy. Do we bang on doors, or do we go nuclear and start singing Christmas carols at full volume?”

Rose thought hard, tapping her chin like she was deciding state secrets. “Carols. But loud.”

“Atta girl.” Ella hopped down from the counter, her robe flying open to reveal pajamas covered in dancing reindeer. “Which victim first? I vote Brando. Always Brando.”

Rose giggled, clutching Ella’s hand as they crept down the hall. The guest room doors were all shut tight, the only sound the hum of the old ceiling fan. Somewhere behind one of those doors, Cece and Mallory were definitely tangled up, and behind another, Carla and Michelle were probably pretending not to hear them.

“Kate first,” Rose whispered suddenly, tugging Ella toward her aunt’s room.

Ella arched a brow. “Ah, yes. Your favorite target. Lead the way.”

Rose shoved open Kate’s door without ceremony. She was bundled under a heap of blankets, hair sticking up, one arm thrown over her face like she’d been in a war. She groaned the second light hit the room.

“It’s seven a.m.,” Kate whined. “You’re both evil.”

“Merry Christmas, Katherine!” Ella sang, dragging Rose onto the bed. They both flopped onto Kate at once, Rose squealing with delight as Ella started belting a horrifyingly off-key version of Jingle Bell Rock.

Kate thrashed under the weight, smacking at Ella’s arm. “You’re worse than Rose!”

“That’s Aunt Ella to you,” Ella corrected primly, pinning her niece with a wicked grin. “Now rise and shine, princess. Santa’s waiting.”

“I hate you,” Kate muttered into her pillow, but she was laughing, too, her nieces giggles ricocheting around the room like firecrackers.

Ella rolled onto her back dramatically, hair spilling across Kate’s blankets. “I’m the best aunt you’ll ever have, and you know it.”

Kate finally sat up, glaring at both of them with sleep-crusted eyes. “If you wake up the entire house, Mom is gonna kill you.”

“Correction,” Ella said, pointing a finger at Rose, who was bouncing on the mattress like it was a trampoline. “She woke you up. I’m just supervising.”

“You’re the worst supervisor ever,” Kate shot back.

“Thank you,” Ella said sweetly, before snatching a pillow and lobbing it across the room like a grenade.

It smacked into the doorframe just as Carla’s voice echoed down the hall, sharp as ever: “What in God’s name is going on in there?”

Rose squealed and dove under the blankets like a fugitive, Ella threw her arms wide in mock surrender, and Kate just collapsed back onto her pillow with a groan.

“Merry Christmas, ladies!” Ella hollered back, unapologetic as always.

Rose tiptoed closer, clutching her rabbit tight, then scrambled up onto the bed without ceremony. She landed square on Brando’s stomach.

He let out a strangled groan. “What the-” His eyes blinked open, bleary and unfocused until they landed on her. “Rosie girl… you’re trying to kill me.”

She giggled, bouncing a little harder. “It’s Christmas!”

Wilson stirred at her voice, soft as ever, blinking awake with his arm still hooked over Brando. His voice came rough from sleep. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

Rose collapsed against him, burying her face in his chest like she hadn’t just seen him the night before. Wilson scooped her up easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, and for a moment it was just the two of them.

Brando pushed himself up on his elbows, hair sticking up at all angles, watching them with a crooked smile he couldn’t hide. He reached out and ruffled Rose’s curls until she squealed.

“You couldn’t let us sleep ‘til at least eight?” he teased, though his arms had already opened wide. Rose wriggled free of Wilson just to climb into Brando’s lap, looping her little arms around his neck.

“Santa came,” she whispered in his ear, like it was a state secret.

“Yeah?” Brando murmured back, squeezing her tight. “What’d he bring me?”

Rose pulled back with a mischievous grin. “Me!”

Brando barked a laugh, so loud Wilson had to shush him, though he was smiling too. “Best present I’ve ever had,” Brando said, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

Rose, satisfied, turned in his lap to tug at Wilson’s hand. “Come on, Daddy. We have to open stockings.”

Wilson stretched, still bleary, but his hand never let go of hers. He glanced at Brando, who was grinning despite himself, and the look they traded was one of those wordless ones they’d perfected years ago.

“Alright, alright,” Wilson said, sliding out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cool tile. He reached down and scooped Rose up again, holding her on his hip. “But only if we let Dad make the coffee first.”

“Hey!” Brando protested, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Why do I always get coffee duty?”

“Because you make it the strongest,” Wilson teased, leaning down to kiss the top of Rose’s curls again. “And you’re loud enough to wake the whole house anyway.”

Rose giggled as Brando grabbed his robe, grumbling under his breath but already padding toward the kitchen after them. Wilson followed with Rose perched against him, her little hand tangled in his hair, her grin brighter than the lights waiting on the tree.

For a moment, in the sleepy warmth of the morning, it felt like everything was exactly where it should be, just the three of them, wrapped up in love and routine, ready to face the chaos waiting beyond the bedroom door.

By the time Wilson carried Rose into the kitchen, the house was alive. Carla was already at the stove, smacking a wooden spoon against the pot just to be dramatic. Michelle had turned the radio dial all the way up until Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” rattled the windows.

Ella was twirling around with Kate in the middle of the living room, both of them shaking wrapped boxes like maracas, paper crinkling with every violent rattle. Brando had claimed the coffee pot like a weapon, announcing loudly, “Nobody gets a sip until Cece Navarro drags herself out of bed!”

Rose shrieked with delight at that and immediately joined Ella, banging two wrapped presents together like cymbals.

Wilson laughed helplessly, setting her down before she broke a toy in half. “You’re all insane.”

“Tradition,” Ella corrected, hair flying as she spun in another circle. “It’s not Christmas until Cece threatens murder before coffee.”

The whole house roared louder, like on cue, Michelle clattering pans against the counter, Kate and Ella harmonizing badly over Mariah, Brando shouting over all of them about “holiday spirit.” It was the kind of volume that could wake the dead. Which, in theory, was the point.

In the guest room down the hall, Mallory James groaned as the racket bled through the door. She rolled onto her back, blinking against the faint strip of morning light cutting across the ceiling. The chaos was deafening, every pot clang, every scream of laughter, and still, the girl in her arms didn’t move.

Cece was flat on her stomach, buried under the quilt, her hair a dark tangle across the pillow. Mallory could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, slow and stubborn, like she was refusing to acknowledge the war zone outside their door.

“Cece,” Mallory whispered, brushing her lips against her temple. No response.

Another crash echoed from the kitchen, something metal hitting tile. Cece just burrowed deeper into the blanket.
Mallory laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “They’re literally trying to kill us.”

Still nothing. So she leaned closer, sliding a hand down Cece’s back until she stilled, until the air between them shifted. Then Mallory kissed her, soft at first, then deeper, lingering until Cece finally stirred with a groan that turned into a sigh against her mouth.

When they broke apart, Cece’s eyes cracked open, sleepy but warm, the corner of her mouth already twitching into a smile. “You kiss me awake now?” she rasped.

“Only way you’ll listen,” Mallory teased, brushing hair from Cece’s face.

Outside, another round of chaos erupted, Rose’s high-pitched giggle, Ella’s voice booming, Brando’s fake baritone rendition of Silent Night.

Cece groaned, flopping onto her back. “They’re obnoxious.”

“They’re our family,” Mallory said, settling back against her shoulder.

“Unfortunately,” Cece muttered, though she was smiling now, that sleepy smile Mallory had grown addicted to.

Mallory tilted her chin up, catching her gaze. “Merry Christmas, Cee.”

Cece’s hand slid along her jaw, pulling her in for another kiss, slower this time, deeper, until the noise outside faded for just a moment. “Merry Christmas, Mal.”

The banging at their door brought them back fast. “WAKE UP, LOVEBIRDS!” Ella hollered, followed by Kate shrieking, “We’re opening presents without you!”

Mallory groaned and buried her face in Cece’s neck. “Think they’d let us stay in here all day?”

Cece laughed, tugging her up into a sitting position despite herself. “Not a chance. Come on, before Ella starts singing again.”

Mallory rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling as Cece pulled her close for one last kiss before they braved the madness together.

The tree practically disappeared behind the mountain of presents. Boxes stacked to Rose’s chest, shiny bags leaning precariously, paper bows half-crushed from too much handling. Rose was circling them like a hawk, hands clasped behind her back like she was trying to prove she had self-control. She didn’t.

“Can we please start now?” she whined, bouncing on her toes. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

Kate flopped onto the couch beside Ella, smirking. “Patience, grasshopper.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause your pile’s as big as mine,” Rose shot back, hands on her hips.

“She’s not wrong,” Janice muttered from the armchair, sipping her coffee like it was whiskey. “Santa definitely plays favorites in this house.”

Michelle gasped dramatically from the kitchen doorway, hand to her chest. “Excuse me? Santa and I are completely impartial.”

“Ha!” Ella barked, already draped across the couch like she owned it. “Impartial, my ass. Kate’s got enough boxes with her name on them to open her own department store.”

Kate perked up immediately. “That’s because I’m her favorite.”

Brando groaned from the rug, clutching his mug. “Don’t encourage her.”

Michelle smirked, crossing her arms. “Well, maybe if my son didn’t break everything he touched growing up, Santa would’ve trusted him with more gifts, too.”

The room howled. Brando threw his hands up. “Oh my God, it was one lamp! One!”

“Two,” Kate corrected gleefully, flopping back against Ella. “You broke the blender, too.”

“That doesn’t count,” Brando argued. “That blender was already dying.”

Carla leaned against the doorframe with her own mug, shaking her head. “No wonder Rose’s pile is bigger than both of yours combined. Santa knows she’s the only responsible Copeland.”

“Facts,” Wilson said quietly, smothering his smile against his mug.

Rose beamed from her perch in his lap. “I’m the favorite!” she declared, hugging her bunny like proof.

Michelle stepped forward, pressing a kiss into the top of her granddaughter’s curls. “That’s right, honey. You’re everybody’s favorite.”

“Even mine,” Carla added, earning a chorus of oooohs.

“Traitors,” Brando grumbled, though the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Kate leaned forward, smirking. “So wait, if Rose is the favorite in general, and I’m Mom’s favorite kid, that means Brando’s-”

“The disappointment,” Ella finished sweetly, patting Kate’s shoulder like she’d just solved a riddle.

The whole room erupted. Brando buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. My own family.”

Cece finally wandered in, Mallory trailing at her side, both of them still flushed from sleep. Cece took one look at the scene and snorted. “What’d I miss?”

“Branny just got demoted to least favorite child,” Janice said dryly.

“Again,” Michelle corrected, smirking over her coffee. “It’s tradition.”

Mallory slipped down beside Cece on the rug, tucking her legs under her. “At least it wasn’t you this time,” she whispered, and Cece grinned.

Rose scrambled upright in Wilson’s lap, eyes wide. “Daddy! Daddy! When do we open them?”

“Not yet,” Brando said firmly, still sulking.

“Not until I’ve had more coffee,” Carla added.

“Not until I get a photo of the tree with everyone in front of it,” Michelle declared, already reaching for her camera.

Groans filled the room, overlapping and loud.

Kate clutched her chest like she was dying. “We’re gonna starve before we even touch a bow.”

“Please, you had cinnamon rolls fifteen minutes ago,” Ella said, flicking her ear.

“Half of one,” Kate argued.

“Because you dropped the other half on the floor,” Janice deadpanned.

Kate gasped. “You swore you wouldn’t tell!”

“I lied.” Janice sipped her coffee, completely unbothered.

The laughter rippled around the room again, warm, overlapping, messy. Rose sighed dramatically into Wilson’s chest, bunny squished under her chin. “We’re never opening presents.”

Wilson kissed the top of her head. “Patience, baby girl. It’s Christmas. We’ve got all day.”

Michelle clapped her hands together, cutting through the laughter. “Alright, enough stalling. Nobody’s touching a bow until we get a picture.”

The groans started immediately, a chorus of complaints echoing off the walls.

“Mom…” Brando dragged out, already slumping against the couch. “Every year-”

“Yes, every year,” Michelle interrupted, marching toward the corner where she’d already stashed the tripod. “And every year, you ruin the first five because you won’t sit still.”

“That’s because you take five hundred,” Kate muttered, earning a sharp look from her mom.

“Smile pretty, Katherine,” Michelle warned, snapping the tripod legs open. “Or I’m putting bunny ears on your senior portraits one day.”

Kate gasped, scandalized. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, she would,” Brando said darkly. “She absolutely would.”

Carla strolled in from the kitchen, coffee in hand, smirking. “Do as you’re told, or we’ll be here until New Year’s.”

Rose squealed, hopping up and down in front of the tree. “I wanna sit in the front!”

“You got it, kiddo.” Wilson tugged her gently toward the floor, helping her settle cross-legged on the rug with her new stuffed bunny in her lap. He sank down beside her, Brando dropping on her other side with a resigned sigh.

“Alright,” Michelle muttered, squinting through the viewfinder as she adjusted the timer. “Everyone squeeze in.”

Ella threw an arm around Kate and yanked her forward onto the couch, grinning like the devil. “Say cheese, Katie.”

“Don’t touch me,” Kate snapped, trying not to laugh.

Janice didn’t even bother shifting in her chair. “If I move, I spill my coffee.”

“Then put it down,” Michelle ordered.

Janice raised an eyebrow. “That’s bold of you to assume I take orders.”

Mallory nudged her with a smile. “Come on, Jan. Just one picture.”

“One?” Janice echoed, glaring toward Michelle. “We’ll be lucky if it’s under twenty.”

“Thirty,” Brando muttered.

“Forty-five,” Kate added, smirking when Michelle whipped her head around.

“Do you all want coal next year?” Michelle snapped, fussing with the tripod. “Because I can make that happen.”

Carla snorted into her coffee. “She means it, too.”

The first photo snapped with half the group still settling, Ella mid-wave, Rose sticking out her tongue, Brando blinking like he’d just been hit with a flashlight.

Michelle stormed back to the camera. “Unusable. Again.”

The second one caught Janice looking like she’d just witnessed a murder. The third, Ella had both hands in the air like she was at a rock concert. The fourth was perfect, until Rose sneezed and her bunny went flying out of frame.

By the fifth, everyone was laughing too hard to fake a decent smile.

“Children,” Michelle groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re all children.”

“Mom, relax,” Brando said through his grin, tugging Wilson closer by the shoulder. “This is what we look like. Chaos.”

Michelle exhaled, lips twitching despite herself as she hit the timer one more time.

The camera flashed, catching them all in the middle of their laughter, Janice leaning into Ella, Cece pressed against Mallory, Kate smirking over her mug of cocoa, Rose perched proudly in front clutching her bunny, Brando and Wilson shoulder to shoulder with matching smiles, Carla hovering in the back like she ran the place, Michelle in front of her tripod like a general commanding her troops.

And this time, when Michelle checked the display, her face softened. “There,” she said quietly. “That’s the one.”

The last round of laughter over Michelle’s endless photo session was still hanging in the air when Carla clapped her hands. “Alright, alright. Enough stalling. Let’s let the kid open one before she explodes.”

“I’M READY!” Rose shrieked, springing up from the rug like she’d been launched. She was practically vibrating in place, curls bouncing, bunny clutched tight under one arm.

“You’re always ready,” Brando muttered, but he was smiling too.

Cece leaned forward from where she and Mallory were cross-legged on the floor, both of them already perched like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. Cece plucked a massive box from the pile and slid it across the carpet toward Rose. The shiny wrapping paper glinted gold under the lights, bow nearly as big as Rose’s head.

“Start with ours,” Cece said casually, though her smirk gave her away. “Mallory picked the wrapping, but the gift? That’s all me.”

Mallory elbowed her, rolling her eyes. “It was a joint decision.”

“Oh my God, what is it?” Rose squealed, crawling on her knees to attack the bow.

“Careful,” Wilson warned gently, leaning forward with his mug balanced in his hand. “Don’t rip it too-”

The paper was already shredded. Rose tore into it like a wild animal, scattering glittery scraps across the rug until the cardboard revealed itself. Her eyes went wide, mouth falling open.

“No. Way.”

“What is it, Rosie?” Brando leaned forward, trying to peer at the box.

Rose turned it around, hugging it against her tiny frame. The front showed a gleaming red-and-white Barbie Dreamhouse, the newest model from that year, complete with a spiral staircase and even a battery-powered elevator.

“Aunt Cece! Aunt Mal! It’s the real Barbie house!” Rose shrieked, bouncing so hard the box nearly toppled over. “It has a POOL!”

“Don’t drop it, kiddo,” Brando groaned, though he couldn’t help laughing at her joy.

Michelle whistled low. “Well, Santa Navarro and Santa James are spoiling the child rotten.”

Cece shrugged, looking entirely pleased with herself as she looped an arm around Mallory’s shoulders. “What can I say? Lawyer money buys love.”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Rose squealed. “You’re the best aunties ever!”

Mallory kissed the top of Rose’s head, her cheeks pink. “Merry Christmas, Rosie girl.”

Rose hugged her tighter, then darted back to the Dreamhouse box like she couldn’t believe it was real, patting it reverently like it might vanish if she blinked.

Kate shook her head, arms crossed. “Spoiled. So spoiled.”

“Jealous,” Ella sang, leaning into Janice, who smirked behind her coffee.

“Am not!” Kate shot back, but her eyes kept sneaking toward her own pile, which was nearly as tall as she was.

Wilson leaned his chin into his hand, watching Rose chatter excitedly about where her dolls would sleep. “You’re never going to get her out of that thing.”

Brando sighed, but the corner of his mouth curved. “Worth it.”

The whole room was smiling now, warmth crackling louder than the radio, laughter overlapping with Rose’s squeals. It was messy, it was loud, but it was Christmas, and Rose, sitting proudly in front of her mountain of toys, made it feel perfect.

Rose was still circling her Barbie Dreamhouse box like a hawk when Michelle pointed toward the pile again. “Alright, next victim. Kate, you’re up.”

Kate shot forward so fast she nearly tripped over Rose’s bunny. “Finally!”

“Hey, hey, careful!” Wilson called, catching the box before it toppled. “Santa doesn’t cover injuries.”

Kate ignored him, laser-focused on the shiny green-wrapped box with her name scrawled across the tag in Brando’s messy handwriting. She yanked it free and plopped cross-legged onto the rug, grinning at her brother and his fiancé. “This one’s from you guys, right?”

Brando smirked, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah. But if you hate it, it was Wilson’s idea.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. It was fifty-fifty. And you’re gonna love it.”

Kate tore into the wrapping with dramatic flair, sending bits of paper flying until the lid of the box slid off. She gasped, eyes going saucer-wide.

“Oh my God. No way.”

She pulled out a brand-new portable CD player, a silver Sony Discman, sleek and shiny, the exact one she’d circled in catalogs all year.

“Shut UP!” she screeched, clutching it to her chest like it was the holy grail. “This is the coolest thing ever.”

“I knew it,” Wilson said softly, smiling as Kate scrambled closer to hug him.

“Best brother-in-law ever!” she shouted, squeezing him tight before she launched at Brando.

“Hey!” Brando pretended to stumble as she crashed into him. “I paid for half!”

“Half?” Ella snorted, sipping from her mug. “More like Wilson did all the thinking and you picked up the batteries at the gas station.”

Brando glared at her. “Shut it, Sinclair.”

Kate wasn’t listening. She was already babbling about which CD she’d play first. “I’m starting with Backstreet. No, wait, Alanis! Or maybe Green Day!”

“You’re gonna blow your ears out,” Michelle scolded, though she was smiling too.

“Worth it,” Kate shot back, grinning so wide her face hurt.

Carla, watching from her spot by the tree, clapped her hands. “Alright, my turn. Before Kate takes off to start a concert.”

“Finally,” Ella said, springing off the couch and practically dragging Janice with her. “The main event.”

Carla arched an eyebrow, amused. “Main event, huh?”

“Absolutely,” Ella declared, thrusting a large, lumpy bag into her hands. “From your favorite daughters.”

“You mean your only daughters,” Janice corrected dryly, though her arm slipped easily around Ella’s waist.

Carla pulled at the tissue paper until a flash of denim appeared. She tugged it free, holding it up to reveal a perfectly broken-in Levi’s jacket, patches already sewn across the back. Some were silly, a smiley face, a cartoon sun, but a few were clearly picked with care. A tiny embroidered heart. A patch that read “World’s Best Mom.” Another stitched with a paintbrush and palette.

Carla blinked, her throat tight, as the room leaned in to see. “You girls…”

“You’ve been stealing mine for years,” Ella said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Figured you deserved your own.”

“And we added the patches,” Janice added, softer, her smirk tugging into something warmer. “Custom.”

Carla pressed her lips together, then stood and wrapped them both up in a hug so tight Ella yelped. “Alright, alright, Mom, you’re crushing me,” Ella laughed, though her arms stayed locked around her.

Janice’s voice was muffled against Carla’s shoulder. “Worth it.”

Michelle’s voice cut across the room, sharp but playful. “Don’t think you’re stealing my thunder, Sinclair. I’ve got a gift too.”

“Oh, trust me,” Carla said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, jacket still in her hand. “No one’s stealing anything. This is perfect.”

The room softened for a beat, Rose cooing at her bunny, Kate clutching her Discman, Brando tossing wads of wrapping paper at Ella, Wilson sketching the whole scene in his head. The kind of Christmas morning that wasn’t about the piles of gifts, but about who was here to share them.

The laughter over Carla’s jacket hadn’t even died down before Michelle straightened, smoothing her blouse like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Alright,” she said, chin lifted, eyes locked on Carla. “Our turn.”

Carla blinked. “Our…?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Michelle said, already ducking behind the tree. She pulled out a carefully wrapped box, medium-sized but heavy, the paper neat enough to shame everyone else’s crumpled attempts. She set it squarely in Carla’s lap. “Open it.”

Carla gave her a look, one brow arched. “You’ve been scheming.”

“When am I not?” Michelle shot back, folding her arms.

The room hushed a little, curiosity buzzing. Ella whispered something to Janice, who grinned into her coffee. Brando leaned forward like he was twelve again, nosy as ever.

Carla tore into the paper with none of Kate’s finesse, muttering about people who used too much tape. The box opened and she froze.

Inside was a framed collage, not photos exactly, but scraps of their lives pressed under glass. A folded program from their high school graduation. A badge from nursing school. A piece of Rose’s first crayon drawing with “Grandma” scrawled across it. A ticket stub from the night Brando and Wilson played their first little league game together. And right in the center, a photo of all of them crowded into Michelle’s backyard last summer, smiling like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Carla’s throat closed up. She ran her hand over the glass like she could touch each memory. “Michelle…”

“You’ve been keeping us together since before we even knew what together meant,” Michelle said, her voice steady, though her eyes glistened. “I just wanted you to see it. To know it. You’re the reason this house still stands.”

Carla let out a laugh that cracked halfway into a sob. “Damn you, Michelle Copeland.”

“Love you too, Webber,” Michelle murmured.

Carla set the frame carefully aside before yanking Michelle into a hug, arms iron-tight. The room erupted in soft coos and teasing, Ella whispering, “Moms are crying,” loud enough for everyone to hear, but neither woman let go.

Finally, Carla pulled back, sniffing hard, cheeks wet. “Alright, my turn.”

She gestured toward a flat, oddly shaped package propped against the wall. “Wilson helped me wrap it, so don’t judge the corners.”

Michelle raised her brows, tugging the paper away. When the cardboard gave way, her hand flew to her mouth.

It was a quilt. Not just any quilt, but one pieced together from the fabric of all their lives: Brando’s old baseball jersey stitched into the corner, one of Kate’s baby blankets, scraps of Wilson’s high school art smocks, Rose’s outgrown pajamas. Even a square of Carla’s old curtains from the house she’d “sold” to the boys in ‘90, and one of Michelle’s nursing uniforms from the early days.

Every patch told a story. Together, they made something whole.

Michelle’s eyes welled instantly. She held it out, fingertips trembling over the seams. “You… you made this?”

Carla shrugged, voice thick. “Started it years ago. Kept adding as the kids grew. Figured it was time to give it back to the woman who’s carried all of us anyway.”

Michelle laughed, choked, brushing at her eyes even as she leaned into Carla’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one,” Carla murmured, hugging her tight.

They stood there for a long beat, quilt draped between them, the whole house watching with soft, reverent silence. Even Ella and Janice stayed quiet, just holding hands.

Rose broke it first, her small voice piping up as she hugged her bunny. “Grandma Carla, Grandma Michelle… are you crying because you’re happy?”

Both women laughed through their tears, pulling her into their arms too. “Exactly, Rosie girl,” Carla whispered. “Exactly.”

And the room exhaled with them, smiling, wiping eyes, shaking heads at the mess of it all. Because this was what Christmas was for, not the piles of gifts, not even the jokes and the chaos, but the two women who’d built a family out of scraps and love and stubbornness, and made it strong enough to last.

The noise of wrapping paper tearing and Rose’s squeals had only just died down when Ella clapped her hands dramatically. “Alright, time for the sapphics. Let’s see what Navarro and James have cooked up for each other.”

“Ella,” Janice muttered, dragging her back down onto the couch.

“What?” Ella grinned. “We all know this is the best part.”

Cece rolled her eyes, but her hand slipped instinctively across Mallory’s knee, steady and sure. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet, she’s right,” Mallory murmured, cheeks pink as she slid a flat package from behind her back. She set it carefully in Cece’s lap. “You first.”

The room quieted a little, everyone pretending not to watch too closely. Cece tore the paper open with her usual lack of patience, but the moment the gift revealed itself, she froze.

It was a leather-bound planner, thick and sturdy, but not store-bought. Mallory had filled it herself. Every page was hand-lined, decorated with little sketches and notes. On the inside cover, in Mallory’s neat script, was written: For all the cases you’re going to win. For all the days you’ll forget to breathe. For all the mornings you’ll need reminding that someone believes in you.

Cece’s throat tightened. She flipped through, finding tiny details tucked in everywhere—her favorite quotes scribbled in the margins, a doodle of the Rice University owl, even a page titled Cece’s Emergency Pep Talks, filled with Mallory’s handwriting telling her she was brilliant, infuriating, unstoppable.

“Mal…” Cece’s voice cracked, the cocky smirk nowhere in sight now.

“You’re always planning everything for everyone else,” Mallory said softly, eyes on her. “I thought maybe you deserved something that was just for you. Something to remind you that I see you.”

Cece blinked fast, clutching the planner to her chest for a beat before leaning forward and kissing her, right there in front of everyone. Not a quick peck either, but something lingering, soft and steady. By the time she pulled back, the room had erupted in wolf whistles and groans.

“Oh my GOD,” Kate whined, covering her face with both hands. “Every time.”

“Get a room!” Ella crowed, while Janice smirked into her coffee.

Cece flipped them off lazily, but her grin was soft as she dug under the tree for her own package. She shoved it at Mallory, almost shy now. “Your turn.”

Mallory peeled the paper carefully, the exact opposite of Cece, until she uncovered a slim, velvet box. She opened it and gasped.

Inside was a delicate gold bracelet, thin but sturdy, with a small charm shaped like a book. Etched inside the cover in tiny script: M+ C, 1993.
“You kept track,” Mallory whispered, thumb brushing the charm. “That’s the year we made official."

“Of course I did,” Cece said, voice low but steady.

Mallory’s laugh broke halfway into a sob, and she slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, staring at it like it was priceless. “Cece Navarro, you are-”

“Incredible? Gorgeous? The best girlfriend you’ll ever have?”

”Better be the only one!” Wilson chirped through watery eyes.

“A menace,” Mallory said, grinning through her tears. Then softer: “But mine.”

Cece leaned in, forehead against hers, the bracelet glinting between them. “Always.”

The room collectively groaned again, Brando throwing a balled-up scrap of wrapping paper at them. “You two are insufferable.”

“Jealous,” Cece shot back without even looking, still tucked against Mallory’s shoulder.

Michelle shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Alright, lovebirds. Save the poetry. There are still twenty presents left to open.”

“Alright, alright,” Ella said, rummaging under the tree with a grin, “time for the main event.”

“Again?” Brando muttered. “How many main events do we need?”

Ella ignored him, plopping a lumpy package into Janice’s lap before dropping back onto the couch, eyes sparkling. “Open it.”

Janice arched a brow, but she peeled back the paper slowly, revealing a battered leather jacket. Her jacket. The one she’d left behind in Ella’s closet after the divorce.

The room went quiet for a beat.

Janice’s mouth curved, the faintest smirk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Ella shot back, her grin slipping into something soft. “Forever. Again and again.”

Janice stood, tugging the jacket on over her pajamas. It fit like it always had, worn in and perfect. She leaned down, kissed Ella once, quick and sure.

The whole room erupted into cheers and groans, but Janice didn’t even flinch, still smirking against Ella’s mouth. “Told you,” she murmured. “We’re inevitable.”

Ella laughed into the kiss, throwing her arms around her like she’d never let go again

The wrapping paper battlefield had calmed for a moment, laughter fading into the crackle of the record Michelle had put on. Rose was too busy assembling her Barbie pool to care, Kate was still fiddling with her Discman, and everyone else had tucked into their coffee, eyes bright.

That’s when Brando nudged Wilson with his elbow, a quiet, private gesture in the middle of the storm. “Your turn,” he murmured, sliding a small, flat box into his husband’s lap.

Wilson blinked, surprised, but the faint smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yeah, I did,” Brando said simply, his voice rougher than usual.

The room stilled, soft but expectant. Everyone knew when not to interrupt.

Wilson ran his fingers over the wrapping, neat enough to tell him Michelle probably lent a hand. When he finally tore it open, what fell into his palm made his breath catch.

It was a genuine leather wallet, the initials W.M.W. carved into the bottom. On the inside, etched so faintly it caught only in the light, was one word: Wishbone.

Wilson stared at it, eyes wide, his throat tight.

Brando rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. “You remember that summer, before everything got so… loud? You asked me why I kept all those wishbones, and I told you I had a lot of wishes..”

“I remember,” Wilson whispered, thumb brushing the engraving.

Brando swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I couldn’t give you a clean start back then. God knows I made a mess of us. But this… this is me saying I don’t need to wish anymore. ‘Cause I’ve already got the long end.”

The silence that followed was heavy, full. Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then set the wallet carefully on the coffee table before reaching into his own pocket.

“I was saving this for later,” he admitted softly, pulling out a thin, rectangular box. He handed it over with both hands. “But now feels right.”

Brando opened it slowly. Inside was a silver watch, simple but elegant, its face engraved with the date July 26th, 1982.

Brando’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “That was-”

“The day you kissed me,” Wilson said, voice cracking just enough. “I thought I’d hate you forever after you denied it. But I never forgot. That was the day everything changed for me. And I wanted you to know… even in the mess, even when we were apart, that moment was still the beginning of forever.”

Brando’s laugh came out broken, wet. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. “Jesus, Wil. You’re gonna kill me.”

Wilson leaned forward, cupping his husband’s face with both hands. “No. I’m gonna love you until we’re old and cranky, and then some. You’re stuck with me.”

Brando kissed him then, desperate and sure, their foreheads pressed together as the room blurred around them.

By the time they pulled back, there wasn’t a dry eye in sight. Cece was openly sniffling into Mallory’s shoulder, Michelle had her hand clamped over her mouth, Carla’s cheeks glistened as she clutched her mug like a lifeline. Even Janice cleared her throat a little too roughly.

Rose, oblivious, clapped her hands. “Now can we open more presents?”

Kate groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Oh my GOD, you guys are so dramatic.”

Laughter rippled through the room, breaking the tension, but the warmth lingered. Brando fastened the watch onto his wrist, Wilson slipped the wallet into his pocket, and when their fingers laced together again, everyone could feel it, the weight of years, the proof of survival, the joy of still being here, still choosing each other.

It wasn’t just another gift exchange. It was a love story, wrapped in silver and memory, unspooling in front of the family they’d built from scratch.

The room buzzed again after Wilbran’s tearjerker moment, everyone laughing through damp eyes. Rose clapped her hands like a conductor. “More presents! MORE!”

“Alright, alright, greedy guts,” Carla teased, nudging a box toward her. “Here, this one’s from me.”

Rose ripped it open in seconds, squealing when a Cabbage Patch doll tumbled out. “Her name is Lucy!” she announced immediately, hugging it close.

“Of course it is,” Michelle said dryly, though she was smiling.

Kate huffed, arms crossed. “When’s it my turn again?”

Michelle rolled her eyes, sliding a thinner package across. “Fine. Open this before you combust.”

Kate shredded the paper, gasping so loud Ella winced. “A Sheryl Crow CD?!” She scrambled to her Discman, already fumbling with the plastic wrap. “This is the BEST DAY EVER.”

“God help us,” Brando muttered, rubbing his face. “If I hear ‘If It Makes You Happy’ one more time-”

“You’ll love it,” Kate cut him off, slapping the headphones over her ears.

Across the room, Ella shoved a bag at Carla. “Our real gift’s coming later, but here’s a starter.”

Carla pulled out a giant mug that read World’s Coolest Mom, and burst out laughing. “Subtle.”

Janice smirked. “The real present is that we didn’t buy the one that said Hot Grandma.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cece groaned, while Mallory snorted into her sleeve.

“Hush,” Cece said quickly, passing Mallory a slim box. “Your turn.”

Mallory opened it to find a sleek fountain pen, engraved with her initials. She blinked, touched. “Cece-”

“For all your fancy therapist notes,” Cece said, a little awkward but beaming.

Mallory kissed her cheek, soft and certain. “Perfect.”

Ella booed loudly. “Ugh, another mushy one. Boring. Next!”

Brando shoved a package into her hands. “Open it before I regret it.”

Ella tore it open and cackled. “A karaoke machine?! You’re insane.”
]
“Insanely generous,” Brando corrected, smirking. “So you can annoy Janice in style.”

Janice groaned but couldn’t hide her smile. “We’re never getting a quiet night again.”

Carla shoved a smaller gift into Michelle’s lap. “Your turn.”

Michelle unwrapped it carefully, revealing a delicate silver locket. Inside, two tiny photos: one of Brando and Kate as kids, one of Rose asleep in Wilson’s lap. Her breath hitched. “Carla…”

Carla just shrugged, blinking fast. “Figured you should have them close.”

Michelle hugged her tight, laughter and tears mingling. “You’re impossible.”

“Tell me something new,” Carla said gruffly.

Rose bounced in place, waving another tag. “This one’s from Aunt Ella!”

Ella smirked. “Don’t shake it too hard.”

Rose ripped it open and screamed. “A Polly Pocket?! With the carousel!” She flung herself at Ella, nearly knocking her over.

“See?” Ella said smugly. “Favorite aunt.”

“Excuse me?” Mallory said, mock-offended.

“Excuse me?” Cece echoed louder.

“Excuse me?!” Janice added, hand on her hip.

Rose just clutched her toy tighter. “I love ALL my aunts.”

“That’s a save if I ever heard one,” Janice said under her breath, earning a smack on the arm from Ella.

By now, the floor was carpeted with paper, ribbons, boxes half-emptied. Kate had swapped CDs twice already, Rose was building a Barbie neighborhood, and Brando was using scraps of wrapping paper to make a hat for Wilson, who sat quietly smiling at the chaos.

Carla raised her mug in the air. “Alright, last call before breakfast. Any stragglers?”

“I’ve got one more,” Mallory said, nudging a small gift toward Cece.

Cece tore it open and froze at the sight of a tiny Rice University owl carved from wood, painted in delicate blues and whites.

Mallory’s smile was soft. “For your desk. To remind you where you started.”

Cece swallowed hard, her grin wobbling. “God, I love you.”

“Boring!” Ella yelled, which only set off another round of laughter.

And just like that, the room erupted again, piles of toys, mugs clinking, music blaring, everyone talking over each other, too loud and too full and too happy. The kind of morning that would live forever, stitched into memory with the smell of cinnamon, the sound of laughter, and the warmth of being exactly where they belonged.

The living room looked like a war zone by the time breakfast was served. Wrapping paper draped across the furniture like streamers, mugs half-full and cooling, Kate’s Discman already blaring tinny music from the headphones she refused to take off. Carla and Michelle tag-teamed the kitchen, tossing tamales and cinnamon rolls onto mismatched plates, while Ella tried and failed to convince Janice to sing “Jingle Bell Rock” into the karaoke machine.

Brando sat cross-legged on the rug, for once content just sipping coffee while Wilson traced absentminded sketches of Rose’s new Barbie Dreamhouse in the corner of his pad. Rose was perched at the window seat, chewing on the edge of her cinnamon roll as she stared out the glass.

“Dad?” she asked suddenly, voice small but certain. “What’s all that stuff?”

Brando frowned, setting down his mug. “What stuff?”

“That stuff from the sky,” Rose said, pressing her palms flat against the cold window.

Brando pushed himself up, squinting. Then his jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

Wilson was on his feet in a flash, chair scraping. He nearly tripped over Brando’s leg in his hurry. “It’s… oh my God, it’s snowing.”

“What?” Cece barked, already shoving past Mallory to see.

Rose squealed, bouncing so hard her curls smacked the glass. “It’s SNOW!”

And just like that, the entire house erupted. Kate tore the headphones off, shouting, “No way!” Ella screamed like she was front row at a concert, Janice actually dropped her mug, Carla and Michelle both froze mid-bite before bursting into laughter.

Within seconds, everyone scattered, scrambling for coats and sweaters that hadn’t seen daylight in years. Michelle dug out an old box of scarves, Carla pulled hats from a drawer, and Wilson bundled Rose up so tight she looked like a walking marshmallow. “There,” he said, tugging the hat down over her ears. “Now you’re ready.”

She beamed, bunny clutched in one mittened hand. “Let’s go!”

They spilled out the front door like a tidal wave of noise. The street was blanketed in a thin but steady dusting of white, flakes tumbling from the sky like confetti. It wasn’t much, but for Laredo, it was a miracle.

Rose shrieked, sticking her tongue out to catch a flake. “It tastes like nothing!”

“That’s the magic,” Brando laughed, scooping her up and spinning her around until she squealed louder.

Cece dove into the yard first, dragging Mallory with her. “We’re making angels!” she hollered, flopping onto her back with no hesitation. “My angel is making an angel!” Mallory rolled her eyes but followed, both of them flapping their arms until the snow stuck to their coats.

Kate and Ella immediately launched into a snowball war, shrieking as Janice coolly joined Ella’s side, pelting Kate with alarming accuracy. Michelle and Carla stood on the porch, arms around each other, laughing so hard they had to hold on for balance.

And in the center of it all, Wilson and Brando crouched low in the snow with Rose between them, carefully rolling clumps until they stacked a lopsided snowman. Rose jammed her bunny’s spare bow on its head and declared it “Hops,” her giggles carrying across the yard.

The chaos rose around them, Cece smacking Mallory in the face with a snowball and immediately getting tackled, Kate shrieking bloody murder as Ella chased her down, Rose pelting her dads with tiny handfuls while they faked being knocked over.

From above, the scene looked like a painting, a family sprawled across a yard that shouldn’t have held snow, laughter spilling into the winter air, every messy, loud, imperfect piece of them woven together by joy.

Brando shook the flakes from his hair, pulling Wilson close enough that their foreheads touched, both of them breathless and grinning. Rose darted between them, throwing her arms around their legs like she could hold the whole world together.

And as always, she could.

The camera of memory pulled back then, wide and slow, Cece and Mallory collapsed side by side in the angels they’d carved, Janice and Ella howling with laughter mid-battle, Carla and Michelle side by side on the porch, and in the middle of it all, Wilson, Brando, and Rose, laughing, alive, and utterly at home in the miracle of a Christmas snow.

Chapter Text

The morning was pink at the edges, the sun not fully stretched awake, when Michelle Copeland coaxed her rattly sedan down a quiet street in Laredo. It was barely seven a.m., and the car smelled faintly of hairspray, coffee, and the strawberry jam Brando had smeared on his collar at breakfast.

He sat in the passenger seat, four years old and already bouncing like he’d swallowed a whole box of sugar cubes, feet nowhere near reaching the floor, voice carrying over the hum of the engine. “Are we there yet? Is this the house? What’s his name again? Do they got toys? Do they got cookies?”

Michelle pinched the bridge of her nose, though the corners of her mouth tugged upward. “Brando, baby, you gotta calm down. We’re almost there.”

“But you said it was fun!” He kicked his little shoes against the seat. Today’s outfit was one of his better ones, striped overalls, a white T-shirt, his hair combed flat even though it never stayed that way. His eyes, big and bright, already flicked to the window like he was sizing up the neighborhood.

“It will be fun,” Michelle said firmly. “If you’re nice. You remember what we talked about?”

He slumped back dramatically. “Be nice.”

“Uh-huh. Because this is important. Mrs. Webber’s boy, Wilson, he’s quiet. Doesn’t mean he wants to play rough. You have to give him space, alright?”

Brando groaned like the concept physically pained him. “Quiet kids are boring.”

Michelle shot him a look that made him snap his mouth shut for at least three seconds.

“You will be nice,” she repeated, softer now, her hand reaching over to smooth the hair he’d already mussed up. “Carla’s doing us a big favor, taking you in. You remember Carla? She and I went to high school together.”

Brando perked up again, unconcerned. “The lady with the red car?”

Michelle laughed despite herself. “That’s the one.”

The truth was, she and Carla had been inseparable once. Pep rallies, late-night phone calls, dreams bigger than Laredo. Then came nursing school, and kids, and all the weight that made keeping in touch harder than they’d meant it to be. But when Carla mentioned she was running a little daycare out of her house, Michelle had latched onto it like salvation. Every other sitter in town had already given up on Brando, “too loud,” “too stubborn,” “doesn’t listen.” She heard the whispers. Trouble child.

Michelle didn’t believe that. He was just Brando. Loud, yes, proud, yes, but hers. Still, she couldn’t exactly take him to work with her.

“You’re gonna like it there,” she said now, more to herself than to him. “Wilson will be there. And Cece, Dr. Navarro’s little girl.”

“Cece?” Brando scrunched his nose. “That’s a funny name.”

“Don’t say that to her face,” Michelle warned, though she was smiling. “She’s sweet. Everyone there’s sweet. And you’re going to be sweet, too.”

Brando puffed out his chest, unbothered. “I’m always sweet.”

Michelle barked out a laugh. “Baby, you got kicked out of three daycares in two months.”

“That’s ‘cause they didn’t like me.” He turned to the window, chin jutting out stubbornly. “They’re dumb.”

Michelle reached over, squeezing his knee gently. “Well, Mrs. Webber’s not dumb. She’s my friend. And I need you to try. Can you try for me, Brando?”

He looked at her, all the fight softening in his face just enough. “For you.”

Her heart tugged at that. She wanted to believe it would be enough.

The houses on Carla’s street were waking now, sprinklers sputtering, mailboxes gleaming in the early light. Michelle spotted the familiar two-story with its pale siding and neat little front porch. Even from here she could hear faint voices, the sound of kids already there, laughter and a crash that made her wince on Carla’s behalf.

She pulled the car to the curb, exhaling once before she cut the engine. Brando was already unbuckling, bouncing in his seat.

“Alright,” Michelle said, looking at him squarely. “New place. New start. Be kind. Be careful. Listen to Mrs. Webber. Got it?”

“Got it,” Brando chirped, though his grin was wicked.

Michelle closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a quick prayer.

Carla Webber’s house loomed in the morning light, full of promise and chaos waiting to happen.

Michelle balanced Brando’s hand in hers as she knocked on the Webber’s front door, the morning already warm, the sound of kids carrying faintly through the walls.

The door opened a moment later, and there was Carla, hair pulled back, a faded apron over her dress, Cece perched on her hip with a fistful of blocks clutched to her chest.

“Michelle,” Carla said, a mix of surprise and warmth flickering across her face. “Well, look at you. It’s been a minute.”

“It has,” Michelle agreed, her smile softening. She glanced at the little girl in Carla’s arms. Dark eyes, chubby cheeks, curls cropped close. Cece blinked at her seriously, then chirped out, “Hi.”

Michelle laughed, caught off guard. “Hi there.”

“That’s Cece,” Carla explained, bouncing her slightly. “She thinks she runs the place.”

“Do not,” Cece said immediately, stubborn as stone.

From the porch, Brando leaned sideways to squint at her. “She talks weird.”

Cece’s eyes narrowed. “I do not. You talk weird.”

Brando snorted, delighted. “You’re a baby.”

“You’re a baby,” Cece shot back, chin high.

Carla groaned, already shifting Cece onto her other hip. “Well, looks like those two are gonna be best friends or mortal enemies. God help me.”

Michelle squeezed Brando’s shoulder before he could fire back again. “Inside voice, sweetheart.”

Carla stepped aside, ushering them in. The living room was scattered with toys and kid-sized furniture, a playpen shoved to the corner. The smell of oatmeal clung to the air.

At the dining table, Wilson sat hunched over a picture book, dark hair falling into his eyes as he ran a careful finger under each word. He didn’t look up.

Across the room, Ella Sinclair was banging on an old dented pan with a wooden spoon, the noise enough to make Michelle wince. Janice Perez sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the television, gaze glued to the black-and-white cartoons flickering across the screen. She barely spared them a glance.

Michelle leaned toward Carla, keeping her voice low. “Is that Diana Sinclair’s girl?” She nodded toward Ella, who had just shrieked like a banshee and thrown the spoon into the air.

Carla let out a short laugh. “That’s her. Been here a few weeks now. She’s… something.”

Michelle smirked. “I’ll say.”

Carla adjusted Cece on her hip. “Spends more time here than home, if we’re honest. You know Diana and Dave. Always out.”

Michelle nodded knowingly, then tilted her chin toward the girl in front of the TV. “And is that… Ray Perez’s daughter? The football player?”

“Janice, yep.” Carla sighed. “She’s newer too. Keeps to herself. Sharp as a tack, though.”

Janice glanced back just long enough to mutter, “I can hear you,” before returning to her cartoon.

Carla chuckled. “See what I mean?”

Michelle smiled, trying to ignore the way Brando was now circling Cece like he was gearing up for another round of bickering. She tightened her grip on his hand, silently praying this time would be different, that this place, with Carla at the helm, might finally be the one that stuck.

Carla, reading the look on her face, reached out to squeeze her arm. “He’ll be fine here, Michelle. Loud kids, quiet kids, I make it work.”

Michelle let out a slow breath. “God, I hope so.”

Behind them, Cece was glaring daggers at Brando, who was grinning like he’d just won a prize. The first sparks of chaos were already in the air.

Brando tugged free of Michelle’s hand before she could stop him and made a beeline for the girl on the carpet. He plopped down beside Janice like he owned the spot, kicking his legs out and leaning back on his elbows.

“What are we watching?” he asked loudly, his voice drowning out the cartoon soundtrack.

Janice gave him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. “Bugs Bunny.”

“Cool,” Brando said, nodding like he was in on some big secret.

Cece immediately twisted around in Carla’s arms. “You’re not allowed to sit that close. Carla says your eyes will go square.”

“They won’t,” Brando shot back, flopping onto his stomach now just to be contrary.

“Yes, they will.” Cece’s little brows knit together, fierce as anything. “And you’ll be ugly forever.”

“Too late,” Janice muttered, sipping her juice box.

Brando cackled, delighted. “She’s funny. I like her.”

Michelle closed her eyes briefly. This was going well.

Carla shifted Cece higher on her hip, shaking her head. “Ignore them. They’ll wear each other out eventually.” She gestured for Michelle to follow her toward the kitchen, out of the worst of the noise. “How are you, really? How’s school?”

Michelle smiled faintly, brushing a crumb from her blouse. “Busy. Labs at seven in the morning, clinicals at night. Some days I forget what my own house looks like.” She hesitated, then added, “How’s Matt?”

Carla’s mouth softened. “Working a lot. Out at the rail yard most days, but he’s steady. Good dad to Wilson.” She let out a little laugh, more wistful than anything. “High school sweethearts, you know how that goes.”

Michelle’s smile twisted. “I do.”

Carla caught the change in her tone. “And Chris?”

Michelle exhaled through her nose, looking down at the floor for a moment before forcing a shrug. “Still Chris Copeland. Same as he was in school. Popular, loud. Likes his drink more than he should.”

Carla reached out, brushing her arm gently. She didn’t press. Instead, her face brightened with a memory. “Oh, speaking of high school. You remember Mike James?”

Michelle blinked. “Of course. Big guy, played defensive line, right?”

“That’s him. He called last night. Said he’s dropping his little girl off today, first time. Mallory.”

“Mallory James,” Michelle repeated softly, testing the name.

Carla nodded. “Didn’t say much, just that he and Tiff would be out of town. Offered to pay me triple. Of course I said yes.”

Michelle smiled, shaking her head. “You always were the saint.” She slipped a folded bill from her purse, pressing it toward Carla. “And speaking of, here. For Brando. I don’t want you footing the whole bill.”

Carla looked down at the five, then back up sharply. “Put it back.”

“Carla-”

“No.” Carla crossed her arms.“You’ve got nursing school to pay for too, and a four-year-old to wrangle. Save it.”

“Carla.” Michelle’s voice was firmer now.

Carla just shook her head, lips twitching into a smile. “Not happening. You can buy me coffee when we’re both old and gray and done chasing these kids around.”

They bickered a little more, voices dropping into the easy rhythm of women who’d known each other forever. But Carla didn’t budge, and eventually Michelle sighed, tucking the bill back into her purse with a small, grateful shake of her head.

From the living room came another crash, followed by Ella’s triumphant cackle. “I found another pan!”

Carla groaned. “She’s gonna dent every pot in my house before she hits kindergarten.”

Michelle laughed, then bent to press a kiss to Brando’s head. He squirmed but didn’t push her away, eyes still glued to the screen.

“Be good,” she murmured.

“Always am,” he mumbled, grinning.

“Me too,” Cece piped up instantly. “Kiss me too.”

Michelle chuckled, leaning in to peck her forehead. “There. Don’t get jealous.”

Cece preened, satisfied.

Michelle straightened, adjusting her purse strap. “Alright. I’d better go. Lab starts in twenty minutes.”

Carla walked her to the door, the two women exchanging one more look, tired, knowing, still tethered by the memory of who they’d been in high school and the kids who bound them now.

“Go,” Carla said gently. “I’ve got them.”

Michelle lingered just a second longer, then nodded and slipped out into the rising sun, her car rumbling to life.

Inside, the house was already alive with clamor. Brando sprawled on the carpet beside Janice, Cece scolding like a miniature mother hen, Ella clanging away, Wilson bent over his book as if nothing else existed.

Carla shut the door, squared her shoulders, and let out a long breath. Another day had begun.

She stacked bowls into the sink, the faint smell of oatmeal still hanging in the air. Half the kitchen table was sticky with brown sugar and milk drips, but she’d learned to stop worrying about spotless. Kids didn’t do spotless.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Brando, you want some oatmeal before you run wild with the others?”

He perked up instantly, nodding. “Yeah!” He scrambled into a chair at the dining table, legs swinging.

Carla slid a small bowl in front of him, steam still curling. He dug in with gusto, spoon clattering against the ceramic. Cece wriggled down from Carla’s hip and marched straight to the table, climbing into the chair beside him. Wilson already sat there, quiet as ever, his picture book spread wide in front of him, oatmeal untouched.

Cece leaned over the pages, her finger moving along the line. “C-a-t. Cat. See? Easy.”

Wilson nodded, eyes big. “Cat.”

“Good,” Cece said proudly, like a teacher. “Now this one. D-o-g.”

Brando craned his neck, mouth still full. “I can do it too.” He swallowed, then pointed sloppily at the page. “Cuh… cuh… cow?”

Cece wrinkled her nose. “That’s not a cow. That’s a dog.”

Brando laughed, loud and unbothered. “It looks like a cow.”

Wilson gave the tiniest smile, but it faded as Brando reached over and yanked the book out from under his hands.

“Lemme try,” Brando said, flipping it clumsily.

Wilson froze, lip wobbling. “That’s mine.” His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the clatter in the other room where Ella was still banging on pans. Tears welled fast in his eyes.

Carla, halfway through scrubbing a pot, turned just in time to see him start to cry.

Brando’s grin faltered instantly. He stared at Wilson’s face, wide-eyed, panic setting in. “Wait, don’t cry! Here.” He shoved the book back across the table, nearly knocking over Wilson’s bowl in his rush. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

Wilson sniffled, clutching the book back to his chest like it was treasure. His cheeks were blotchy, eyes swimming.

Cece shot Brando a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You made him cry.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Brando insisted, his voice cracking with genuine worry now. He looked from Wilson to Carla like he was waiting for the world to collapse. “I just wanted to read too.”

Cece ignored him, wrapping her little arms around Wilson’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her cheek to his hair. “You’re still the bestest reader.”

Wilson sniffled again, hugging the book tighter. After a long moment, he peeked at Brando through his lashes. Brando’s whole face was scrunched up, guilt written across it in neon letters.

“I’m sorry,” Brando said again, quieter this time. “Really. You can read it. I’ll just listen.”

Wilson blinked at him, watery and uncertain, then gave the smallest nod.

Cece pulled back, studying them both with the authority of someone twice her size. “Fine. But you can’t grab things. You ask.”

“Okay,” Brando said quickly, nodding hard.

Wilson wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffled, but when Cece nudged the book open again, he didn’t pull away. His finger trembled slightly as he found the word again. “C-a-t. Cat.”

Brando leaned closer, careful this time, and grinned wide. “Cat.”

Wilson’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile.

Carla, watching from the sink, let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. For all the chaos, for all the noise, sometimes the kids figured each other out better than the grown-ups could.

The morning was just starting to settle into something like peace, Cece bossing from her chair, Brando craning over the picture book with his oatmeal half gone, Wilson carefully tracing letters with his finger, when a sharp knock rattled the front door.

Carla wiped her hands on her apron and called out, “Hold on!” She crossed the living room, stepping around Ella, who was now using the overturned pan as a drum stool. Janice didn’t budge from the television, her eyes locked on the cartoon, juice box straw dangling from her lips.

When Carla pulled the door open, a man stood there in a pressed shirt and loosened tie, hair slicked but already wilted from the heat. Mike James. He had one hand on a briefcase, the other gripping a little girl’s shoulder.

“This her?” Carla asked, smiling gently.

“Yeah. Mallory.” His voice was brisk, distracted. He shifted the briefcase and thrust a small bundle into Carla’s arms a blanket, a folded change of clothes, and a little envelope of cash. He slipped a crisp ten-dollar bill into her palm. “Extra for the trouble. We’re out of town today, can’t be helped.”

Carla frowned, trying to hand the money back. “Mike, that’s too much-”

But he was already patting the girl’s head, eyes darting to his watch. “Thanks again, Carla. Appreciate it.”

And just like that, he was gone, footsteps pounding down the porch, car engine roaring a second later.

The little girl he’d left behind stood frozen in the doorway, her pigtails crooked, one fist clutching a worn stuffed rabbit. Her lip trembled. And then the wail came. Loud, raw, the sound of a four-year-old’s world splitting wide open.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Carla crouched, reaching for her, blanket slipping against the floor. “It’s alright. You’re safe here.”

Mallory buried her face in the rabbit, tears spilling fast.

From the dining table, Wilson’s head snapped up. His book lay forgotten as he scrambled off the chair, feet pattering against the floor. He tugged at Carla’s apron with urgency.

“She’s sad,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

“I know, baby.” Carla smoothed his hair, but before she could say more, Wilson darted forward, straight toward the little girl.

Mallory hiccupped through sobs, clutching her rabbit like a shield. Wilson slowed when he reached her, his own stuffed bear dangling from one hand. He held it up carefully, not too close.

“See?” His voice was soft, steadier than Carla had ever heard it. “I got one, too.”

Mallory’s cries hitched, faltered. She peeked at him through wet lashes, thumb slipping from her mouth. The rabbit sagged just a little in her arms.

Wilson knelt beside her, placing the bear gently between them on the rug. “He’s my best friend. He helps when I’m scared.”

Mallory sniffled, rabbit ears damp from tears.

“You can meet him,” Wilson offered, sliding the bear closer until it brushed her knee. “If you want.”

Her tiny shoulders shook, but the wailing softened to quiet sobs. She reached out a tentative hand, brushing the bear’s stitched paw.

Wilson smiled, small, almost secret, and without hesitation wrapped his arms around her in a quick hug.

Mallory stiffened, startled, then melted into it, her face pressed against his shoulder. Her cries grew quieter still, hiccups giving way to small, uneven breaths.

Carla watched, her heart tugging so hard it nearly hurt.

When Wilson pulled back, he held her hand gently in his own. “C’mon. I’ll show you something.”

He guided her across the room toward the corner where he’d stacked a few crates into a makeshift library, a cluster of picture books, worn from use, neatly lined up. He settled her down on the rug, sliding a book from the pile and setting it in her lap.

Mallory sniffled again, hugging her rabbit close, but her eyes followed his finger on the page.

Cece leaned across the table, whispering to Brando like a little general. “Told you he’s nice.”

Brando, mid-slurp of oatmeal, nodded slowly, eyes wide. “Yeah. He’s real nice.”

And in the corner, Wilson Webber sat shoulder to shoulder with Mallory James, the first lines of their story already beginning to write themselves.

She sat on the rug in Wilson’s little “library,” her rabbit still clutched tight, thumb hovering near her mouth again. Wilson flipped a page in the picture book, pointing solemnly at a bright red apple.

“A,” he said quietly.

“A,” Mallory whispered back, barely audible.

Wilson’s chest puffed a little. He’d gotten her to say something.

But peace never lasted long in Carla’s living room.

Cece hopped down from her chair and marched right over, hands on her hips. “You’re new,” she declared, squinting like she was sizing Mallory up for an army inspection.

Mallory shrank back, thumb sliding into her mouth.

“She’s Mallory,” Wilson said quickly, like that would smooth it over.

“Mallory,” Cece repeated, testing the name. “I’m Cece. I can read.”

Brando trailed behind her, dragging his chair noisily across the floor until it screeched to a stop. He plopped into it backwards, arms crossed over the backrest, grinning. “I can yell louder than everybody.”

“Can not,” Ella hollered from across the room, banging her spoon against the pan. “I’m the loudest!”

Mallory flinched at the noise, hugging her rabbit tighter.

Brando cupped his hands around his mouth and let out an earsplitting, “AHHHHHHHHHH!” just to prove his point.

Wilson clamped his hands over his ears. Mallory’s eyes went wide with tears again.

“Brando!” Carla barked from the kitchen, not even looking up from the sink. “Inside voice.”

He winced but shrugged, not sorry at all. “Told you I’m the loudest,” he whispered triumphantly.

Cece ignored him, kneeling so close to Mallory their knees touched. “Do you wanna read with us? Or you can just listen. I’ll help you, ‘cause I’m the best reader.”

Mallory blinked at her, rabbit ears brushing her chin. She didn’t answer.

From the couch, Janice finally spoke, her eyes never leaving the flickering cartoon on the screen. “Or she could watch TV.” She sucked at her juice box straw, deadpan. “It’s Bugs Bunny. He’s funny.”

Everyone turned to look at her. She didn’t even blink.

Cece rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t want to watch TV. She wants to learn.”

“She looks like she wants to cry again,” Brando pointed out, leaning sideways. “Maybe she doesn’t like books or TV.”

“I like books,” Wilson whispered fiercely, frowning at him.

“I like books too,” Mallory mumbled, almost lost behind her thumb.

Cece’s grin spread wide, triumphant. “See! She’s one of us.”

“One of us,” Brando echoed in a spooky voice, which made Ella cackle and bang on her pan harder.

Carla set down her dish rag and walked back in, surveying the chaos: Cece bossing, Brando posturing, Ella screeching, Janice offering existential TV commentary, Wilson trying so hard to be a comfort, and Mallory huddled in the middle of it all.

“Lord help me,” she muttered under her breath.

But when she crouched and brushed Mallory’s pigtail back from her face, the little girl leaned into her hand just a fraction, thumb slipping free. Carla smiled, tired but steady. “You’re alright here, sweetheart. They’re noisy, but they mean well.”

Mallory looked around at the circle of tiny faces, each so different, each clamoring for her to pick a side. She tightened her grip on her rabbit, then let Wilson slide the book back between them, his finger already finding the next word.

And slowly, cautiously, she stayed.

The book didn’t hold their attention for long though. Brando kept interrupting with dramatic voices, Ella’s pan had finally been confiscated, and Carla’s voice from the kitchen promised snacks soon. Which, to a room of toddlers, was basically a miracle.

“Cookies,” Cece announced like she had direct authority, standing in front of the group with her chin high. “That’s what we’re having.”

Carla, rinsing the last dish, called out, “Oatmeal cookies, if you’ve all been good.”

“We’ve been good!” Brando yelled automatically, even as he shoved Wilson’s shoulder to make room on the rug.

Wilson frowned but didn’t push back. Mallory leaned closer into him, thumb firmly tucked in her mouth again.

“You haven’t been good,” Cece corrected, wagging her finger at Brando. “You made Wilson cry.”

Brando’s ears went red. “I said I was sorry!”

“Doesn’t matter. Still counts.” Cece folded her arms like a tiny judge.

Janice, sprawled on her stomach in front of the TV, didn’t even look up. “You’re all bad. No one’s getting cookies.”

Ella gasped dramatically from her perch on the couch, where she was halfway up the back cushions like she was scaling a mountain. “Don’t say that, Janice! I’m good! I’m the best!”

“You’re gonna break my couch, that’s what you are,” Carla called, appearing in the doorway with a tray balanced on her hip. Six little bowls, each holding a small cookie and a few apple slices.

Instant chaos. Every kid scrambled for a spot at the low table. Brando practically dove into a chair, Cece claimed the one next to him so she could keep an eye on him, Ella landed with a bounce that nearly tipped hers, and Janice trudged over like she’d been drafted into a war.

Wilson hovered at the edge, tugging Mallory gently by the hand until she settled beside him. He slid his bowl toward her without a word.

Carla set the tray down, sighing. “Alright, one bowl each. No trading, no whining. Eat slow, or you’ll choke.”

For about ten seconds, the room was quiet except for chewing. Then,

“These are good,” Brando announced through a mouthful.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Cece scolded immediately.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Brando shot back, crumbs flying.

“Yes I am,” Cece said.

“No you’re not!”

“Yes I am!”

Janice rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick. “You’re both annoying.”

Ella giggled, shoving an apple slice in her mouth and trying to whistle through it. When she sprayed juice everywhere, Carla pinched the bridge of her nose.

Wilson ignored them all, nudging Mallory’s rabbit back onto the table when it slipped. “You can have my cookie,” he whispered, sliding it toward her.

Mallory blinked, thumb wet from her mouth, but she took it. “Thank you.”

Brando noticed and leaned over the table, eyes wide. “Hey, I can give you mine too!” He shoved his cookie at her, grinning. “See? I’m nice!”

Cece groaned. “You’re trying too hard.”

Mallory ducked her head, cheeks pink, and nibbled the edge of Wilson’s cookie instead.

When the bowls were empty, the kids scattered again like marbles on a floor. Cece set up her dolls in a strict little row, lecturing them about “homework.” Brando zoomed trucks across the carpet, smashing them together with explosion noises. Ella stacked cushions into a wobbly tower, declaring herself “Queen of the Couch.” Janice slumped back at the TV with another juice box, muttering, “This show’s dumb,” even though she didn’t change the channel.

And in the corner, Wilson and Mallory sat side by side, a book open between them, his bear and her rabbit propped together like they were listening too.

Carla leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the whole circus unfold. It was loud, messy, and already exhausting, but there was something in the sight of all those little heads bent over toys and stories that made her chest ache in the best way.

The cartoons had barely rolled into another episode when Cece stomped over, hands on her hips, curls bouncing with authority. Without warning, she grabbed the dial and snapped the TV off.

“Hey!” Janice barked, lifting her head. “I was watching that.”

“We’re playing house,” Cece announced, loud and clear. “It’s better.”

The room erupted instantly. Ella leapt off the couch cushions, pan in hand like a sword. “I wanna be the dog!”

“There isn’t a dog,” Cece said flatly.

“There is now,” Ella shot back, dropping to all fours with a bark that made Mallory jump.

“Fine,” Cece sighed, rolling her eyes like she was carrying the weight of the world. “You can be the dog. But I’m the mom.”

Brando puffed his chest, striding across the carpet. “Then I’m the dad.”

Cece whipped around, glaring. “I don’t wanna marry you.”

Brando blinked, caught off guard, then grinned. “That’s fine. I don’t even like you.”

Cece gasped, hand to her chest like he’d mortally wounded her. “Rude!”

Brando smirked, unbothered, and plopped himself on the floor beside Wilson, who was still clutching his bear. “Me and Wilson can get married. He’s my friend. And he’s nice.”

Wilson froze, cheeks pink, eyes wide behind his hair.

Ella barked again, tail-wagging invisible. “Wilson can’t marry you, he’s not a girl!”

Before the kids could dissolve into another argument, Carla’s voice carried from the kitchen, sharp but amused. “Doesn’t matter!”

Cece scowled, but she knew better than to argue with Carla. “Fine. But I’m still the mom.” She grabbed Mallory’s hand, tugging her forward. “You can be the baby. You’re small.”

Mallory squeaked, thumb slipping into her mouth as she clutched her rabbit tighter.

Wilson frowned. “Don’t make her the baby if she doesn’t want to.”

Cece huffed, then relented, her little brain whirring. “Okay. She can be the sister. But she has to sit in the house.”

“What house?” Brando demanded.

“This one,” Cece declared, dragging couch cushions into a crooked rectangle on the rug. “This is the house. Everyone inside.”

Ella immediately dove onto the pile, barking and rolling until half the “walls” collapsed.

“Get out!” Cece shrieked. “You’re wrecking it!”

“I’m the dog, I live here too!” Ella insisted, tail-wagging as she crawled under a chair.

Janice finally trudged over, unimpressed. “I’ll be the grandma. Then I don’t have to move.” She flopped onto the armchair, arms crossed, like she’d just aged forty years.

Brando beamed, pulling Wilson by the sleeve into the cushion-house. “C’mon, we’re married now. Sit here.”

Wilson settled hesitantly, his bear squished in his lap. He glanced at Mallory, still hovering with her rabbit. “You can be our sister if you want,” he said softly.

Mallory’s thumb slipped free just long enough for her to whisper, “Okay.” She climbed in beside him, small and careful, and leaned against the cushion wall.

Cece crossed her arms, triumphant, already bossing. “Dinner’s ready. Don’t spill it on the floor. And everyone go to bed when I say so.”

Brando stretched out dramatically, grinning. “Yes, dear.”

“I said I don’t wanna marry you!” Cece snapped, face scrunching.

Brando only laughed, leaning against Wilson. “Good thing I married him instead.”

Wilson hid his smile behind his bear, but his cheeks burned pink.

From the kitchen, Carla shook her head, smiling despite herself as the noise swelled again, barking, shrieking, giggling, Cece’s endless scolding. It was pure chaos, a mess of cushions and toys and rules that only half made sense.

But in the middle of it all, Wilson, Brando, Cece, Mallory, Ella, and Janice sat crammed into a “house” built from couch cushions, already tangled into each other’s lives in ways they couldn’t yet understand.

The cushion house devolved within minutes, as Carla had predicted.

Cece, ever the boss, kept barking orders: “Sit at the table! Eat your food! No dogs allowed in the crib!”

Ella ignored every single rule, crawling under the couch and barking so loud the walls practically shook. “I’m eating the food! I’m eating the sister!” she howled, gnawing on a stuffed block.

Mallory squealed, clutching her rabbit tighter. “No eating!”

“I’ll save you!” Brando leapt onto the cushions like a superhero, landing with such force the whole “house” collapsed. Wilson toppled sideways, Cece shrieked, and Ella laughed so hard she hiccupped.

“My house!” Cece wailed, standing in the wreckage with her hands on her hips. “You ruined it! Now we’re all homeless!”

Janice, still lounging in the armchair with her juice box, deadpanned, “Told you it was a bad house.”

“I hate this game,” Cece announced, cheeks flushed.

Brando rolled on his back, giggling. “Best house ever.”

Wilson was already trying to rebuild the walls, stacking cushions quietly with Mallory helping in tiny, careful motions. But another crash from Ella’s “dog attack” sent the whole thing tumbling again.

Carla finally clapped her hands, cutting through the noise. “Alright, alright. Who wants music?”

The chaos froze mid-yell. Six little heads turned toward her at once.

Ella gasped, eyes going wide. “Music?!”

Carla smirked. “That’s what I thought.” She crossed to the record player in the corner, flipping through her stack until she found the one she knew would do the trick. With a scratch and a crackle, the bright opening chords of “ABC” by the Jackson 5 filled the room.

Ella screamed in pure delight and immediately started bouncing in circles, arms flailing. “It’s my SONG!”

Cece’s frown melted instantly. She grabbed Brando’s hands and yanked him upright. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t wanna,” Brando started, but then the beat kicked in, and suddenly he was spinning Cece in clumsy circles, both of them shrieking with laughter.

Wilson tapped his foot at first, hesitant, but Mallory tugged on his sleeve, rabbit bouncing in her other hand. “Dance,” she whispered.

He blinked, then nodded, letting her lead him into a small shuffle, their stuffed animals bumping together like dance partners.

Janice tried to hold out, still glued to her chair. But when Carla leaned down and tickled her side, she cracked a reluctant smile, rolling her eyes as she slid off the armrest and wiggled her shoulders to the beat.

Soon the whole room was moving, Brando trying to moonwalk in his socks, Cece scolding him mid-spin, Ella twirling so fast she nearly wiped out, Mallory clutching her rabbit while she jumped up and down, Wilson grinning shyly as he copied the Jackson 5’s arm swings, Janice swaying with a smirk like she was too cool to care.

Carla leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, tapping her foot to the beat. Her living room was a mess of cushions, toys, and giggling, sweaty kids, but for the first time all morning, they were laughing together instead of tearing each other apart.

By the time the record clicked off, half of them had collapsed on the carpet, hair sticking to their foreheads, cheeks flushed. Ella lay sprawled on her back, still kicking her legs like she could hear the music echoing in her head. Brando and Cece were breathless, arguing over who had the better dance moves. Mallory leaned against Wilson, both of them too tired to do more than giggle softly. Janice somehow ended up back in the armchair.

Carla shook her head, smiling. “And that,” she muttered to herself, “is how you tire ‘em out.”

“Alright, everybody, settle down. It’s lunchtime.”

The announcement sent a fresh wave of shrieks across the room. Ella dove into the cushion pile like there was food hidden inside, Brando immediately asked “What is it?!” like his life depended on it, and Cece stood tall with her hands on her hips. “Line up,” she commanded. “We have to wash our hands first.”

Carla gave her a look but didn’t argue, if Cece wanted to be her little deputy, fine by her. “She’s right. Everybody, hands washed before food.”

The scramble to the bathroom was a parade of chaos, Brando splashing half the sink onto the floor, Ella trying to lick the soap, Janice sighing like she was 40 years older than the rest of them. Carla dried each pair of little hands with a towel before corralling them back to the kitchen.

The table had already been set: six little bowls, plastic cups of milk, and a plate piled with peanut butter sandwiches cut into triangles. Carla tied bibs around each neck with the efficiency of a nurse.

“Do not put that on me,” Brando squawked, wriggling as Carla fastened his.

“You’re four years old, you’re wearing a bib,” Carla said flatly, knotting it behind his neck. “You can fight me all day, Brando Copeland, but you’re not winning this one.”

He slumped into his chair, defeated, though he shot Cece a look as if daring her to laugh. Of course, she did.

“I like mine,” she said primly, smoothing the bib against her shirt like it was high fashion.

Wilson sat quietly, folding his napkin neatly beside his plate. Mallory copied him, thumb sneaking toward her mouth again, rabbit tucked in her lap.

Carla slid the sandwiches out. “Eat slow. No stuffing your cheeks like squirrels.”

Ella immediately crammed both halves into her mouth.

“Ella Sinclair!” Carla barked, snatching one piece back before she could choke. “One at a time.”

Ella chewed furiously, cheeks bulging, then grinned with peanut butter stuck to her teeth. “See? I didn’t die.”

Janice sipped her milk, unimpressed. “Yet.”

The table erupted in giggles, Brando nearly choking on his sandwich because he was laughing so hard.

“Drink,” Carla ordered, sliding his cup closer.

Brando gulped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Best lunch ever.”

“It’s always the same,” Cece pointed out, taking a dainty bite like she was in a commercial. “Sandwich and milk. That’s what we get every day.”

“Not true,” Carla countered, wagging a finger. “Sometimes you get applesauce.”

“That’s dessert,” Cece corrected.

“It’s food,” Carla shot back, but she was smiling.

Wilson pushed the plate of sandwiches toward Mallory. “You can have the triangle with less peanut butter if you want. That’s the one I like.”

Mallory’s eyes softened. She picked it up carefully, nodding. “Thanks.”

“Ugh, you’re both weird,” Brando muttered, though he snuck one of the bigger triangles for himself.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Cece scolded instantly.

“Stop being bossy!” Brando yelled, spraying crumbs.

“Brando,” Carla warned.

He slumped again, shoving another bite in his mouth.

Ella giggled so hard she fell sideways off her chair, landing with a thud. “I’m fine!” she shouted from the floor, milk sloshing dangerously in her cup.

“Sit back up, Ella,” Carla sighed, hauling her upright with one arm. “Lord give me strength.”

By the time the sandwiches were gone and the milk cups drained, every bib was smeared with peanut butter, half the floor was sticky, and Mallory had finally relaxed enough to giggle softly when Brando made his milk “moo” at her.

Carla gathered the plates, shaking her head as she watched them squirm in their chairs, little bodies drooping from the morning’s excitement.

“Alright,” she announced, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Nap time. Everybody on the mats.”

A chorus of groans immediately filled the air.

“I’m not tired!” Brando protested, eyes already half-closed.

“Yes, you are,” Carla said, carrying dishes back to the sink.

“I don’t nap,” Janice insisted, though she yawned right in the middle of her sentence.

“Dogs don’t nap!” Ella barked, crawling under the table.

“Yes, they do,” Carla said firmly. “Even dogs. Especially dogs.”

Cece sighed like a martyr, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “I’ll nap. Somebody has to listen to you.”

Carla snorted. “Thank you, Cece.”

Wilson and Mallory exchanged a look, their stuffed animals clutched tight. He gave her a tiny smile, and she nodded back, both of them already resigned.

Carla clapped her hands once more. “Let’s go, troops. Bibs off, blankets out. Nap time starts now.”

The kids shuffled and groaned, but slowly, surely, they obeyed.

Across the row, Wilson had already curled onto his side, bear tucked under his chin. Mallory lay beside him, her rabbit nestled in the crook of her arm. Their hands almost touched, small fingers twitching in their sleepiness.

Within minutes, the room was full of little sighs and shifting bodies. Cece finally quieted, Ella’s breathing evened, Janice’s fake snoring turned into the real thing.

All except Brando.

He tossed and turned, his blanket twisted around his legs. After a long while, he sat up, hair sticking in every direction. He padded quietly across the room until he reached Carla, who was lowering herself onto the couch with a rare moment of stillness.

“Miss Carla?” His voice was small, all the bravado stripped away.

Carla blinked down at him. He looked so much like Michelle in that moment it tugged at her chest, the same wide eyes, the same stubborn chin, only softer with baby fat.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” she whispered, patting her lap.

He shuffled closer, eyes darting to the dim corners of the room. “It’s dark.”

“It’s supposed to be dark,” Carla said gently, lifting him up. He curled against her without resistance, head on her shoulder. “That’s how you sleep.”

Brando twisted his fingers in her sleeve. “I don’t like it. I get scared.”

Carla rocked him slowly, rubbing circles into his back. “Nothin’ to be scared of here. You’re safe.”

For a minute, he was quiet, his breath warm against her collar. Then, muffled: “Do you… do you like me?”

Carla stilled. “What do you mean, baby?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes shiny in the dim light. “The other ladies didn’t. At the other places. They said I was too loud. Too much. They didn’t want me. Are you gonna kick me out too?”

Carla’s heart broke right in half. She cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped free. “Brando Copeland, listen to me. You are not too much. You’re a handful, sure.” She smiled when his lip trembled. “But you’re a good handful. I don’t kick kids out of my house. You hear me?”

He sniffled, pressing his face into her shoulder again.

“You’re good,” she whispered, rocking him slowly. “Even when you’re loud. Even when you make a mess. You’re good.”

Brando’s breathing hitched, then softened, his small body finally relaxing against her. Within minutes, his lashes fluttered closed, his mouth parted just slightly in sleep.

Carla sat there with him heavy in her arms, rocking gently in the quiet. Around them, the room was filled with the sound of steady, even breaths, six kids sprawled across mats, little chests rising and falling, safe in the cocoon of her living room.

Carla pressed a kiss into Brando’s hair, her throat tight. “You’re mine now too,” she whispered to the dark.

And for the first time that day, the house was still.

By late afternoon, the house had come alive again after nap, blocks clattering, Cece lecturing dolls, Ella barking, Brando zooming trucks, Mallory carefully stacking books, Wilson quietly drawing in the corner. But as the sun tilted low and shadows stretched across the living room, Carla started gathering stray toys and announcing the inevitable.

“Alright, troops. Almost time to go home. Let’s start cleaning up.”

A chorus of groans.

“Already?” Brando flopped against a cushion.

“Yes, already,” Carla said, plucking a juice box from behind the couch. “You’ll see each other tomorrow.”

Cece shot up, indignant. “But we’re best friends now.”

“Yeah,” Ella shouted, rolling off the couch dramatically. “Best friends forever!”

Wilson ducked his head, a smile tugging shyly as Mallory leaned into him, rabbit pressed to her chest. “Best friends,” she whispered, almost like she couldn’t believe she said it.

Brando threw his arms wide and barreled into the group. “Group hug!”

The kids squealed, toppling into a messy pile, Cece fussing about her hair, Janice groaning, “This is dumb,” even as she let them squish her, Ella barking in the middle of it all. Wilson hugged tight, Mallory softer but still holding on. For one breathless moment, they were all tangled together, a little army of best friends.

Carla’s heart squeezed.

The first knock came a few minutes later. Jess Navarro stood at the door, her scrubs wrinkled from the day. She smiled tiredly as Cece barreled into her arms. “Hi, baby girl.”

Cece clung to her neck, but then wriggled free to grab Wilson’s hand. “Can he come with us?”

Jess glanced at Carla, who nodded. “Night class,” Carla explained. “He’ll be fine at your place.”

Wilson tucked his bear under his arm and slipped his small hand into Jess’s. He gave Carla a shy wave.

“See you tomorrow, Mom,” he whispered.

Carla kissed his hair. “Be good.”

Next was Ella. Not her parents, of course not, but a neatly dressed young man with a clipboard. He looked faintly uncomfortable as Ella launched herself at him, still barking. “You’re late,” she scolded him, wagging her finger.

He didn’t answer, just hurried her out to the waiting car. Carla’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Janice was easier. A shadow fell over the porch and there was Ray Perez himself, still broad-shouldered even in middle age. “C’mon, Jan,” he called gently.

Janice shrugged, waving a lazy goodbye before trudging out.

Mallory was next. The roar of Mike James’s car echoed down the street, and seconds later he was at the door, tie loosened, briefcase under his arm. “Thanks again, Carla. Saved our lives today.”

“You know where to find me,” she said, brushing Mallory’s hair back from her face.

Mallory hugged her small around the waist, rabbit squished between them. “I had so much fun.” she whispered.

And then they were gone. The house grew quiet, the kind of quiet that rang in Carla’s ears. Toys still littered the rug, crumbs trailed across the carpet, blankets askew.

Only Brando remained.

He stood in the middle of the mess, overalls smeared, hair sticking every which way. For once, he didn’t flop on the couch or demand more juice. He looked at Carla, then down at the toy blocks scattered at his feet.

“Want me to help?” he asked softly.

Carla blinked, caught off guard. “You want to?”

He nodded. “I can. I’m good at cleaning. Sometimes.”

Carla smiled, crouching to help him. Together they stacked blocks back in the bin, folded blankets, straightened cushions. Brando hummed under his breath, dragging his trucks into a neat line.

When the last toy was tucked away, Carla lowered herself onto the couch with a sigh. Brando climbed up beside her, tucking himself under her arm like he’d been doing it all his life.

“You did good today,” she murmured.

His small face tipped up, searching hers. “You’re not gonna kick me out?”

Carla kissed the top of his head. “Not a chance, Brando Copeland.”

He grinned, wide and tired, and leaned against her shoulder. And in the fading light of her messy, quiet house, Carla thought: Maybe this was how forever started.

Headlights washed across the Webber’s front lawn just as Carla was tucking the last toy bin under the shelf. Brando was curled beside her on the couch, half-dozing, his thumb grazing the hem of his bib-free shirt. The knock on the door was hurried, breathless.

“Carla?” Michelle’s voice carried even before the door swung open. She stepped inside, her purse slipping down her shoulder, hair escaping from its pins. “Oh God, I am so sorry I’m late. The lab ran over, and then traffic-”

Carla waved a hand, smiling tiredly but warmly. “It’s fine. Night class doesn’t start for another hour. You’re right on time.”

Michelle let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. “Bless you. What’s on the docket tonight?”

“Microbiology,” Carla said with a sigh, plucking at her apron. “Slides, stains, the usual. You?”

“Anatomy,” Michelle groaned. “Two hours of bones. I might never look at a skeleton the same way again.”

They laughed together, the old high school rhythm slipping back like it never left. Then Michelle’s gaze slid past Carla, landing on her son, who was blinking awake, rubbing his eyes with a little fist.

“And how did my troublemaker do?” she asked, bracing herself.

Carla’s face softened. She reached over to smooth Brando’s mussed hair. “He was an angel. Loud, sure, but good as gold. Even helped me clean up at the end.”

Michelle’s mouth fell open. “Cleaned? This one?” She nudged Brando’s shoulder, teasing.

Brando grinned, proud. “I’m good at it sometimes!”

Carla chuckled. “Bring him back tomorrow. I want him here.”

Michelle’s throat tightened, relief flooding her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered, eyes shining.

The goodbyes stretched a little longer, promises of coffee and check-ins exchanged. Finally, Michelle took Brando’s small hand in hers, and they stepped out into the cooling evening, the first stars winking above Laredo.

As they walked down the quiet street, Michelle whispered a quick thank-you heavenward. She squeezed Brando’s hand, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “So,” she asked, voice teasing, “how was your day?”

Brando lit up like a firecracker. “We built a house out of cushions and Cece was the mom but she didn’t wanna marry me so I married Wilson instead, and Ella was a dog, and Janice was the grandma even though she’s only four, and Mallory cried but then Wilson made her not cry, and we ate sandwiches, and Miss Carla said I was good even though I yelled a little, and guess what,” He puffed out his chest. “I learned to read.”

Michelle raised her brows, amused. “You did, huh? What can you read now?”

Brando squinted at the nearest street sign as they passed. His little mouth moved as he sounded out the letters, face scrunched in concentration. “S… T… O… P…” He paused, triumphant. “STOMP!”

Michelle burst out laughing, ruffling his hair. “Close enough, baby. Close enough.”

Brando beamed, gripping her hand tighter as they walked into the night, his voice still tumbling over itself with stories.

And for the first time in a long while, Michelle let herself believe everything was going to be alright.

Chapter Text

July 26th, 1982.
Laredo, Texas

 

I didn’t want to open my eyes.

The room was already hot, sunlight cutting through the blinds in skinny little stripes, the fan barely pushing the air around. I could hear Dad in the kitchen, radio low, silverware clinking. Probably waiting for me to come downstairs and prove I was already dressed for practice. Like always.

But I wasn’t. I was still in bed, tangled in sheets, staring at the ceiling and pretending maybe the day wouldn’t move forward if I didn’t.

I knew better.

It was July 26th. The day I’d been dreading all summer. Tomorrow Wilson was leaving for Austin with his dad, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

I rubbed my face hard, groaning into my palms. I had practice in an hour. Dad would never let me skip. “Commitment” was one of those words he threw around like it was holy scripture. Commit to the team, commit to the work, commit to everything but the one thing I actually cared about, a little more time with my best friend before he disappeared for who knew how long.

I wanted to spend the day with him. I wanted to ride around in my beat up truck, listening to whatever tape he’d stolen from his cousin. I wanted to sit on the roof of his house until the sun went down, not talking about tomorrow like it wasn’t creeping closer every second.

Instead, I was going to spend the morning running plays in the heat, sweating until my eyes stung, then listening to Dad tell me how much I still had to prove.

My chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough room to hold it all in. The dread. The ache. The way I kept thinking about Wilson leaving and how I’d probably have to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it did. God, it did.

I flipped onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to think of a way out. A twisted ankle. A stomach bug. Something. But I knew how Dad was. He’d see right through it, and then it’d be ten times worse.

So I just lay there, the minutes ticking by, wishing I could press pause on the whole damn day. Wishing Wilson wasn’t packing. Wishing he wasn’t leaving.

Wishing I knew how to tell him I didn’t want him to go.

 

Eventually, I forced myself out of bed. If I laid there any longer, Dad would come pounding on the door, and I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.

I tugged on the first t-shirt I found off the floor and a pair of sweats, definitely not practice gear. If I was going to get out of it today, I had to commit. No pads, no cleats. Just casual.

The floorboards creaked as I made my way downstairs, and the first thing I heard was Mom’s voice carrying from the kitchen.

“Lord, it’s already a hundred degrees and it’s not even nine,” she complained, fanning herself with the morning paper. She was perched at the table, her hand resting on her round stomach like she needed to remind herself she wasn’t just hot and tired, she was six months along.

Dad was by the sink, rinsing out his coffee cup, radio muttering about last night’s ballgame. He didn’t even glance my way.

“It’s the heat,” Mom went on, pressing the cool glass of water to her cheek. “This baby is baking me alive. Brando, remind me again why I thought summer was a good time to be pregnant?”

I dropped into the chair across from her, shrugging. “Beats me. You’re the one who wanted a baby.”

Her eyes softened, amused. “You don’t sound thrilled, honey.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, glancing at Dad, who was already checking his watch like he had somewhere better to be. “It’s just weird. Seventeen years of being an only child, and now suddenly, boom. Baby sister.” I let out a half-laugh. “Kinda hard to wrap my head around.”

“Tell me about it,” Dad muttered, not looking up.

Mom gave him a sharp glance before turning back to me, her hand smoothing over the swell of her belly. “Well. I think it’s a blessing. And I know you’ll be a wonderful big brother.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but the way she was smiling, soft, hopeful, tired but happy, stopped me. If she was happy, maybe I could be too.

“You picked a name yet?” I asked, nudging her glass back toward her.

She brightened immediately. “Oh, I’ve been thinking. What about… Melissa?”

I made a face. “Sounds like somebody who’d yell at me in a bank.”

Mom laughed. “Alright, how about Jennifer? Or Stephanie? Those are popular right now.”

Dad grunted. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

She shot him another look but carried on. “Or Amy. Or Michelle Junior. I mean, people do that sometimes.”

I groaned. “Mom, please don’t name her Michelle Junior. That’s cruel.”

She grinned at me, eyes sparkling like she’d been waiting for me to say it. “Alright, smart guy. What would you name her?”

I leaned back, thinking about it. Names felt heavy, permanent. After a minute, I said, “Kathryn.”

Mom tilted her head. “Kathryn?”

“Yeah. For Grandma Henderson. You know… she’s tough. Always has been. And she’d like it.”

For the first time that morning, Dad actually looked up. Just a flicker, but it was something.

Mom’s whole face softened, hand going to her belly again. “Kathryn,” she repeated, smiling like she was trying it out for the first time. “That’s beautiful, honey.”

Something twisted in my chest, warm and strange.

“Kate,” I added quickly, before I could get embarrassed. “Like, she could go by Kate.”

Mom nodded, her eyes wet in that way they got sometimes these days. “Kathryn Copeland. That's perfect.”

Dad just sipped his coffee, already halfway out the door in his head.

But Mom was glowing, and that made the whole thing feel real in a way it hadn’t before. Maybe I wasn’t ready for a sister. Maybe I’d never be. But if it made her this happy, I could learn.

I pressed my palms against the table and stood, stretching. “Well… guess she’s got a name now.”

Mom smiled at me, the kind that reached her eyes. “Guess she does.”

I’d barely had time to sit back on the couch, still warm from the sun pouring through the blinds, when Dad’s voice came booming from the kitchen.

“Why aren’t you dressed?”

I froze, my stomach clenching. He was standing in the doorway now, coffee mug in hand, work shirt tucked tight like he’d been up since dawn. His eyes swept over me. T-shirt, sweats, bare feet. Not pads, not cleats, not practice-ready.

“Practice starts in an hour,” he barked. “Winners show up an hour early.”

“I-” My voice came out scratchy, so I clamped my mouth shut and just nodded.

His jaw ticked. “I’m gettin’ a call from work. When I get back, you better be ready. Pads on, shoes laced. No excuses.”

I didn’t argue. I just kept my face blank, staring at the rug until his heavy footsteps carried back into the kitchen.

Mom was sitting beside me, a glass of ice water pressed to her swollen stomach, her other hand fanning herself with the newspaper. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me with that knowing mom-look that made me want to crawl out of my skin.

“What?” I muttered.

“You’ve got a face,” she said simply.

I tried to shrug it off, but the lump in my throat gave me away. She shifted, lowering the paper onto her lap. “Is this about Wilson leaving tomorrow?”

I swallowed hard and nodded. Couldn’t say the words out loud.

Her face softened instantly. “Carla’s been a wreck,” she admitted, her voice lowering. “Every time I see her at the hospital she just shakes her head and says she doesn’t know what she’s gonna do without him around.”

I stared at my hands, picking at the skin near my thumb. My chest ached like something sharp had lodged itself there. “I just… wish I could spend the whole day with him. But I know Dad won’t let me. So…” I let out a breath. “Guess I’ll settle for forty-five minutes before curfew.”

Mom’s eyes flickered, sad, proud, protective all at once. Before she could answer, Dad strode back in, setting his empty mug on the counter with a loud clink.

“And you’re still not dressed.” His voice was sharp, cutting. “Do you think being lazy makes you better? Do you think skipping practice makes you a leader?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My throat felt tight.

But before he could launch into the whole speech, Mom straightened in her chair, her hand firm on the armrest. “Chris, I told him I need him here today. I’ve got a headache and I can’t run errands like this.” She gestured to her belly. “So Brando’s staying home.”

Dad blinked at her like she’d just spoken another language. “What? No. He has practice.”

“He has me,” she shot back, her tone iron. “And I need him here.”

Dad’s mouth tightened. “Michelle-”

“No, Chris,” she cut him off, sharper now. “One day won’t kill him. He’s with you at practice every morning, every night, every weekend. Today he’s with me.”

The room went still. Dad’s jaw worked, but after a long beat he grabbed his keys off the counter. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when he falls behind.”

The door slammed behind him, rattling the frame.

The silence that followed was heavy, but Mom didn’t look at me right away. She just picked up her glass, took a slow sip, and muttered, “Your father forgets sometimes that not everything is baseball.”

I let out a shaky laugh, shoulders slumping against the couch. Relief poured through me like cool water.

“Thanks, Mom,” I whispered.

She leaned over, kissed the top of my head. “Go find your friend,” she said. “Make today count.”

And for the first time all morning, I actually believed I might.

I was halfway up the stairs when Mom called after me, “Don’t forget your keys!”

I didn’t. They were already in my pocket. I took the steps two at a time, heart pounding with that jittery kind of relief you only get after winning a fight you hadn’t even fought yourself. I yanked open the truck door, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and slammed the tape into the deck before I could think about it.

The speakers hissed, then burst alive with Daryl Hall and John Oates.

You’re imagination… sets you freeeee…

I laughed out loud, pounding the heel of my palm against the steering wheel in rhythm. Ella’s handwriting scrawled across the cassette case back on my dashboard: ELLA’S ROAD TRIP MIX ‘82. She’d shoved it into my glove compartment a month ago after that long weekend at the lake, insisting it would “change my life.”

I wasn’t sure it had done all that, but it was impossible not to feel good with it blasting through the cab. I drummed the dash, bobbed my head, even tried a little shoulder shimmy. If Dad could see me now, he’d blow a gasket.

Good.

I cranked the windows down, hot air rushing in as I turned out of the driveway. I wasn’t heading to Wilson’s place, I knew better. His dad had him packing, making lists, crossing every t and dotting every i. But Cece’s? That was where he’d be killing time. Her house wasn’t far, and I could get there before lunch if I didn’t hit every light in town.

I rolled down Main Street, the town already humming.

First came the theater, its marquee half-burnt-out, still bragging about E.T. months after it had stopped playing. Next was the gas station, a couple of guys from practice already leaning against their hoods, tossing a ball back and forth. I ducked my head, praying they didn’t notice me, no pads, no cleats, no Dad.

Then came the community center. A cluster of women poured out through the double doors, ponytails high, cheeks flushed from the early aerobics class. Behind them came a little girl tugging her mother’s hand, chattering about juice boxes.

And then, there she was.

Mallory James.

Dirty blonde ponytail trailing beside Tiffany like she owned the sidewalk. Tiffany waved to someone across the street, laughing. Mallory didn’t, she just looked up, wide-eyed, like the whole world was watching.

The stop sign caught me right there, brakes squeaking just enough to make me curse under my breath.

Mallory noticed. Of course she did. Her lips pressed into something between a frown and a smile before she gave the tiniest wave.

I lifted my hand from the wheel, casual. Quick. Enough to be polite.

She smiled, shy, small, then looked down at her shoes, like maybe she hadn’t meant to.

And then the light changed.

I pressed the gas, shaking my head. Mallory James. Everyone knew her. Everyone thought she was sweet, polished, the kind of girl who never messed up. To me, she’d always seemed stuck-up. Too careful. Too much of a perfectionist. Not my type.

Not that I even knew what my type was.

Maybe dark hair. Curly. Brown eyes that looked at you like they were keeping a secret. Someone who laughed in a way that knocked the breath out of you. Someone who could sit in silence with you and make it feel like the loudest thing in the room.

I swallowed hard, gripping the wheel tighter. The music blasted, the town kept moving, but in my head, it all narrowed down to that one thought.

Not Mallory.

Never Mallory.

But maybe-

I cut the thought off before it finished, turning left onto Cece’s street.

Cece’s street curved into view, shaded by pecan trees and lined with those little two-story houses that all looked the same if you weren’t paying attention. But I’d know hers anywhere, the Navarro porch was never empty. Sure enough, three of them sat sprawled across the steps like they owned the neighborhood.

First, Cecelia Navarro, Cece, perfect posture even in cutoff shorts, a popsicle stick already snapped clean in her hand like it had personally offended her. She was destined to be valedictorian, everyone knew it. And probably my number one hater, though she played it smart enough to keep things civil when Wilson was around.

Beside her, Ella Sinclair. A rich girl who worked overtime to pretend she wasn’t, hair loose, sunglasses perched on her head like she’d stolen them from a movie star. She didn’t hate me, didn’t care much either. Which, honestly, made her kind of cool in my book. Plus, I had to admit: she had good music taste.

And then there was Wilson.

Shirtless, skin browned from weeks of river afternoons, just a pair of shorts hanging loose on his hips, eating a cherry popsicle like he had all the time in the world.

He hadn’t expected me. He wasn’t looking. But then my truck rumbled into view, and when he finally did see me,

That grin. The one that lit him up so fast it felt like the sun itself shifted closer.

My chest ached, and I looked away quick, pretending I was fiddling with the radio.

Cece groaned audibly. “Oh, great. He’s here.”

Ella just smirked, licking her popsicle slow. “This should be fun.”

Wilson hopped up, dropping his popsicle stick into the trash can like it was nothing. “I’ll see you guys tonight, alright? Sleepover!” He turned back, grinning wider. “We’ve been planning it for weeks!”

Cece perked up a little, eyes sharp. “Yeah. The final sleepover. Don’t you dare be late, Webber.”

Wilson saluted her lazily. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

I’d been invited too. Wilson had begged, of course, said it wouldn’t feel right without me. But Dad had shut it down hard, muttering some garbage about there being girls and “no girls are getting pregnant with your baby before you even hit the MLB.”

Like I couldn’t be trusted to sleep on a couch without ruining my entire future.

Wilson didn’t care. He jogged down the steps and jumped into the passenger side of my truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he said, still grinning, breath sticky-sweet from cherry popsicle.

“Hey,” I said, trying not to stare too hard.

I lifted my hand in a half-wave toward the girls. Cece rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard it. Ella lifted her chin, a smirk tugging at her lips.

I shifted the gear, and just as I hit the gas, Donna Summer’s Love Is in Control (Finger on the Trigger) blasted out of the speakers.

“HEY!” Ella shouted after us, springing to her feet. “That’s MY mixtape!”

I laughed, rolling the windows down farther as the beat thumped, Wilson’s hair whipping in the hot wind. He was still grinning, leaning his elbow out the window like he’d been waiting for this all day.

And maybe I had too.

Wilson stretched out in the seat like he owned it, bare feet propped on the dash, the cherry-red popsicle stain still bright at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” he said, squinting at me with that half-smile that made my chest tight. “How the hell did you get out of practice? I thought your dad would chain you to the field.”

I smirked, drumming the wheel with my fingers. “He tried. Mom won.”

Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “Michelle Copeland going head-to-head with Chris? And winning? I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“She said she had a headache and needed me home.” I shrugged, but the corner of my mouth tugged higher. “Dad hated it. He’ll probably make me run suicides tomorrow. Worth it.”

Wilson grinned wider, leaning his elbow out the open window, hair whipping in the hot air. “So what’s the plan? If you’re skipping practice, it’s gotta be for something good.”

“Anything you want.” I tapped the brim of my ballcap against the wheel. “I mean it. I even dipped into my allowance savings. Gas money, food money, you name it. We can go out of town if you want. San Ygnacio, Zapata, hell, Nuevo Laredo if you feel like getting us arrested.”

Wilson’s eyes flickered toward me, and for a second, I swore he was staring. Like really staring. My stomach flipped, and I tightened my grip on the wheel just to keep steady.

I cleared my throat, forcing a grin. “So what’s it gonna be? It’s all on you, Webber.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept looking at me, like he was trying to memorize my face or something. My ears burned.

I reached over and turned the volume knob just to break the silence. Elton John’s voice spilled through the speakers, bright and aching. Tiny Dancer.

I laughed, shaking my head. “Careful, my mom cries if she hears this one. Something about college and freedom and her youth, I don’t know. She gets misty-eyed every damn time.”

Wilson laughed.

And God.

It wasn’t just a laugh. It was spring itself, bottled and let loose. Light, easy, like green grass after rain. Is that even a thing? I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Wilson Webber could basically defy the odds of gravity in my mind, so what was one more miracle?

I snuck a glance at him. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open wide as the laugh rolled out. Popsicle-stained, sun-kissed, a mess of dark hair and brown eyes that could undo me in a second.

I looked back at the road quick, a smile tugging at my mouth that I couldn’t fight if I tried.

This was it. This was the day I’d been dreading and wanting all at once. And if I had my way, it wasn’t going to end until Wilson had every story, every laugh, every piece of me I could give him before tomorrow took him away.

I cranked the volume and started singing at the top of my lungs, every single word, dragging it out obnoxiously on purpose.

“HOOOOOOLD ME CLOSER, TINYYYYY DAN-CER!!”

I stretched the syllables so wide I sounded like a dying cat, pounding the wheel in rhythm, throwing in little dramatic riffs just to make Wilson groan.

He buried his face in his hands, laughing. “You’re killing me, Bran.”

“That’s the point!” I hollered, pointing right at him as if the song was written about him. “You’re my tiny dancer!”

He kicked at the dashboard with his bare foot, shaking his head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love it,” I shot back, and the way his smile softened, just for a second, made my chest burn hot.

Finally, I cut the volume enough to catch my breath. “So where we going, Webber? You gotta pick or I’m just gonna keep circling Laredo ‘til we run out of gas.”

Wilson leaned back, thoughtful. “We could go to Freer.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Freer? What’s in Freer?”

“There’s this little shop,” he started, eyes lighting up, “you know the one with the weird sodas and those comics in the back? I went there with my cousin once and-”

Before he could even finish, I slammed the wheel into a U-turn so hard his popsicle stick wrapper went flying out the window. Tires squealed, the truck roared, and we were headed north before he realized what was happening.

Wilson grabbed the dash, laughing so hard he nearly wheezed. “Brando! You’re insane!”

“I told you,” I said, grinning wide, “whatever you want. Freer it is.”

He shook his head, still laughing, and dug into his backpack. A second later, he pulled out a cutoff sleeveless grey shirt and tugged it over his head.

And I noticed. Of course I noticed.

Two summers ago, Wilson had been all elbows and knees, lanky and soft around the edges.

But now,

Now his arms had definition, muscles that curved when he flexed, veins faint under golden skin. He almost looked stronger than me, which was saying something.

I tore my eyes back to the road before I wrecked the truck.

He leaned out the window, head tilted back, the wind rushing through his dark hair like something out of a movie. His grin was wide, eyes shut, like he was tasting the whole damn summer in one breath.

And me? I was laughing too. Speeding down that empty country road, the engine growling, the music blasting.

For a minute, it didn’t feel like tomorrow was real. For a minute, it was just us.

The highway stretched out ahead, flat and endless, the kind of road that made you feel like you could keep driving forever if you wanted. Wilson had his head tipped out the window, hair whipping in the hot wind, humming along to whatever cassette I’d thrown on next.

I cleared my throat, drumming the steering wheel. “Only thing is, I gotta be back before nine.”

Wilson glanced over, one brow raised. “Practice?”

“Nah,” I said, snorting. “Brad begged me to cover his last hour at Charlie’s so he could go hang out with Raina. Said he’d name his first kid after me if I did it.”

Wilson laughed, shaking his head. “Poor Raina.”

“Right?” I grinned. “But it’s just an hour. You can hang around if you want, and then I’ll drive you over to Cece’s for the sleepover.”

Wilson rolled the popsicle stick between his fingers like he didn’t want to let it go. “Guess I should… say my goodbyes or whatever. Cece’ll probably give me a whole speech.”

“Oh, definitely,” I said. “She’s probably been rehearsing it in the mirror for weeks.”

He smiled faintly at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The truck was quiet for a moment, just the low thrum of the engine and Elton bleeding soft through the speakers.

Then he said it, quiet enough I almost didn’t catch it: “Will you come see me in the morning? Before we leave?”

My grip on the wheel tightened. He was still looking out the window, not at me.

“I mean,” he went on, shrugging like it was no big deal, “Ella and Cece are driving me back home in the morning anyway, but… I just. I want to see you too. Before.”

Something tugged at my chest so hard it felt like it might split. I wanted to tell him the truth, that the thought of not seeing him before he left made me sick, that I was already counting down the hours we had left. But I couldn’t.

So I smiled instead, steady as I could manage. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

That made him look at me, finally. His eyes caught the sunlight, brown shot with gold, and for a second, the whole cab felt too small.

He smiled, that soft kind of smile that didn’t show teeth but still lit up everything around it. “Okay.”

I nodded, swallowing hard, pretending to focus on the road.

In the corner of my vision, his shoulders loosened. He leaned back against the seat, finally slipping the broken popsicle stick into the cupholder, like he trusted me with the rest of the night.

And I thought: whatever tomorrow brought, I’d find a way to keep this. Him. Us.

Even if I didn’t know what to call it yet.

The road hummed under us, steady and warm. Wilson had slouched low in the passenger seat, one leg bent up against the door, his popsicle stick now forgotten in the cupholder. I reached over and knocked my knuckles against the glove box.

“Do me a favor?”

He glanced at me, eyes lazy with heat and wind. “What?”

“Grab me one of those caramel candies. Got a whole stash in there.”

Wilson popped it open, eyebrows lifting. “A whole stash is underselling it. This is like a small corner store.”

I smirked. “Don’t knock it. They’re my favorite.”

He sifted through the pile and tossed me one. I caught it in my lap, unwrapped it with one hand, and popped it in my mouth. The sugar melted slow on my tongue, familiar and sweet.

For a while, that was it. The radio buzzed low, the sun pressed against the windshield, the world a blur of dry grass and telephone poles.

Then I said it, too casual, too quick: “Did you tell your dad yet?”

Wilson froze. His hand hovered halfway to the glove box, fingers still brushing foil wrappers.

He didn’t ask what I meant. He already knew.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I mean kind of. Not, like, a big sit-down talk. I just said it. And he didn’t really react.” He gave a weak laugh. “Guess that’s better than overreacting though.”

I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes on the road. “Yeah. Makes no sense to me, why people make such a big deal about it. Who cares if a guy’s gay? Doesn’t change anything.”

Wilson’s gaze slid toward me, quiet. “That’s what I liked, you know. About telling you.”

I risked a glance at him, my stomach twisting. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, softer now. “You didn’t care. You didn’t make it weird. You just said… cool. And changed the subject.”

I barked out a little laugh, shaking my head. “Classic me.”

But inside, my chest was burning.

Because the truth? I hadn’t just thought cool.

I’d thought fuck.

Because that was the moment it all clicked. The way he’d been looking at me for years, it wasn’t just friendly. And the way I’d been looking back? I didn’t know what it was anymore.

I clenched the steering wheel tighter, the caramel sticky between my teeth. “Yeah,” I said finally, voice steady even if my brain wasn’t. “Didn’t seem like something to make a big deal out of. You’re still you.”

Wilson smiled faintly, leaning his head against the window. “That meant a lot, you know.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. Good.”

I didn’t let him see how fast my pulse was racing, or how every mile we drove made it harder to pretend I wasn’t already too far gone.

Freer wasn’t much to look at, just a strip of sunburnt shops and a faded diner sign that buzzed like it might give out any second. But to Wilson? You’d think it was Hollywood.

We pulled into the lot outside the corner store he’d been going on about. The windows were plastered with old soda ads, the kind where the models looked like they’d stepped right out of a yearbook. The bell above the door jangled when we walked in, the air instantly cooler, smelling like dust and sugar.

Wilson lit up.

“See?” he whispered, like we’d just stepped into a secret. “They’ve got everything.”

And they kinda did. Shelves stacked with sodas in glass bottles, candy I didn’t even recognize, bins of vinyl tucked in the back. A whole corner dedicated to comics, spines cracked but still bright.

Wilson darted straight to the sodas, his fingers brushing the glass like they were fragile. “They’ve got root beer… grape… oh my God, bubblegum soda.” He turned to me, eyes wide. “Bubblegum, Bran.”

I shrugged, grabbing a cola. “You’re easily impressed.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was grinning as he grabbed two bubblegum bottles and set them on the counter.

I wandered toward the back, pretending I wasn’t watching him trail behind me. The racks were a mess, t-shirts with logos peeling, old concert tees, even one with a faded Astros logo.

I thumbed through them halfheartedly, then stopped when I spotted a grey one with a simple graphic: a sun setting over the Rio Grande, Freer, TX in block letters underneath. Cheesy. Tourist-y. But I pictured him in it instantly, soft fabric, sleeves cutoff, hair messy from the wind.

“Here,” I said, holding it out like it was nothing. “You should get this.”

Wilson frowned, brow furrowing. “Why?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Souvenir. Proof you dragged me all the way out here.”

He took it slowly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “It’s kind of… lame.”

“Yeah, so are you.” I smirked. “Fits.”

He laughed, shoving my shoulder, but he held onto the shirt. Didn’t put it back.

We drifted to the comics next. Wilson crouched on the floor, thumbing through stacks, pulling out a worn Superman issue and holding it like treasure. “Look at this. 1979. Can you believe someone let this sit in here for years?”

I leaned against the rack, watching him light up, talking a mile a minute about panels and inking like I knew what any of it meant. I didn’t. I just liked listening.

By the time we made it back to the counter, he had the shirt slung over his arm, two comics tucked under it, and those ridiculous bubblegum sodas balanced in his hands.

“Big spender,” I teased, pulling out a crumpled bill from my pocket before he could. “On me.”

“Bran-”

“Shut up,” I said, sliding the money toward the clerk. “I told you. Whatever you want today.”

Wilson looked at me for a long second, something warm flickering in his eyes. He didn’t argue again. Just smiled, that soft, springtime smile that made my chest ache, and let me pay.

When we stepped back out into the heat, sodas sweating in our hands, he shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I wanted to,” I answered before I could stop myself.

The truck was waiting, sun baking the metal. I tossed my bottle onto the dash, but Wilson cradled his like it was made of gold. He slid into the passenger seat, holding the shirt in his lap, the edges of a smile tugging at his mouth.

And for once, I didn’t fill the silence with a joke.

For once, I let it be what it was. Me wanting to give him something to remember.

We sat in the truck for a while, windows rolled down, the heat heavy but not unbearable with the breeze. Wilson tipped his soda bottle against his lips, pink foam fizzing up as he swallowed. I watched the bubbles slide down the glass, trying not to think too much.

After a while, he leaned back, hand resting on his stomach. “Kinda hungry,” he admitted, almost sheepish. Then he added quick, “But we don’t have to get anything.”

My stomach growled right on cue, traitor. I laughed. “Good, ‘cause I’m starving. I know this little drive-up spot a town over. They’ve got the best burgers. Fries too. And milkshakes.”

That perked him right up. His eyes lit, mouth curving. “Milkshakes?”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “Strawberry for you, chocolate for me.”

He shot me a look like he couldn’t believe I remembered, but of course I did. I remembered everything.

He finished off his soda, then tugged his cutoff tee over his head in one smooth motion. I glanced over before I could stop myself.

God.

The muscles in his arms flexed as he twisted, shoulders broad, chest tanned from weeks at the river.

Friends could say that. Right?

My teammates told me I looked good on the field all the time, when I was stealing bases or knocking a ball into the outfield. It wasn’t weird. So what was so wrong with me thinking my best friend looked good shirtless, all sinew and sun?

It was normal. It had to be.

Mom told me so, when she caught me staring at him at the fair a few weeks back. She’d laughed, nudged me, said something about how everybody noticed Wilson growing up. Said it was normal.

So yeah. Normal. Totally normal.

Wilson shook out the t-shirt I’d bought him in Freer, holding it up like he wasn’t sure. “This thing’s kinda cheesy.”

“Fits you,” I said automatically, smirking to cover.

He rolled his eyes, but he slipped it on anyway. The grey fabric hung loose, the sun logo stretched across his chest. He smoothed it down, then turned to me with his arms spread a little.

“Well?” he asked. “How do I look?”

I should’ve said something dumb. Should’ve teased him. Should’ve deflected.

But the word tumbled out before I could stop it. “Good.”

It hung there in the air between us. Too simple. Too loaded.

Wilson blinked at me, then smiled, slow, wide, the kind of smile that made my chest ache like I’d swallowed fire.

I looked away fast, fiddling with the volume knob. “C’mon,” I muttered, starting the engine again. “Burgers aren’t gonna eat themselves.”

But the truth stuck, whether I said it out loud or not,

He looked good.

And no amount of excuses in my head was gonna change that.

The road stretched out, two lanes of cracked asphalt cutting through nothing but flat brush and sky. The sun hit the windshield in strips, and the truck hummed steady under us. Wilson was quiet, fiddling with the hem of the Freer t-shirt, until he finally leaned down and pulled a battered sketchbook from his backpack.

“You care if I just… stay quiet and draw for a minute?” he asked, keeping it casual, like it didn’t matter. But the way his ears were pink told me otherwise.

He was still hung up on what I’d said. Good.

I shrugged, eyes on the road. “Nah. I don’t care.”

But I did. God, I did.

He flipped it open on his lap, pencil already scratching across the page. The sound was soft, almost swallowed by the music. His head tilted just slightly, hair falling forward, lips pressed tight like he was trying not to smile too much.

I gripped the wheel tighter, trying to keep my face blank.

The truth was, everyone knew.

Everyone who had eyes knew Wilson Webber had a crush on me. They’d known for years. Hell, I’d known for years. And I played dumb, for his sake, for mine, for all of it.

I’d heard the way Dad talked about boys like that. The spit in his voice when he said the word “gay.” The ugly laugh, the muttered crap about hell and sin. The kind of words that weren’t even about Wilson specifically, but they might as well have been.

And then Mom. Always Mom. She never let him get away with it. Always snapping back, sharp as a whip. Defending Wilson like he was hers too. Which, in a way, he was. Carla had been her best friend since high school. They’d stood at each other’s weddings, raised kids in the same damn town, shared secrets in the middle of the night. When I was little, Mom even dropped me at Carla’s daycare sometimes, back when it was just a bunch of toddlers climbing over each other in that living room.

And sure, things had gotten strained. Not between Mom and Carla, but between everything else. Dad hated it. Thought Carla was trash, called her a whore behind closed doors. Said Wilson was a bad influence. But he was wrong. It wasn’t Carla who’d cheated. It wasn’t Carla who blew up her marriage.

It was Wilson’s dad.

That’s why they were divorcing. That’s why everything was shifting under our feet. That’s why tomorrow felt like the end of the world, because Wilson wasn’t just leaving for Austin, he was leaving because the whole damn ground at home had cracked.

And me? I was stuck in the middle.

My best friend’s crush staring me dead in the face every time he looked at me too long. My dad’s voice in my head telling me what it meant, how wrong it was. My mom fighting tooth and nail just so I could still sit in this truck with him without Dad breathing down my neck.

Wilson bent lower over his sketchbook, pencil moving quick. The tendons in his arm flexed, that new strength showing even in the small movement, and I thought about how he looked when he pulled that shirt on. How he’d asked me how he looked like it mattered, like my answer mattered.

And I’d said it. I’d let it out. Good.

I shifted in my seat, caramel sticky between my teeth, music buzzing low under the tension in my head.

What was I supposed to do with all of this? Pretend forever? Keep playing dumb?

Wilson glanced up once, just once, catching me looking before I tore my eyes back to the road.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

But the weight of everything unsaid sat heavy in the cab, thicker than the heat, thicker than the whole damn Texas sky.

The sun was hanging lower by the time we rolled into the next town over, my stomach gnawing at itself. The drive-up joint sat right off the highway, neon sign buzzing, cars lined up under the shade of a tin awning. You could smell it before you even parked, grease and salt and something sweet burning on the grill.

I pulled into a space, killed the engine, and leaned back with a grin. “Told you. Best burgers you’ll ever have.”

Wilson was already leaning out the window, taking in the smell like it was heaven itself. “God, I’m starving.”

A waitress came out on skates, skates, I swear to God, and Wilson practically bounced when she clipped the tray to the window. Burgers wrapped in wax paper, fries spilling out of the paper boat, and two milkshakes, sweating in their tall cups. One strawberry. One chocolate.

I shoved the strawberry toward him before he could reach for the wrong one. “Yours.”

He smirked. “You’re bossy.”

“Don’t forget accurate.”

He snorted but took it anyway, twisting the straw wrapper off with his teeth.

We dug in fast, like we hadn’t eaten in years. Grease ran down my wrist, salt stung my fingers, and I didn’t care. Wilson was quiet for a while, the only sounds his satisfied sighs and the slurp of his milkshake.

“Worth it?” I asked finally, nodding at his drink.

He leaned back, wiping his mouth on his forearm, lips faintly pink from the shake. “You kidding? Best thing I’ve had all summer.”

Something in my chest flipped. I looked down at my fries, trying to cover the stupid smile tugging at my mouth.

He nudged me with his knee under the tray. “You always know the spots. Like, how do you even find them?”

I shrugged, sipping my own shake. “Baseball trips. Hanging out with Eddie, I guess. Half the time it’s just luck.”

 

“Well, you’re good at it,” he said simply.

I don’t think he knew what that did to me.

We sat there for a while, trading fries back and forth without thinking about it. He’d steal one from my side, I’d knock his hand away just to shove two into my mouth in revenge. He laughed every time, that laugh that made my bones feel lighter.

And all the while, I kept catching myself staring.

At the way he tilted the cup back to get the last bit of milkshake, cheeks hollowing, eyes half-lidded like he didn’t notice me watching. At the way his shoulders filled out the shirt I’d picked, like it was made for him. At the way he kept smiling at nothing, like just being here was enough.

It was killing me.

I forced myself to look away, focus on the fry boat. “Remember when we were kids and Cece tried to make us drink ketchup milkshakes? Said it was ‘gourmet.’”

Wilson barked out a laugh so loud I almost dropped my burger. “God, I forgot about that! She put sprinkles on top and everything.”

“Yeah, I nearly puked.”

“You did puke.”

“Details,” I muttered, smirking into my straw.

He was still laughing, his head tipping back, and I swear the neon glow made him look unreal. Like he wasn’t just my best friend. Like he was something else entirely.

I told myself it was just the summer. Just the food. Just the fact that tomorrow was coming too fast.

But deep down, I knew better.

I was already gone.

Wilson glanced at the little clock on the dash, straw between his lips, the last of his milkshake long gone. “It’s five,” he said, voice casual but edged with responsibility. “We should probably start heading back soon.”

I swallowed the last bite of my burger and leaned against the wheel. My gut twisted. I didn’t want to. Not yet. Not when tomorrow was hanging over us like a storm cloud I couldn’t push away.

In my head, I scrambled for a reason, any reason. One more stop. One more thing to make this day stretch.

“We should do something crazy,” I blurted.

Wilson gave me a side-eye, smirk tugging. “Crazy? Bran, we’ve done everything this summer. We even broke into the theater.”

I barked a laugh, the memory bubbling up fast. “Yeah, and Cece cried when I said the cops were coming. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“She wouldn’t talk to you for a week,” Wilson pointed out, grinning.

“She doesn’t talk to me anyways.”

I leaned back, eyes drifting out the window, scanning the stretch of highway and brush like maybe something would appear if I wished hard enough. And then,

A sign.

Not a big one. Just a beat-up board nailed to a post, the paint peeling. It didn’t exactly scream come jump off this cliff and live your best life. More like turn back now. But it had the name scrawled in fading red: Coyote Point.

Cliff jumping.

My chest lit up. “That’s it.”

Wilson followed my gaze, eyes widening immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Brando…” He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “No. You know I’m a baby about heights.”

I was already signaling, turning the wheel before he could finish. “It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. C’mon, Webber. This is the thing. One last thing before you go.”

He groaned again, but I caught the grin sneaking across his face. “You’re insane.”

“Absolutely.”

The radio buzzed as the tape flipped, crackling into another track. Billy Idol’s “Hot in the City” blasted through the speakers, pounding like a heartbeat. I turned it up, the chorus spilling out into the open road.

Wilson shook his head, still smiling, leaning back in the seat with that look he got when he’d already given in. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

“Not a chance,” I said, grinning as I followed the faded arrows painted on roadside rocks, leading us the opposite way. Away from Laredo, away from responsibility, away from everything but this, two kids chasing one more impossible memory before the world shifted for good.

And for the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe.

Coyote Point wasn’t on any map, not officially. Just a dusty dirt turnoff that spit us into a clearing, the kind of place you only knew about if someone older had whispered it to you once, like a dare.

The truck crunched over gravel until we rolled to a stop. The lake stretched wide below, black-green and still, framed by rock that jutted out like the edge of the world. The air smelled like cedar and hot stone, cicadas buzzing in the trees.

We climbed out, the heat slamming into us. I tugged at my shirt, sticky against my back, and peeled it off in one motion. Tossed it onto the hood.

When I glanced up, Wilson was staring.

Not subtly.

Right at me, eyes dragging over my shoulders, chest, stomach, like he didn’t care if I caught him.

I smirked, cocking my head. “What?”

He blinked, like he’d been caught, but didn’t look away fast enough. His ears went pink.

I grinned and balled up the shirt in my hand before tossing it at him. “C’mon. Take yours off. You’re not ruining your new shirt.”

He caught it clumsily, the cotton smacking against his face. “You’re an ass,” he muttered, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

Slowly, he tugged his own shirt over his head, tossing it next to mine on the hood.

And God help me, I stared.

He was broader than last summer. Stronger. His chest and arms cut from baseball and river swims, his skin golden, hair messy from the wind. The kind of body that looked like it belonged to someone older, someone already half grown.

I forced myself to look away, down at the path of rocks leading to the cliff. “Let’s go.”

We walked side by side, our bare shoulders brushing now and then. The closer we got, the louder the water seemed, though the lake itself was still, waiting.

The cliff was tagged with graffiti, layers of spray paint carved into the stone over the years. Names, dates, hearts with initials scratched out and rewritten. COYOTE POINT ‘76. RIP J.T. LIVE FAST.

Someone had scrawled a giant, uneven JUMP OR DIE right near the edge.

Wilson stopped a few feet back, crossing his arms like he was trying to make himself smaller. “This feels like a bad idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” I said automatically, even though my heart was pounding too.

We stood at the edge, looking down at the endless green-black water. The surface rippled with a breeze, faint and inviting.

Wilson let out a shaky laugh. “Why do I let you talk me into things?”

“Because I’m fun,” I said, smirking at him.

He shook his head, but he was smiling, eyes fixed on the lake like it was both terrifying and magnetic. His chest rose and fell quick, the heat making a sheen of sweat on his skin.

I leaned against the rock, close enough to feel his shoulder brush mine. The graffiti, the lake, the dying sun, it all pressed in around us.

We weren’t jumping yet. Not yet.

But standing there, the world felt like it was holding its breath.

Wilson edged closer to the cliff, peering down at the lake like it was waiting to swallow him whole. His arms were crossed tight, bare shoulders tense, sweat glistening down his temple.

“I don’t know about this,” he muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek.

I smirked, though my pulse was racing too. “What if we go together?”

He glanced at me, eyes wide.

“Hand in hand,” I added, sticking my palm out. “On three.”

For a second, he just stared. Then, just like that, his whole face lit up. “Yeah,” he said, nodding quickly. “Yeah, I can do that.”

I bit down on a smile, trying not to give myself away. Because I knew. I knew he wasn’t suddenly brave. I knew it was because he got to hold my hand.

Still, I slid my palm into his, warm and clammy, our fingers locking tight. His grip was stronger than I expected, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

“On three,” I said, steadying my breath. “One…”

He laughed nervously, squeezing tighter.

“Two…”

The lake shimmered far below, sunlight bouncing off the ripples.

“Three!”

We leapt.

For a heartbeat, time fractured. The air whooshed around us, but it felt slow, suspended. Wilson’s face was all I could see, his mouth open in a laugh, hair flying back, eyes wild and alive. His hand clamped on mine so tight it hurt, and I was doing the same, holding onto him like gravity itself couldn’t tear us apart.

I couldn’t stop smiling. Not when he was looking at me like that, like we were untouchable.

Then the water hit us like a wall.

We plunged deep, cold rushing around us, bubbles exploding in every direction. I should’ve let go. That was what instinct said, kick free, break surface. But my hand stayed in his, fingers locked, refusing to let go even under the weight of the lake.

We burst up gasping, sputtering water, hair plastered to our faces. Wilson laughed loud, wild, choking on the sound, and I realized I was laughing too, still clinging to him like a lifeline.

“You’re insane!” he yelled between breaths, grinning so hard his cheeks ached.

“Yeah,” I said, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. “But you jumped.”

And he had. With me. Hand in hand.

Even when the water dragged at us, even when the world demanded we let go, we didn’t.

And I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to.

The water settled around us, cool against my burning skin. We floated close, arms brushing every so often as the ripples pulled us together and apart, together and apart, like the lake itself couldn’t decide where we belonged.

Wilson pushed his hair back from his eyes, drops sliding down his cheek. He was still grinning, breathless from the jump, but it faded into something quieter as he looked at me.

Really looked.

And suddenly, it was just us.

The cicadas, the breeze, the faint buzz of the highway miles away, all of it dropped out. It was just the water lapping against our shoulders, his hand still faintly brushing mine, and the way his brown eyes flickered down.

At my mouth.

And my stomach turned inside out.

I’d had this thought before. A hundred times. But always in the dark, or drunk on river water and late nights. Always something I shoved down quick, smothered before it could take root.

Not this time.

The thought pressed in hard, hot and relentless.

I want to kiss him.

I wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt. Just to see. To prove what I already knew. It wouldn’t be sparks. It wouldn’t be butterflies. It would be fireworks, explosions, fire in my veins that I’d never come back from.

And he knew. God, he knew.

He was staring too, his gaze heavy, daring me. Daring and pleading all at once. A silent challenge that hung between us.

Do it. Kiss me.

My pulse hammered in my ears. My chest ached.

Because if I did, if I gave in, it would ruin everything.

I’d ruin him. I’d ruin myself. I’d ruin Mom, Dad, all of it. Everything I knew.

So I smiled instead. Small. Crooked. A smile that wasn’t fooling anyone.

“C’mon,” I said, my voice rough. “We gotta get going.”

I pushed forward through the water, arms cutting steady strokes toward the shore.

Behind me, I heard him sigh, soft, resigned, before following.

And maybe he knew I was running. Maybe he hated me for it. Maybe he’d forgive me.

But the thing that kept ringing in my head as we climbed out, dripping and shivering under the falling sun, was that for one moment, one impossible, unbearable moment, we’d both known exactly what we wanted.

And I was the one who walked away.

We sat on the edge of the truck bed, dripping onto the dust below, rough old towels scratching at our skin. I dragged mine through my hair, trying to focus on the way the sunset painted the lake orange. But it was impossible.

Wilson was right there.

Half-naked, water still tracing down his chest, his shorts hanging low on his hips, shirt slung lazy over his shoulder. And I couldn’t stop seeing the look on his face in the water, the nod, the dare, the ache.

I tried to push it down, like I always did. But with him sitting this close, smelling like lake water and strawberry milkshake, it was impossible.

Neither of us pulled our shirts back on. We just draped them over our shoulders, pretending it wasn’t weird. Wilson rubbed at his arms, quiet. He looked… sad.

That made something in me twist.

I hated it. Hated that he was hurting, that he was already slipping away, that I couldn’t fix it.

He slid off the truck bed first, tossing his towel inside before climbing into the cab. I caught the way his shoulders slumped, the weight pressing down on him.

And I couldn’t take it.

“Hey,” I called, glancing around until my eyes landed on a cedar tree near the clearing. Something sparked in my chest. “Come here.”

Wilson frowned but pushed the door back open, padding over barefoot. “What?”

I crouched, scooping up two sharp rocks from the dirt. The edges cut into my palm, but I didn’t care.

Without saying anything, I pressed one into the bark. Scraped hard until the first line of a W was cut deep.

Wilson stepped closer, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Making it known we were here,” I said, shrugging like it was nothing, even though my chest was burning.

The bark splintered under my hand until his name was there, jagged but clear: WILSON.

I stepped back, offering him the other rock. “Your turn.”

He stared at me for a long second, then grinned, that soft grin that made me ache. He pressed the point to the bark, slow and careful, carving BRANDO right underneath.

Together, we scratched out the words: WILSON + BRANDO WERE HERE.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t pretty. But it was ours.

We stood back, shoulder to shoulder, sweat and lake water drying on our skin, looking at it like it was a monument.

Wilson let out a laugh, quiet but real. “God, we’re saps.”

“Yeah,” I said, but I was smiling too.

By the time we climbed back into the truck, the heaviness had lifted just a little. The silence between us wasn’t so sharp anymore. He rolled the window down, resting his head against the frame, and I started the engine.

The sky stretched wide above as I turned the truck back toward Laredo, back toward Charlie’s, back toward everything waiting for us.

And behind us, on that tree at Coyote Point, our names stayed. Proof we’d been there. Proof we’d been us.

Charlie’s smelled like fryer grease and sugar, the kind of scent that clung to your hair no matter how many showers you took. I’d worked enough shifts to be numb to it, but tonight, it hit different. Because I knew Wilson was there.

Not in front of the counter. Not pulling up a stool. He was tucked behind the brick wall outside, just out of view. Watching me. Pretending he wasn’t.

I could feel it.

Every time I slid a root beer float across the counter or passed a cone out the window, my mind wasn’t on the order. It was on him. Wilson. The heat making his hair curl at the edges, the shirt I bought him still clinging to his shoulders, the way he’d looked at me in the water like he wanted to close the space between us.

“Brando, my boy.”

The familiar voice cut through my head. Mom.

I turned just as Michelle Copeland leaned into the window, fanning herself with one hand, her other already digging a couple of crumpled bills from her purse. “Lord, it’s too hot to breathe out here. Can I get a shaved ice before I melt onto the pavement?”

“Sure thing,” I said, grabbing a cup. “Lemon?”

“You know it.”

As I scooped the ice, I caught sight of her gaze drifting toward the wall outside, her face softening. Wilson had peeked around just enough to wave, sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

And of course, Mom gushed.

“Wilson Webber,” she called, her voice carrying like it was church on Sunday. “Look at you.”

Wilson ducked his head, shuffling closer, leaning a shoulder against the brick. “Hi, Mrs. Copeland.”

She beamed. “Still the brightest kid in the room, aren’t you? Carla says you were set to be salutatorian. Maybe you can still swing it, even in Austin, if you keep working hard. Though you know Cece’s got valedictorian locked down.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she does.”

Mom leaned on the counter, chin in her hand. “Your mama’s proud of you. We all are. Smart and kind. You better come back and visit, you hear me?”

“I will,” Wilson said, smiling soft. “And you gotta promise to take care of my mom while I’m gone.” He laughed as he said it, but there was something real under it.

Mom’s face softened even more, her eyes warm. She leaned across the counter, pulling him into a hug over the brick like he was hers too. Wilson hugged back without hesitation.

Something twisted in my chest.

When she finally let him go, she handed me the money and slid the shaved ice across. But before she left, she leaned in closer to me through the window, her voice dropping low.

“Your dad’s across the street with the little league.”

I froze.

She sighed, her smile dimming, that worried line cutting across her forehead. “And you know how he is. So you better watch out.”

She said it like it hurt, like she hated giving the warning but couldn’t not.

I nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. I know.”

Her hand brushed mine quick, a silent squeeze before she straightened, waving to Wilson one more time. Then she disappeared back into the heat, the crowd swallowing her up.

I went back to scooping ice, passing cones, smiling at regulars. But my stomach was tight. My mom was right. My dad was out there. Watching. Waiting.

And Wilson? Wilson was still there too, leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t realize how dangerous it felt just to be seen together.

I was wiping my hands on my apron when I felt it, that prickling at the back of my neck.

I didn’t need to look. I already knew.

Dad.

Across the street with the little league, arms crossed, voice carrying above the chatter. He was watching. I could feel it, sharp as a knife, cutting across the pavement and right into me.

I swallowed hard, pretending to focus on scooping ice into a cone. My pulse rattled in my ears.

That’s when she appeared.

Blonde. Tall. Definitely not from Laredo High, maybe Freer, maybe somewhere smaller. She leaned on the counter, twirling a strand of hair. “Hey,” she said, smiling wide. “Are you, like… a cowboy or something?”

Every instinct in me wanted to roll my eyes, mutter something short, keep it moving. But then I felt it, Dad’s gaze, heavy and scorching from across the street.

And I knew. He’d seen Wilson. Seen him standing there behind the wall, waiting for me.

My stomach twisted.

So I plastered on a grin I didn’t feel. “Maybe,” I drawled, leaning just a little out the window. “Depends who’s asking.”

She giggled, batting her lashes like it was 1950. “Do you ride horses or…?”

“I prefer baseball,” I shot back, voice loud, casual. Too casual.

I could feel Wilson. Right there in my peripheral. Leaned against the wall, watching, rolling his eyes so hard I didn’t even have to see him to know.

I kept going anyway. Forcing laughter, hanging half out the window, playing up every stupid line like Dad wanted me to. Like if I sold it enough, maybe it would erase what he thought he saw.

But my stomach burned with every word.

And then I heard it.

A small scoff.

Soft. Disbelieving. The kind of sound Wilson only made when he was done with me, when he couldn’t take the joke anymore.

The sound cut sharper than anything my dad could’ve said.

And before I could stop him, I heard the crunch of his sneakers against the gravel. Steady. Walking away.

I didn’t look. I couldn’t. My chest felt tight, my hands trembling around the scoop.

I just kept laughing with blondie, my voice hollow, every word tasting like ash.

But the truth?

I felt it. The exact moment his presence left. Like the whole night dimmed without him standing there.

And I told myself he’d come back. He always did.

Still, it didn’t stop the ache that tore through me as I leaned on the counter, smiling at a girl I didn’t care about while the only person I wanted was walking away.

I wiped my hands on the apron, pretending like I was busy, but really, I was counting. Every second. Every cone handed off, every order filled, I knew he was out there. Behind the wall. Waiting. Watching me pretend I wasn’t watching him.

And when the last car pulled away, I slid the window shut with a soft click, tossed the apron onto the counter, and stepped into the sticky night air.

The streetlamp made everything look harsher than it was, Wilson leaning against the wall, arms crossed tight, his face carved into shadow. He didn’t say a word.

My smile felt forced, but I pushed it out anyway, scratching the back of my neck like I could play it cool. “Sorry, man. Longest shift ever. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Nothing. Not a nod. Not a laugh. Just him, still as stone.

My chest pinched. So I pulled out my ace.

From behind my back, I held out the little paper cup, strawberry ice cream, his favorite. “Thought you might want this.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. An exaggerated eye roll, but there it was: a smile, cracked just for me.

I held the spoon just out of reach when he tried to grab it. Couldn’t help myself. “Come on, man. Don’t be like that.” I nudged him lightly with my shoulder, trying to make it easy again.

He laughed, short but real, snagging the spoon anyway. For a minute, just a minute, it was us again. Standing side by side against the wall, cicadas buzzing, the world spinning slower.

He dug in with mock drama. “One hour and one pity scoop of strawberry? Wow. Romance is alive.”

I huffed out a laugh and leaned against the wall beside him, shoulder brushing his just slightly. That tiny contact lit me up like a fuse. “It’s not pity. It’s a bribe.”

He licked the spoon, gave me that half-smile. “Bribe for what?”

I shrugged, casual on the outside, knotted up on the inside. “To not hate me tomorrow.”

Silence stretched, thick and full, heavier than it should’ve been. The kind of silence where the air itself seemed to listen in.

“It’s been a good one though, right?” I asked eventually, nudging his sneaker with the toe of my own, desperate for something.

He let the quiet hang a second longer, then nodded. “Yeah. Kinda hard to top late-night river swims and you almost crashing your truck trying to catch fireflies.”

I snorted, grateful for the out. “You were the one hanging out the window screaming that you were a nature god or whatever.”

“I was trying to vibe with the moonlight,” he shot back, mock-defensive. “It was poetic.”

“You were drunk and shirtless and shouting about frogs.”

We laughed, both of us, but it didn’t last. It softened too fast, fading back into that ache that lived between us.

“I’m gonna miss this,” I said quietly, voice low. “All of it. You.”

He froze. Kept eating his ice cream like it was no big deal. Watching it melt.

“You’ll still have late-night truck rides,” he said finally, his voice lighter than his eyes. “Just, you know… with someone else screaming out the window.”

I looked at him then, really looked, letting myself for once. His hair curling at the edges, lips pink from the cold, eyes too soft for me to stand.

“I don’t want someone else,” I said before I could stop myself.

And there it was. Out in the open. Electric. Fragile.

His spoon tapped against the cup like he was trying to look casual. “So. Who was the girl?”

My chest sank. “What girl?”

He gave me that look, sharp and cutting. “Seriously?”

I ran a hand through my hair, stalling. “Oh. That girl. She’s nobody. Just… some junior from Freer. I think her cousin works at Charlie’s or something.”

His eyebrow arched. “Seemed like she wanted to marry you.”

I snorted, forcing a laugh. “Please. She asked if I was in college and then called me ‘cowboy’ like three times in a row. It wasn’t that deep.”

But he wasn’t smiling now. He stared at the ice cream instead. “Didn’t look that way from out here.”

And just like that, my stomach twisted.

I leaned back against the wall, staring up at the stars, wishing they’d give me a way out. But all they gave me was silence.

The kind that pressed on your ribs until you couldn’t breathe.

“We should go,” Wilson said finally, voice quieter now. He brushed melting ice cream off his fingers onto his jeans, like wiping me off too. “It’s late. I gotta be up early.”

I nodded, pushing off the wall. What else could I do?

We walked to the truck without a word.

The cab smelled like vanilla and fryer grease and the cologne I’d doused on earlier. Wilson slid in beside me, his knees turned toward the door, arms crossed like armor. The air felt different now. Not easy. Not ours. Like even the silence had picked sides.

I sat behind the wheel, fingers twitching, mind screaming. I reached for the radio, desperate for anything to cut through the quiet. The knob clicked.

Static hissed. Then, like the universe had been waiting all night, Yazoo’s Only You spilled through the speakers.

Soft. Sharp. Unavoidable.

And I froze.

Wilson didn’t move either.

The song filled the cab, hazy and perfect and so damn cruel. I gripped the wheel tighter, heart pounding, knowing, absolutely knowing, that if I looked at him right now, if I let myself, I wouldn’t survive it.
He was curled into himself, arms folded, jaw clenched tight. His eyes stayed forward, like if he didn’t look at me, he could hold the world together a little longer.

My fingers twitched against the wheel, drumming once, light, nervous. My brain screamed at me: Don’t. Don’t ruin this. Don’t ruin him. Don’t ruin yourself.

But my heart?

My heart was louder. Do it. Just once. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.

I risked a glance, and it was enough to undo me. The curve of his mouth, set tight but trembling. The faint shadow of a frown that looked more like fear than anger. The way his shoulders rose and fell too fast, like he was holding his breath.

He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t going to.

So I reached.

My hand lifted before I could think, fingers brushing his cheek, turning his face toward mine. His skin was warm, damp with sweat, rough where the summer sun had burned him.

And then I leaned in.

Hesitant, but sure.

And kissed him.

Soft. Quick. But real.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Wilson didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop me.

For a few endless seconds, he even kissed back. His lips pressed against mine, tentative, trembling, but there.

My chest burned. My head spun. Fireworks. Explosions. Everything I’d told myself I’d imagined was right there, alive and undeniable.

Then, slowly, he pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough for our foreheads to rest together, breaths colliding in the heavy night air. His eyes stayed shut. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

My laugh slipped out, small and broken, the kind that only happens when you’re both terrified and euphoric at once.

I kept my eyes closed, my smile faint, like if I moved too fast I’d scare the moment back into nothing.

And then, low and distant, thunder cracked across the sky.

 

Like the world had finally said it out loud for us.

The thunder rolled off into silence, and the weight of what I’d just done came crashing down.

I jerked back, heart hammering, breath ragged. The taste of him still lingered, and it scared me more than anything ever had.

“Shit,” I muttered, rubbing my face with both hands. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

Wilson blinked at me, eyes wide, lips still parted. He looked like he was waiting for something, anything, from me. Reassurance. A smile. Proof that what just happened wasn’t some mistake.

But all I gave him was fear.

“I just…” My voice cracked, so I forced a laugh, hollow and sharp. “I just wanted to know what it felt like, you know? Like… like a test drive.”

Wilson’s jaw tightened. His spoon clattered into the empty ice cream cup.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I rushed on, fumbling for something to shield myself. “I’m not- I’m not gay. I just… I had to know. And now I do.”

Every word tasted like poison, but I kept going, digging the knife in deeper.

“You don’t care, right? It won’t ruin anything? We’re still us.” I turned the key in the ignition, the engine rattling to life, drowning out the part of me that was screaming to shut up. “Right?”

Wilson finally looked at me. His face was shuttered, unreadable, but his voice was quiet. “Yeah. Of course.”

I nodded too fast, like I believed it. Threw the truck into gear and pulled out onto the road, gravel crunching under the tires. My eyes stayed locked ahead, knuckles white around the wheel.

The drive was short, but it stretched forever. Wilson leaned against the passenger door, arms folded, staring out into the dark. He didn’t say a word.

And I knew.

I knew I’d ruined it.

I’d ruined him.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just some experiment. That kiss hadn’t been nothing. It had been everything.

Fireworks. Explosions. The kind of thing you can’t take back.

And now I was lying through my teeth, pretending it hadn’t changed me, when really, all I wanted was to do it again.

To feel him laugh against my mouth. To hold him tighter. To never let go.

But I couldn’t. Not with Dad watching. Not with the whole world waiting to tear me apart.

So I drove him toward Cece’s, the silence between us thick and final.

He’d think about it forever.

And so would I.

The drive to Cece’s was short, but it felt like hours. Neither of us said much. The cab was too quiet, Yazoo’s song still haunting the space even though it had ended minutes ago. Wilson stared out the window, eyes shining in the glow of streetlamps, his arms folded like he was bracing against me.

When I pulled up to the Navarro house, the porch light was already on, bugs swirling around it like a halo. Wilson unclipped his seatbelt slow, like he was dragging out the last seconds.

I wanted to say something. Anything. But my throat was tight, my chest burning with everything I couldn’t admit.

He opened the door, stepping down into the gravel. For a second, I thought he’d just walk straight up to the porch. But then he turned back.

And pulled me into a hug.

Not one of those half-hearted slaps on the back. A real one. Arms around me, holding tight.

I froze for a second, then wrapped my arms around him, pressing my chin to his shoulder. And for a moment, it felt like the whole night hadn’t happened. Like we were just two kids saying goodbye at the end of summer, clinging to what we had.

But it had happened. And we both knew it.

We stayed like that for longer than we should’ve, the crickets chirping loud in the heat, until finally he pulled back, his eyes shining.

“I’ll miss you,” he said, voice catching.

It hit me like a punch. I forced a crooked smile, then lightly punched his arm to cover. “I’ll miss you too, Webber.”

He laughed, watery, and pulled me in for another hug.

When he pulled away again, he swiped at his eyes quick. “You’ll come see me in the morning? Before I go?”

“Of course,” I said, steady even if my chest was breaking. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He nodded, then turned toward the porch, his shoulders hunched like the weight of tomorrow was already pressing down.

I watched him knock on the door, watched him shift his backpack higher, watched him hesitate before Cece opened up.

She spotted me sitting in the truck immediately. Rolled her eyes. And without missing a beat, she flipped me off.

I couldn’t even be mad.

She didn’t know what had happened, not really. But somehow, she was still right.

I lifted two fingers off the wheel in a lazy salute, forcing a grin. She narrowed her eyes before ushering Wilson inside.

Wilson looked back once, just for a second, meeting my eyes in the dark.

Then he was gone.

I sat there until the door shut, the light spilling across the porch fading back into shadow. Only then did I put the truck in gear and head home.

The road stretched out under me, the headlights catching dust and gravel, and my mind spun circles I couldn’t escape.

The kiss. His laugh. His silence. His hug. The look in his eyes that would brand me forever.

I told myself it was a mistake. A test. A nothing.

But my chest knew better.

Because I’d never wanted anything more in my life.

And I’d never be able to admit it.

I killed the engine and just sat there in the driveway, the cab still smelling like Wilson, lake water, sugar, sun. My hands were still on the wheel but my knuckles weren’t white anymore.

Tomorrow, I thought.

Tomorrow I’ll tell him. I’ll tell Wilson I meant it. The kiss. All of it. He deserves that. Even if nothing comes of it, even if we can’t be anything, at least he’ll know. At least it won’t be a lie.

And who’s to say we can’t?

The thought slipped in, small but bright. Who’s to say we can’t?

I let myself smile, just a little, the first real breath I’d taken all day filling my chest. The plan steadied me, calmed me.

Then I opened the truck door and stepped into the humid night.

The house was dark except for a single lamp glowing in the living room. My stomach sank before I even saw him.

Dad.

Sitting in the lazy boy, drink in hand, the TV muted on some rerun. The smell of whiskey and ice. His eyes finding me the second I stepped through the door.

“Sit down.”

I froze. My first instinct was to run upstairs, straight to my room, but I didn’t. I never did. I always listened to Chris Copeland.

So I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch, palms on my knees. My heart was already hammering. I wished Mom was awake. I wished she was here between us like a shield.

Dad took a slow drink, ice clinking. “I know you skipped practice.”

I didn’t look up. “Sorry, Coach.” My voice was small, automatic.

“And I know you didn’t stay home with your mom like she said.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

He swirled the glass, eyes sharp. “But I seen you with that girl at work.”

My chest lightened for a second. Thank God. He’d seen Blondie. He was proud. I could work with that.

Sure enough, his mouth twitched into something like a smile. “Good. That’s good. That’s what I like to see. You’re a Copeland.”

I nodded, a weak smile trying to form. “Yes, sir.”

But then his face hardened again. He took another drink, set the glass down heavy.

“I think I seen something else after the shop closed up.”

The room tilted.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes boring into me. “My eyes could’ve tricked me. But that never happens.”

I couldn’t move.

“But for your own sake,” he said, voice low now, like a snake, “for your mother’s sake, for your unborn sister’s sake, I’m gonna let myself believe my eyes tricked me. And I didn’t see my son kiss a boy in the cab of his truck.”

Everything in me froze.

Tears burned up hot, stinging behind my eyes. My throat closed.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t cry. Don’t be a pussy. Be a goddamn man.”

I blinked fast, swallowed hard, forcing the tears back down like swallowing glass. “Yes, sir.”

He leaned back in the chair, drink in hand, like the moment had passed. “Up in the morning at six. Suicides on the field at seven.”

I wet my lips, my voice barely a whisper. “I have to do something in the morning-”

“No,” he cut me off, sharp as a blade. “If you care about that boy, if you care about your mom, you won’t go near him again. Because I swear to God, if I see something like that again, everyone will regret it.”

I stared at the carpet, my heart breaking in slow motion.

“Yes, sir.”

He took another drink, eyes already on the TV again. “Goodnight.”

I stood, legs shaking, and walked down the hallway to my room like a ghost.

All that light, all that hope I’d let myself have in the truck? Gone.

I shut my door, leaning against it, breathing hard, my face in my hands.

I still wanted him. God, I still wanted him. I wanted to see him in the morning. I wanted to tell him the truth.\

But now?

 

Now I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.

The house had gone still. Dad’s glass clinked one last time downstairs, then the TV muted. The air conditioner hummed low through the vents, trying and failing to cool the heat pressing against the windows.

I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, my shirt still damp from sweat and lake water, my hands still sticky with sugar from the strawberry ice cream I’d bought him.

The room smelled like summer, grass and cedar, faint salt from the towels I’d thrown in a heap by the door. And Wilson. Everything smelled like Wilson.

I turned onto my side and reached under my pillow. The photo slipped out easy, edges worn soft from being handled too much.

It was from two weeks ago, some random night at the river when Ella had brought her polaroid camera. Wilson was half-smiling, arm thrown around my neck, both of us wet and sunburnt, the water behind us glowing orange. We looked happy. Stupid, but happy.

I pressed the picture to my chest and bit my lip. The tears came before I could stop them.

Silent sobs, face buried in the pillow so Dad wouldn’t hear, so Mom wouldn’t worry. My chest shook, but I forced it quiet.

Because I knew.

I couldn’t go see him tomorrow.

I cared too much to. I cared too much to risk Dad doing something, and Dad would. He’d do something. He’d hurt me, sure, but worse, he’d go after Wilson, and that would ruin everything.

If this was the cost of keeping Wilson safe, I’d pay it.

I told myself we could come back from this. That someday, when Dad wasn’t home, when it was safe, I’d write Wilson a letter. I’d call him. I’d explain. I’d tell him what the kiss really meant.

But even as I thought it, another voice whispered the truth,

Boys like me don’t get happy endings like that.

Not here. Not now. Not ever.

I’d never get to be with the boy I truly loved.

The thought broke something in me so quietly it barely made a sound.

I rolled onto my back again, tears cooling on my cheeks, staring up at the ceiling. The photo of us sat on the nightstand, inches from my hand. I left it there, like a talisman, the only proof of the world I wanted but couldn’t have.

Eventually the sobs faded into shallow breaths. My eyes closed. The picture stayed beside me as sleep finally dragged me under.

And for the first time all summer, I didn’t dream of running.

I just dreamed of him.

Chapter Text

APRIL 1996
LAREDO, TX

 

The Copeland-Webber house buzzed like the inside of a radio. Music thumped through every room, something bright and poppy, pure 1996, while laughter and voices tangled over it. The air smelled like sheet cake, sunscreen, and the faint sweetness of the balloons that brushed the ceiling.

The dining table had become a makeshift casino. Ella, hair pinned up with glittery clips, flicked a card onto the pile like she was dealing at Vegas. Jan sat beside her, legs tucked under the chair, sipping from a red cup and cheering at random moments just to mess with everyone. Scott Elery, loud as ever, was bluffing so badly even five-year-olds could tell. Brando had his arms crossed, trying to look serious, while Mallory lounged back in her seat, grinning, a stack of chips in front of her.

Cece Navarro hovered behind Mallory’s shoulder like a referee in a power suit, pretending to “monitor” the fairness of the game but clearly whispering strategy into her girlfriend’s ear.

Across the room, Carla and Michelle sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, a photo album spread across their laps. “Remember this?” Carla said, tapping a faded Polaroid of Wilson at seven with a popsicle stain down his shirt. Michelle laughed so hard she nearly spilled her iced tea. “Lord, he looks just like Rose when she’s concentrating.” They’d been in those same scrapbooks since the move; the pictures lived here now, along with everything else.

In the corner, Wilson crouched with his new digital camera, adjusting the flash. “Okay, everybody smile like you’re not plotting card-game revenge,” he called. Brando looked up, flipped him an exaggerated peace sign, and Wilson clicked the shutter, the tiny whir of the camera lost in the noise.

Near the sliding glass door, Kate Copeland, now fourteen and fully committed to her teenage cool-girl phase, sat cross-legged on the carpet with Rose and her little group of five-year-olds. Rose’s curls were clipped back with a sparkly barrette shaped like a star. Beside her sat Jeremy Elery, Scott’s son, freckles, gap-toothed grin, and already halfway in awe of Rose’s confidence, and two of her classmates, Lauren Abbott and Ryan Bylinowski.

“So,” Kate said, adjusting her glasses like she was leading a seminar. “There are five Spice Girls. Scary, Baby, Sporty, Ginger, and Posh. They’re basically superheroes, but British.”

Rose nodded solemnly. “Ginger’s the best one.”

“No,” Lauren said. “Baby is.”

Jeremy frowned. “Why are they called that? They don’t have powers.”

Kate gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, yes they do. They have girl power.”

Lauren echoed it, eyes wide. “Girl power.”

Rose shrugged. “I like Sporty. She could beat everyone up.”

Brando’s laugh rang from the table. “That’s my kid.”

“Dad!” Rose yelled, giggling.

Scott raised an eyebrow at Brando. “You sure? I think she takes after her other dad, the one currently taking glamour shots of the salsa bowl.”

Wilson stuck his tongue out at him from behind the camera. “Documenting memories, Scott.”

“Sure, sure.” Scott grinned and threw down his cards. “And this memory is me losing all my money to your 9th grade girlfriend’s girlfriend.”

Mallory winked. “Don’t hate the player.”

Cece straightened Mallory’s stack of cards. “Hate the odds.”

Everyone laughed.

The house felt impossibly full, of noise, of people, of years. Rose darted between rooms in her glittery birthday shirt, frosting smudged on her cheek, shouting, “Come see my presents!” every five minutes.

And in every corner, someone was smiling, grandmas with their scrapbooks, aunts arguing over cards, uncles telling tall tales, kids spinning in the living room, while Wilson quietly captured it all through the lens of his brand-new camera, one tiny click at a time.

The party had barely found its rhythm, the music still settling, the paper streamers not yet drooping under the heat, when Brando leaned toward Scott with that conspiratorial glint that never meant anything good.

“Garage,” Brando said under his breath.

Scott’s grin spread like wildfire. “You found the stash, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Brando said, already heading for the back door.

In the kitchen, Wilson was trying to line up juice boxes for the kids and cue up Wannabe on the stereo, blissfully unaware that Operation Beer Run was underway. The sound of the sliding door creaking open barely cut through the chatter.

The garage fridge hummed in the dark, surrounded by boxes labeled XMAS LIGHTS and WILSON’S STUFF - DO NOT TOUCH. Brando yanked it open like a magician revealing a trick.

“Ta-da,” he whispered. Six cold cans sat in a neat little row behind a pack of Capri Suns.

Scott whistled. “You devil.”

Brando smirked, grabbing two and handing one off. “Wilson thought he hid ‘em behind the paint cans last time. Rookie mistake.”

“Your husband’s too trusting,” Scott said, popping his tab.

“Yeah,” Brando said, almost fondly. “But that’s why I love him.”

They clinked cans in the low light and headed back in, the smell of cold beer following them like a secret.

The moment they stepped into the kitchen, Cece’s lawyer senses tingled. She spotted the silver cans instantly. “Are those…?”

“Survival beverages,” Brando said, grinning.

Cece raised a hand. “I’ll take one.”

Mallory’s hand shot up next. “Make it two.”

“I’ll take three,” Ella called, already half-standing from her seat. Jan followed her, laughing. “We’re bad influences. Someone stop us.”

Carla and Michelle exchanged the look from their corner of the couch, the shared expression of two women who’d been putting up with this exact brand of chaos since the 1968.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Michelle muttered, flipping another scrapbook page. “He’s going to get the whole table buzzed before the cake’s even cut.”

Carla laughed, shaking her head. “Let him have it. It’s his day too.”

Wilson, from across the room, caught sight of the cans just as Brando popped the stereo volume up.

“Brando,” he said, voice half-warning, half-laugh.

Brando cupped a hand to his ear, pretending not to hear. “Huh? What was that?”

“Brando.”

No use. Brando had already twisted the volume knob. The opening beat of Wannabe blasted through the speakers.

“Alright, everyone!” Brando shouted over the music. “Time to show these kids what REAL choreography looks like!”

Scott snorted beer through his nose. “Oh, this I gotta see.”

Brando jumped into the middle of the living room, spinning once before breaking into a series of moves that could loosely be described as dancing, half sprinkler, half air guitar, all heart.

The kids screamed with laughter.

Rose clutched Jeremy’s arm. “That’s my dad!” she yelled, absolutely delighted.

Ryan and Lauren doubled over. “He’s so weird!”

Kate groaned from the floor, hands over her face. “Please, please make it stop. I’m related to that.”

Cece leaned against the counter, beer in hand, shaking her head with a smile she was trying too hard to hide. “He’s unbelievable.”

Mallory was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. “He’s amazing.”

Wilson just sighed, camera dangling at his side, trying to look stern but failing miserably. He gave up and snapped a picture instead, Brando mid-spin, mouth open, kids screaming, Ella doing a half-hearted backup dance in the background.

The flash popped, catching the moment forever.

Brando stopped, slightly out of breath, hands on his hips, grinning at everyone’s faces. “What? You’re welcome.”

Carla groaned affectionately from the couch. “Every damn year.”

Michelle raised her glass. “And every year, he gets worse.”

“Hey!” Brando said, laughing. “I’m like fine wine, baby.”

“More like boxed wine,” Michelle shot back, making everyone roar.

Wilson shook his head, walking over to kiss the top of Brando’s hair-slicked forehead. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, still smiling.

Brando looked up at him with that same grin he’d always had. “Yeah, but you love me.”

And judging by the way Wilson’s eyes softened, camera forgotten, kids still laughing in the background, he absolutely did.

“Everybody, yeahhhhhh!”

The Backstreet Boys blasted through the speakers, bass rattling the windows.

Rose, Jeremy, Ryan, and Lauren were in the center of the living room, jumping up and down like they’d just been granted superpowers. Their tiny arms waved in perfect, chaotic unison. Rose shouted the “rock your body right” part like it was a battle cry.

Kate sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, pretending she wasn’t smiling. Her foot was tapping, betraying her. She looked at Rose, her wild little niece with frosting on her face and sparkles in her hair, and felt something tug in her chest. She’d roll her eyes if anyone caught her, but she loved that kid more than she’d ever admit.

At the card table, the so-called grown-ups had only grown less responsible. The single “secret” beer had turned into a few more, the caps littering the center like poker chips. Brando leaned back in his chair, singing off-key, while Scott drummed along on the tabletop. Mallory and Cece were arguing over lyrics, Cece insisting she had “superior pop culture knowledge,” which Mallory found personally offensive.

Wilson was trying to record the kids dancing, but his camera caught everything, the adults laughing, Brando clapping too loudly, the music shaking the frame. He’d given up on controlling the chaos somewhere around the second verse.

Then, like a door straight from hell, or heaven, depending on who you asked, the back door flew open and Ella and Janice burst in, arms full.

Ella was grinning like she’d just won something. “We come bearing gifts!”

Janice held up a brown paper bag like a trophy. “And by gifts, we mean more beer. And this bottle of… whatever this is.”

Wilson’s jaw dropped. “When did you even leave?”

Ella set the bag on the counter, shrugging. “Five minutes ago. We went on a mission. The people demanded hydration.”

“Hydration?” Wilson sputtered, moving to intercept them. “This is a five-year-old’s birthday party!”

Cece, already halfway through laughing, reached for the bottle. “Technically, none of these children are mine.”

Wilson groaned. “Cece-”

Too late. She was pouring a shot like she was running the bar. “Relax! It’s a celebration. I facilitated an adoption, I think that entitles me to one.”

Mallory leaned against her shoulder, giggling. “That’s lawyer logic.”

“Exactly.” Cece threw the shot back with alarming precision.

Brando cheered. “That’s my girl, Cece Navarro!”

Scott smacked his hand on the table. “Next round!”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about never trusting lawyers.

Across the room, Michelle glanced at Carla with a knowing smile. “Should we intervene?”

Carla tipped her head, considering. “Or…” She opened the cooler beside her chair and pulled out a corkscrew. “We could mind our business and open this bottle of pinot instead.”

Michelle laughed softly, taking it from her. “Now you’re talking.”

The cork popped with a satisfying thunk.

Brando looked over from the table, eyes widening. “Oh, come on, they get wine?!”

Carla raised her glass. “We’re classy, sweetheart.”

“Classy,” Michelle echoed, clinking her glass against Carla’s.

The song changed, the kids still dancing, the adults getting rowdier by the minute.

Lauren twirled in her glittery skirt, laughing so hard she almost fell, Jeremy catching her by the hand before she hit the ground.

Kate finally gave in, standing to join them, helping the little ones jump in time to the beat.

Brando watched her with that soft, proud look Wilson always noticed, his sister, his kid, all growing up too fast.

Wilson’s camera flashed again, freezing the chaos mid-motion, Cece laughing with a glass in her hand, Ella mid-pose, Rose’s curls flying as she spun.

The Copeland-Webber house was packed, loud, and slightly tipsy, exactly how every memory in that house seemed to be.

 

The music quieted only because Wilson turned it down himself. That was the only way to get everyone’s attention long enough for cake. The stereo clicked, and a second later, the kitchen filled with the soft hum of anticipation and the scent of vanilla frosting.

Brando clapped his hands once, loud enough to make everyone jump. “ALRIGHT! EVERYBODY! FORM A LINE! WE GOT A BIRTHDAY GIRL WHO’S FIVE YEARS OLD AND DEMANDING CAKE!”

“I’m not demanding!” Rose shouted from the living room floor, frosting still streaked across her cheek from earlier. “I’m requesting!”

The crowd erupted with laughter.

Cece, still half-lawyer, half-babysitter, raised her glass like a toast. “That’s my girl, knows the difference between a demand and a request.”

Mallory giggled into her shoulder. “Cece, she’s five.”

“Future litigator,” Cece countered.

The kitchen table had been cleared for the occasion, though cleared was generous, there were still card decks shoved to one side, a scattering of bottle caps, and one half-empty glass of pinot dangerously close to the edge. Carla and Michelle were stationed near the cake, lighting candles while trying to fend off Brando’s “help.”

“Dude, you’re gonna melt the frosting if you keep breathing on it!” Kate complained, swatting him away with a paper plate.

“I’m just making sure the candles are straight!” Brando said, leaning closer anyway.

“They’re fine,” Wilson said from behind the camera, snapping a test shot. “They’re beautiful. Let’s not set the house on fire this year.”

Carla grinned, striking the final match. “Alright, last one’s lit.”

The lights dimmed, courtesy of Michelle, who flicked the switch and murmured, “And cue the show.”

The room fell into a hush, a soft, warm kind that only happened at moments like this.

Rose stepped up to the table, curls glowing gold in the candlelight, eyes wide. Jeremy, Ryan, and Lauren hovered beside her like an entourage, whispering about who’d get the corner piece. Kate stood behind them, hands on her hips, smiling in spite of herself.

“Ready?” Wilson asked, camera poised.

Rose nodded solemnly, like this was a royal duty.

And then Brando started to sing.

“Happy birthday to youuuu,”

He sang like he was on stage at the rodeo, loud and off-key but with all the heart in the world.

Everyone joined in, off-beat, slightly drunk, all in different keys. Cece’s voice came in strong and surprisingly decent. Ella was harmonizing wrong on purpose. Janice was laughing too hard to finish a line. Mallory was humming lightly, trying to stifle a laugh.

By the second verse, even the kids were howling the words.

Rose’s cheeks went pink, but she didn’t stop smiling. She glanced up at Wilson, who winked behind the camera, then at Brando, who was already misty-eyed before she’d even blown out the candles.

“Alright, Rosie girl,” Wilson said, crouching down beside her, “make a wish. Make it a good one.”

Rose folded her hands in front of her face, dramatic as always. “I already know what I’m wishing for.”

“Oh yeah?” Scott leaned on the counter. “What’s that?”

She shook her head fiercely. “You can’t say it or it won’t come true.”

Brando gasped. “She’s right. That’s rule number one of wishing!”

Wilson smiled softly. “I think she knows what she’s doing.”

Rose took a deep breath, cheeks puffing out, and blew, one long breath that sent all five candles flickering out at once.

The room erupted in applause.

Brando scooped her up before she could protest, spinning her once in a circle while she squealed. “FIVE YEARS OLD, BABY GIRL! YOU DID IT!”

“Dad!” she shrieked, giggling.

“Alright, alright!” Wilson said, trying to keep his camera steady. “Put her down before she gets dizzy.”

Brando kissed her forehead and set her on the counter. “Never too dizzy for cake.”

Cece started clapping rhythmically. “Cake, cake, cake, cake!”

Mallory joined in, then Janice, until the whole kitchen was chanting.

Carla cut the first slice, pretending not to smile, while Michelle handed out plates. “Small pieces first,” Michelle said, slicing carefully.

“Define small,” Brando said, eyeing the corner with the most frosting.

“Not for you,” Michelle deadpanned, sliding it out of reach.

“Discrimination,” Brando muttered, earning a laugh from Ella.

Rose’s piece was first, of course, a perfect square of vanilla and strawberry layers, pink frosting curling at the edges. She picked up her plastic fork like a weapon and took a bite big enough to make everyone gasp.

“Rose Copeland Webber!” Wilson said, laughing. “You’re supposed to eat it, not inhale it.”

“Can’t help it,” she mumbled around the mouthful. “It’s so good.”

Brando beamed, like he’d baked it himself. “Only the best for my girl.”

Around her, everyone had fallen into that comfortable rhythm, Carla and Michelle clinking glasses, Cece and Mallory sharing whispers, Ella wiping frosting off Janice’s nose, Kate laughing with Jeremy and Ryan as they fought over whose turn it was to pick the next song.

Wilson took one last photo, just before the chaos of presents and dancing started again, Rose on the counter, cheeks smeared pink, holding a half-eaten slice of cake while everyone around her looked, for once, like nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

He lowered the camera and just watched.

His daughter. His husband. His entire, ridiculous, beautiful family.

The Copeland-Webber house had never felt fuller.

And if you asked him, he’d say that was exactly how it should be.

The cake had been devoured down to frosting streaks, and the kids had scattered, some sprawled on the floor, others watching Space Jam on the living room TV. The grown-ups lingered around the kitchen, refilling wine glasses and teasing each other over who’d eaten the biggest slice.

At the center of it all sat Rose, perched happily on Wilson’s lap at the table, her curls a little wild and her shirt streaked with pink icing. Brando leaned on the table beside them, one hand already reaching for his camera as Wilson started clearing a little space.

“Alright, birthday girl,” Wilson said, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Before we dive into the mountain of gifts from this circus of people, we’re starting with the ones that came in the mail, okay?”

Rose’s eyes widened. “From Aunt Rory?”

“And some of Papa’s work friends,” Brando added. “You’ve got quite the fan club, kiddo.”

Rose clapped her frosting-sticky hands together. “I told you she wouldn’t forget!”

Wilson smiled. “Rory Callahan has never forgotten a single postcard in her life.”

Carla leaned against the counter, smiling. “That girl’s got more stamps than sense.”

Brando chuckled. “She’s probably riding a camel somewhere right now.”

Wilson grabbed the first envelope from the little pile by his elbow, bright blue, smudged at the edges, covered in stickers of stars and half-faded airline stamps. “Here it is,” he said softly. “Postmarked two weeks ago.”

He held it out to Rose, who took it delicately with both hands, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she turned it over. “It’s from… Morocco?” she sounded out carefully.

“Morocco!” Kate repeated, eyes widening. “That’s like… across the ocean.”

Rose gasped dramatically. “A whole ocean? Aunt Rory’s crazy!”

“She’s adventurous,” Wilson corrected gently, though his smile betrayed his pride. “Go ahead, baby. Read it.”

Rose unfolded the postcard, the glossy front showing a golden desert at sunset. She squinted at the handwriting, curly and uneven, written in blue ink. “Dear Rose,” she began, sounding out the words slowly, “I found a sand dune taller than your house. I wanted to climb it, but your Papa would’ve told me to bring water, and I didn’t, so I took a picture instead. There are camels here, and they smell weird. I miss you every day and think about how big you must be getting. Next time I’m home, you’re gonna have to show me that new book you wrote about. Don’t let your dads eat all your cake. Love, Aunt Rory.”

She looked up, beaming. “She remembered my book!”

Brando smiled, brushing a crumb off her cheek. “She always does.”

Wilson reached for a small, square package beside the postcard, a brown box tied up with red string, the return address written in Rory’s messy scrawl. “And she sent something else.”

Rose leaned forward eagerly. “Open it, open it!”

Wilson handed it to her. “You do it. You’re five now. That means you’re officially a pro at tape.”

Rose carefully tore it open, making everyone at the table lean in. Inside was a small box wrapped in tissue paper, and beneath that, a folded note written in the same blue pen: For when you start your own adventures.

She peeled back the tissue paper and gasped. Inside was a tiny silver compass on a chain, its glass face shining under the kitchen lights.

“It’s so pretty!” Rose whispered, turning it in her hands. The needle quivered and pointed north. “What’s it do?”

“It shows you where you’re going,” Wilson said, his voice soft. “No matter where you are.”

“So you never get lost,” Brando added, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Rose held it up proudly. “It’s magic!”

Carla smiled warmly from her seat. “Knowing Rory, it might be.”

Wilson slipped the chain over Rose’s head, the compass resting just above the little printed flowers on her shirt. “Looks perfect on you.”

Cece leaned on the counter, smiling. “One day, she’s gonna be the one sending postcards.”

“Let’s give her a few years first,” Brando said quickly, grinning. “I’m not ready for her to leave the house.”

Rose giggled, spinning in her chair so the compass caught the light. “Maybe I’ll go to Morocco too! Or maybe somewhere with penguins!”

“Pick somewhere with reliable mail service,” Wilson said. “Rory nearly got arrested in Italy once trying to find stamps.”

Michelle raised her glass. “To Aunt Rory and her questionable mailing habits.”

Everyone laughed, and Wilson leaned forward to kiss the top of Rose’s head. “Alright, kiddo. Ready for the next one?”

She hugged the compass against her chest, smiling. “Not yet. I wanna look at this one a little longer.”

So they let her. The music hummed quietly in the background, the party noise softening for a moment.

Rose sat on her Papa’s lap, twisting the compass in her small hands while Brando and Wilson watched her with the kind of love that filled the whole room.

For a few quiet seconds, everything else faded, the laughter, the chatter, the clinking glasses, and it was just them.

A little girl, her compass, and the family who made sure she’d always find her way home.

The next box in the pile was soft at the corners, the label half-covered in stickers of paintbrushes and flowers. Wilson brushed his thumb across the handwriting.

“Alright, this one’s from Papa’s work friends,” he said. “Remember the people you met on the computer when we were showing them your drawings?”

Rose nodded quickly. “Aunt Gennie!”

Brando laughed. “Yep. Aunt Gennie and the whole art gang.”

He set the box on the table and let her tug at the tape until it gave way. Inside were five little parcels, each wrapped in a different paper, each with a tiny card written in a different color of ink. Wilson leaned over her shoulder to read as she pulled the first one out.

The first was from Lydia, who always sent letters that smelled faintly like lavender oil. Rose unfolded the card and read aloud slowly: “For when you’re feeling creative.”

Inside the paper was a tin box, perfectly round and shiny, filled with colored pencils sharpened to perfect points. Each one was labeled with the name of a flower, Rose, Dandelion, Lilac, Marigold, Sunflower.

Rose gasped. “She put my name in here!”

Wilson smiled. “She did. Lydia remembers everything.”

Brando ruffled her hair. “You’re officially an artist now. No going back.”

The next parcel was from Marsha. Rose tore the paper away to reveal a stack of thick cards tied with a ribbon.

“What are they?” she asked, turning them over in her hands.

Wilson took one, smiling softly. “They’re prints. Marsha carved them herself.”

Each card had a tiny hand-carved picture pressed in bright ink, a cat sleeping, a sun rising, a boy reading a book under a tree. The last one was a tiny girl with curly hair holding a balloon.

Rose’s breath caught. “That’s me!”

Brando grinned. “Of course it is.”

Next was Gen, “Aunt Gennie,” as Rose always called her, the girl who had taught Wilson how to live outside of the nowhere town. The package was small, just a folded cloth tied with blue string.

Rose untied it carefully, revealing a tiny square canvas no bigger than her hand. It was a painting of their backyard: the old swing Brando had built, the apple tree Wilson had planted, and Rose’s tricycle tipped over near the fence. In the corner, a single silver star shimmered faintly in the paint.

The card read: Every home deserves a little magic.

Rose stared at it, eyes wide. “She painted our house?”

Wilson’s throat tightened. “She did, sweetheart.”

Brando’s voice went quiet. “That’s goin’ right above the mantel.”

The next gift was from Delilah, the poet who could draw and paint like no other. Her handwriting was a scrawl of curls and hearts.

Rose opened the tissue paper and found a tiny glazed mug, sky blue with little yellow suns along the rim. The handle was shaped like a crescent moon.

“It’s my size!” she said, slipping her hand through the tiny handle.

The note read: For your cocoa. Or your secrets.

Cece laughed from across the room. “That woman always did have flair.”

The last envelope was from Preston. The card was thick, and when Rose opened it, a small photograph slipped out.

It was a black-and-white picture of Rose as a baby, lying on a blanket between Wilson and Brando, both looking down at her with matching soft smiles. Wilson hadn’t even realized Preston had taken that shot.

Rose held it carefully, tracing the edges with her finger. “I’m so little.”

Wilson’s voice softened. “You were the littlest thing I’d ever seen.”

Brando leaned closer, his voice warm and low. “And the loudest.”

The room rippled with laughter.

Carla dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “That man always did have good timing.”

Michelle nodded. “And good film.”

Rose leaned back against Wilson’s chest, her little pile of treasures spread across the table: the pencils, the prints, the tiny mug, the painting, the photo, the compass glinting at her neck.

“Papa,” she said quietly, “they all know me.”

Wilson kissed the top of her head. “They love you. Even the ones who live far away.”

“’Cause I’m famous?” she asked, hopeful.

Brando snorted. “You will be. But for now, you’re just really, really loved.”

Cece raised her glass again. “To being loved,” she said.

Everyone echoed it softly, to being loved, and the moment hung there, sweet and glowing, like the last bit of sunlight through the window.

Rose traced the compass again and whispered, mostly to herself, “I think Aunt Rory would like these presents too.”

Wilson smiled. “I think she’d say you’ve already got the best one.”

Rose looked up, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Us,” Brando said simply.

And when the laughter started again, the music rising, and the night slipping into that easy, golden kind of joy that only ever happened in their house, it felt like he was right.

The dining room table had become a small mountain range of gifts, boxes, bags, and tissue paper spilling across the tablecloth in waves of pink, teal, and holographic silver. Someone had switched the CD to Ace of Base, and the house glowed that soft orange of late afternoon through the curtains.

Rose was still on Wilson’s lap, bouncing with excitement, the compass from Aunt Rory glinting around her neck. Her pile of art-collective gifts sat neatly on the side, but now she was ready for the chaos.

Brando rubbed his hands together like a game show host. “Alright! Next round of presents. kids first!”

Rose gasped. “From my friends?”

“From your friends,” Wilson confirmed, grinning. “Jeremy, you’re up, buddy.”

 

Jeremy Elery stood proudly beside his dad, clutching a square box wrapped in blue paper covered in doodles clearly drawn by the both of them.

“It’s from me and my dad,” Jeremy announced.

Rose tore into it with all the reverence of a raccoon in a garbage can. Inside was a bright red Walkie Talkie set, the kind with antennas that extended to nearly a foot tall and had stickers that read RADIO COMMANDERS!

Brando’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, man, I had these when I was a kid.”

Wilson grinned. “You and I had to shout across town. Now they’ve got batteries.”

Rose was already clicking one of the buttons. “Testing! Testing! This is Rose, over!”

Jeremy grabbed the other. “Loud and clear, Commander Rose!”

They both dissolved into laughter.

Wilson smiled down at her. “Looks like I’ll be hearing static all over the house for the next month.”

“You’ll survive,” Brando said, already pretending to test one. “Breaker breaker, this is Commander Copeland calling in for cake refill.”

Cece groaned. “We’re doomed.”

Next up was Lauren, a shy girl with two perfect braids and pink jelly sandals that squeaked when she walked. She shyly handed over a sparkly gift bag.

Rose peeked inside and gasped so loud that half the room turned to look.

Inside were two Barbie dolls—, one in a denim skirt and pink jacket, the other in a glittery purple ball gown, and a pack of extra Barbie clothes that looked suspiciously like they came from a mall kiosk.

“I picked them myself,” Lauren said proudly. “The purple one’s like the dress from Princess Diaries!”

Rose clutched both dolls like sacred artifacts. “She’s so pretty. I love them!”

Lauren beamed, rocking on her heels.

Mallory leaned over from the counter, whispering to Cece, “I think Barbie just became competition for Aunt Mal.”

Cece sipped her drink, smirking. “Impossible.”

Ryan Bylinowski, the quietest of the trio but with a mischievous glint that gave him away, was next. He handed Rose a gift wrapped in newspaper comics, the tape slightly uneven.

“It’s from me,” he said, a little shyly.

Rose peeled the tape away carefully, then laughed in delight. Inside was a Tamagotchi, bright yellow, with a tiny pixelated pet on the screen already bouncing.

“You have to feed it,” Ryan explained, looking suddenly like an expert. “And if you don’t, it gets sad.”

“Oh no!” Rose gasped. “I won’t let it get sad!”

“Good,” Ryan said seriously. “You’re its mom now.”

Brando stifled a laugh. “Welcome to responsibility, kiddo.”

Carla, watching from her corner, smiled knowingly. “Better learn fast. Those little things are more demanding than a newborn.”

Michelle nodded, sipping her wine. “You’d know.”

Rose sat back on Wilson’s lap, surrounded by her treasures, walkie-talkies, Barbies, and a Tamagotchi already blinking up at her like a needy alien.

Wilson brushed a curl off her forehead. “You’ve got the whole world here, kiddo.”

“I can talk to Jeremy,” she said, clicking the walkie. “And play Barbies with Lauren, and take care of my little guy with Ryan!”

Brando rested his chin in his hand, grinning. “Sounds like a full-time job.”

Scott ruffled Jeremy’s hair. “You’re all lucky I didn’t let him pick out a Nerf gun.”

Ella cackled from the kitchen. “I was this close to buying her Play-Doh slime, but I didn’t wanna get banned from the house.”

Wilson looked over at her. “Thank you for that mercy.”

Cece cleared her throat, standing up with mock authority. “Alright, children, let’s give the grown-ups their turn before Brando combusts waiting to show off his wrapping paper.”

Brando put a hand to his heart. “You wound me, counselor.”

But Rose was too busy admiring her new gifts, legs swinging under the table, humming under her breath. She held the compass in one hand and her Barbie in the other, both treasures from worlds that felt impossibly far apart, one full of dreams, one full of the people who made them real.

The adults started gathering their gifts into a pile, laughter rising again. Wilson tilted his camera up, catching it all: the kids giggling, the grown-ups teasing, the light soft and golden across the table.

If he could’ve frozen any moment forever, it would’ve been that one.

The mountain of tissue paper and glittery wrapping had migrated to the living room by the time the family gifts were finally gathered. The kids had moved back to their seats, frosting-stained and sticky, while the adults circled around with their wine glasses and beers, content to watch the show unfold.

Rose sat back on Wilson’s lap again, her little legs swinging against his jeans, while Brando sat beside them on the arm of the chair, chin propped on his hand, grinning like a kid himself.

“Alright,” Brando said, clapping once. “You’ve officially survived your friends’ gifts, and I haven’t cried yet, so I call that a win.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Yet being the keyword.”

Cece stood up from the couch, straight-backed and radiant, Mallory beside her, already holding a carefully wrapped package. “I believe it’s our turn,” Cece announced, in her perfectly lawyerly cadence. “Please, everyone, brace yourselves for a display of generosity and taste.”

“Here we go,” Ella murmured, taking a sip of her drink.

Cece smirked. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Ella.”

Rose giggled. “Aunt Cece, what is it?”

Cece passed her the gift delicately, as if it contained state secrets. “Something I thought a very special five-year-old might need.”

Rose tore the paper with her usual enthusiasm, and when the box opened, the whole room gasped softly.

Inside was a handcrafted dollhouse, painted in pastel colors. But it wasn’t just any dollhouse, it looked exactly like their house. The same yellow siding, the same front porch swing, even a little model apple tree in the yard.

Rose’s eyes widened. “It’s our house!”

Cece smiled proudly. “Mallory designed the furniture. I supervised.”

Mallory rolled her eyes, blushing. “She means she bought every piece of furniture on the internet until the credit card company called to check for fraud.”

Cece tilted her chin. “Perfection has no price.”

Brando stood and leaned closer to the dollhouse. “You even got the swing set right. Look, there’s little me with a wrench!”

Mallory laughed. “And tiny Wilson’s painting in the window.”

Rose leaned over the box, completely entranced. “It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Cece softened, crouching down beside her. “That’s because it’s your home, Rose. Now you can take it anywhere.”

“Thank you, Aunt Cece,” Rose whispered, throwing her arms around her. “And Aunt Mal.”

Mallory hugged her tight, cheeks pink. “Anytime, baby.”

“Lawyer money,” Scott muttered under his breath.

“Jealousy,” Cece shot back without missing a beat.

The room roared with laughter.

Next came Ella and Janice, striding in with matching mischievous grins. Ella plopped a sparkly purple bag on the table. “Our turn! And unlike Cece’s twelve-month construction project, ours was fun and affordable.”

Janice elbowed her. “Don’t ruin the surprise.”

Rose pulled out a puffy, glitter-covered jacket that looked like it could’ve been stolen off a Spice Girl. It shimmered in rainbow colors, the sleeves lined with faux fur.

“Oh my gosh,” Rose breathed. “It’s so shiny!”

Ella flipped her hair. “Custom. One of a kind. Got it from this little boutique in San Diego called Glitter Bug. Jan said I was being ridiculous, but clearly, I was being iconic.”

Jan shrugged. “She’s right. The kid’s got main character energy. She needed a jacket that says it.”

Brando laughed so hard he nearly spilled his beer. “She’s gonna blind people at preschool.”

Rose didn’t care, she slipped it on immediately, sleeves dangling past her hands. “Do I look like a superstar?”

Mallory clapped. “You look like you’re about to headline the Astrodome.”

“Perfect,” Ella said, tossing her hair dramatically. “My work here is done.”

Wilson smiled, snapping a photo. “That’s the cover of her debut album.”

The whole room melted.

Carla and Michelle were next, sitting side by side on the couch. Carla had something small in her lap, a box wrapped in floral paper. “Alright,” she said, her voice warm. “Now, I know everyone else went for shiny and loud-”

“And impractical,” Michelle added.

Carla smirked. “So we went simple.”

She handed the box to Rose. Inside was a soft, quilted blanket, handmade, the patches made up of old fabric scraps that Rose recognized immediately.

“This one’s from your dad’s old baseball shirt,” Carla said, pointing to a square of red and white. “And this one’s from your papa’s first art smock. Michelle added some of your baby clothes to it too.”

Michelle leaned in. “It’s a family quilt, sweetheart. We figured every girl needs something to keep her warm and remind her where she came from.”

Rose ran her fingers over the stitches, wide-eyed. “It’s all of us.”

Carla nodded softly. “Exactly.”

Wilson looked like he might cry. Brando reached over, squeezing his knee under the table. “We’re never topping that,” he whispered.

Michelle smirked. “That’s the point.”

When Kate stood up, the room broke into applause before she even said anything. She blushed bright red. “Okay, okay! It’s not a competition!”

Cece raised her eyebrows. “Everything’s a competition.”

Kate ignored her. “I wanted to make her something myself.” She handed Rose a small, oddly shaped package covered in stickers.

Rose tore it open to find a photo frame, decorated with glitter and glued-on beads. Inside was a picture Kate had taken earlier that day—Rose grinning at the table, frosting on her nose.

“I took it when you weren’t looking,” Kate said shyly. “So you could remember today.”

Rose beamed. “I love it, Aunt Kate!”

Kate smiled softly. “Good. I worked hard on it.”

Brando wiped at his eye dramatically. “Okay, I’m officially crying.”

“Join the club,” Wilson whispered.

 

There were smaller gifts too, Scott brought her a baseball glove “for when you finally join the team,” which made Brando cheer, and Rory’s earlier postcard still sat beside the dollhouse like a seal of love from far away.

When it was finally just the two of them left, Wilson and Brando, the room quieted naturally. The kind of hush that came when everyone knew the last gift would mean something.

Brando looked at Wilson, who smiled back like they’d rehearsed this. “Alright, kiddo,” Wilson said, smoothing Rose’s hair. “This one’s from us.”

He handed her a square box wrapped in paper covered with doodles, tiny suns, hearts, and the words we love you more than the sky.

Rose tore it open slowly, careful this time. Inside was a small, leather-bound scrapbook.

The first page was a photo of her as a baby, sleeping between them on the hospital couch.

The next page showed her first steps in the backyard, then her first day of preschool, then pictures of everyone in the room, each one labeled in Wilson’s neat handwriting.

Rose flipped through, gasping softly at each page. There were doodles in the margins, Brando’s goofy handwriting in blue pen (“Rose’s first meltdown over cereal”), and drawings she’d made that Wilson had scanned and printed.

Halfway through, there was a blank section, labeled in Wilson’s handwriting: Your adventures start here.

Brando smiled softly. “We thought you could fill the rest yourself. Pictures, drawings, tickets, whatever you want.”

Rose looked up at them, her eyes glassy. “It’s mine?”

“All yours, sweetheart,” Wilson said, kissing her cheek. “Every page.”

Brando pulled them both into a hug, his voice rough. “So you can always remember how loved you are. And who you belong to.”

For a long, full second, the whole room went quiet. Even Ella dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

Carla sniffed. “I swear, every party ends in tears with you two.”

Michelle raised her glass. “Good tears.”

Rose tucked herself into Wilson’s arms, the scrapbook on her lap, her compass gleaming against her little heart. “This is the best birthday ever,” she whispered.

Brando smiled, brushing her curls back. “We’re glad you think so, baby.”

And just like that, the house filled again with laughter, Carla calling for one more slice of cake, Ella trying to play the Spice Girls again, Cece insisting on one group photo.

Wilson grabbed his camera, setting the timer, and gathered them all, family and friends, arms around each other, cheeks pressed close.

The flash went off, catching it all, Rose giggling in her Papa’s lap, Brando’s arm slung around them both, everyone else smiling like they’d known this joy their whole lives.

Later, that picture would go on the very last page of her scrapbook, the words underneath written in Wilson’s handwriting,

Home is wherever we’re all together.

The night was winding down the way all good ones do, slow, warm, a little messy. The air in the Copeland-Webber house had softened to a hum; the music was low now, the leftover cake sat half-eaten on the counter, and the last of the balloons had drifted to the floor.

Most of the guests had filtered out with hugs and leftovers tucked under their arms. Michelle and Carla had gone home, linking arms and still laughing about Brando’s “dad dance.” Ella and Janice had disappeared in a storm of glitter and laughter, promising to drop off “emergency hangover muffins” in the morning. Scott had carried a yawning Jeremy out to the truck, calling back something about a rematch at cards next weekend.

That left Cece Navarro and Mallory James, who lingered the way only family could, shoes off, jackets half-zipped, still sitting on the couch with the easy comfort of people who never quite knew how to leave.

Cece was half-asleep, her arm looped around Mallory’s waist. Brando leaned against the doorway, holding a trash bag and smirking. “You two look like you live here.”

Mallory smiled. “Maybe we should.”

“You’d never survive it,” Brando teased.

Wilson wandered by with a tray of empty cups, shaking his head. “No, but seriously,” he said, his tone suddenly louder, cutting through the quiet. “Cece, just put a ring on it already!”

The whole room froze for a second, then Mallory laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch, hiding her face in Cece’s shoulder.

Cece groaned, cheeks flushed pink. “God, you are so lucky I like you, Webber.”

Brando was cackling, tossing a napkin in Wilson’s direction. “He’s not wrong though!”

Cece shot them both the world’s most exaggerated lawyer glare, but her smile betrayed her. “Goodnight, idiots,” she said fondly as she grabbed her purse.

“Goodnight, fiancée,” Wilson called after her.

Mallory looked back through the door, still laughing. “He’s never gonna let that go, is he?”

“Not a chance,” Wilson said, grinning.

And then they were gone, the front door closing softly behind them, the sound of their laughter fading down the porch steps.

The house was quiet now. The kind of quiet that comes after a day so full of love it leaves a glow behind.

Wilson looked around at the aftermath, streamers drooping, frosting smears on the counter, confetti stuck to the rug. He sighed, shaking his head with a tired smile. “I think the house is officially defeated.”

Brando, gathering paper plates, grinned. “Hey, she’s five. If the place didn’t look like a confetti bomb went off, we did something wrong.”

Wilson smiled, dropping the trash into a bag. “True.”

They worked in easy silence, side by side, the way they always did. Brando rinsed dishes, Wilson stacked cups, both moving around each other like they’d been doing this forever, and maybe they had.

When they finished, Brando tossed the last trash bag by the door and looked over at the couch.

Rose was fast asleep there, curled on her side under Carla’s quilt, one tiny hand resting on her new dollhouse box, the compass still glinting faintly at her neck. Her curls had fallen across her face, and her mouth was parted in that deep, dream-heavy sleep of kids who’d had the best day of their lives.

Brando’s heart softened immediately. “Man,” he whispered, voice low, “how did we get so lucky?”

Wilson followed his gaze, quiet for a moment before saying, “I ask myself that every single day.”

They stood there for a beat, just looking at her. The rise and fall of her tiny shoulders, the faint sound of her breathing, the way the quilt had slipped just enough for Wilson to gently tuck it back around her.

Brando exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You think she’ll remember this?”

Wilson smiled faintly. “Not all of it. But she’ll remember how it felt.”

Brando nodded, his voice low and soft. “Yeah. That’s what matters.”

He sat down at the end of the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight. Wilson followed, settling on the other side. For a moment, they just sat there, the three of them framed by the glow of the lamp.

Brando looked down at Rose again, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “You know… she looks just like she did that night in the hospital. It’s crazy to think she was only 5 months old then.”

Wilson’s eyes softened. “Yeah. She slept between us, same way.”

Brando leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “We didn’t sleep a minute that night.”

“You wouldn’t let me,” Wilson said with a quiet laugh. “You kept asking if she was breathing.”

Brando chuckled, the sound tender. “She was so small. I didn’t know babies could even be that small.”

Wilson glanced at him, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You cried.”

Brando groaned. “Oh my God, don’t start.”

“You did,” Wilson said softly. “And now here she is. Five years old. Our girl.”

Brando smiled again, that same quiet, disbelieving smile he always got when the world felt too good to be real. “Yeah. Our girl.”

There was a long, peaceful silence after that. The kind that only ever happened in moments like this, when the house was dim, the air was still warm from the day, and the world outside seemed to hold its breath.

Wilson leaned forward, brushing a curl off Rose’s forehead. “We did okay, didn’t we?”

Brando looked at him, voice low. “We did better than okay.” He murmured before kissing his husband softly.

And that was that.

Wilson shifted slightly, curling toward Rose, his arm draped protectively around her small frame. Brando reached for a pillow, settling at the other end of the couch, his hand resting lightly on Rose’s leg through the quilt.

It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t planned. But it was them.

Wilson’s eyes drifted shut first, his breathing slow and steady. Brando stayed awake just a little longer, watching both of them, the rise and fall of their chests, the way the lamp cast a faint halo of gold around their faces.

He thought about the hospital photo still tucked in Rose’s scrapbook, the three of them in this same position, years ago, terrified and happy and exhausted. He smiled. Some things never changed.

He reached over, brushing a stray curl from Wilson’s temple, whispering, “Night, babe.”

Then he looked down at Rose one more time. “Happy birthday, baby girl.”

Outside, the wind rustled the apple tree, the house settling into the soft kind of silence that only comes when everything and everyone you love is safe.

And on the old couch that had seen every version of their family, the three of them slept, just like they did the very first night they became one.

Chapter Text

The radio was crackling out Fleetwood Mac’s Sara as Carla Webber flipped an egg with one hand and reached for her coffee with the other. Morning light cut across the kitchen in soft stripes, turning everything golden and slow.

Wilson was at the table, knees tucked up under him, half-eaten toast drooping off his plate. The crust was bitten into the shape of Texas.

“Mom,” he said through a mouthful of butter, “you are not gonna believe what happened yesterday in gym.”

Carla gave a little smirk, still in her scrubs, hair pinned back with one of those cheap pharmacy clips. “If this story starts with Brando Copeland again, I already believe it.”

He gasped. “You don’t even know what he did!”

“I probably do,” she said, sipping her coffee.

Wilson huffed, slathering more butter on the same piece of toast like it was a stress relief exercise. “Okay, fine. But this time it wasn’t just him. It was Brando and Mallory James. She called him…” he paused dramatically, lowering his voice, “a jock with the brain of a slug.”

Carla snorted into her mug. “Oh, Mallory. That girl’s got opinions.”

“She’s mean,” Wilson said, half laughing, half serious. “Like Janice even told her to chill. And Stacey? She didn’t even look up from her magazine. I think she’s over everyone already.”

Carla slid an egg onto his plate. “Well, it’s only the first week of school. Give it time. Everyone’s got to figure out who they are this year.”

“I already know who I am,” Wilson said. “I’m the kid in the back of the art room avoiding everyone else’s drama.”

“Uh-huh,” Carla said, smiling into her coffee. “You say that, but somehow you know every single thing happening at Laredo High.”

Wilson grinned. “It’s called being observant.”

Carla raised an eyebrow. “It’s called gossip, sweetheart.”

He shrugged, stealing a piece of her toast when she wasn’t looking. “You asked.”

“I didn’t,” she said, laughing, “but I appreciate the update. So, what’s the latest on Cece and Ella? They still joined that debate thing?”

“Cece’s running it,” Wilson said proudly. “Ella only joined because she wants to argue with teachers and not get in trouble for it.”

“That tracks,” Carla said. She glanced at the clock and sighed. “Alright, hon. I gotta go before I’m late for my shift.”

She leaned down, kissed his forehead, and grabbed her keys. “You eat something real, not just toast, okay? You’ve got that sketchbook in your hand more than a fork lately.”

Wilson looked up, smiling. “I can multitask.”

“Mmhm.” Carla gave him that look, half stern, half fond, then added, “Tell Brando I said to stay out of trouble.”

“I will,” Wilson said automatically, even though he had no idea when he’d actually see Brando.

The screen door slammed behind her, leaving the kitchen quiet except for the hum of the radio and the scrape of his butter knife. He looked out the window toward the bright street, where cicadas already buzzed in the heat, and sighed.

Just another morning at Laredo High waiting to happen.

The sun was already too bright for eight-thirty in the morning. The pavement shimmered, cicadas buzzing loud enough to drown out his thoughts. Wilson adjusted the strap of his backpack, hugging it close to his chest as he kicked a pebble down the cracked sidewalk. His curls were sticking to his forehead. He hadn’t bothered to brush them, what was the point?

He stopped at the corner by the Sinclair mailbox, same as every morning since sixth grade. The air smelled like gasoline and cut grass. He pulled at the fraying strap on his bag, watching for them.

Cece appeared first, perfectly on schedule, hair tied back, uniform skirt pressed like she’d ironed it herself. She had a stack of flashcards in one hand and determination in the other.

Ella trailed behind her, balancing a soda and an unbothered expression that screamed I was not awake enough for this yet.

“Okay, next one,” Cece said, waving a card dangerously close to Ella’s face. “Capital of New Hampshire.”

Ella groaned. “Cece, it’s the first week of school. We don’t even have homework yet.”

“That’s exactly why you study now,” Cece said, flipping to the next card. “Repetition creates retention.”

“Repetition creates boredom,” Ella muttered, taking a sip of her soda.

Wilson smirked, leaning against the stop sign. “You know she’s not gonna stop, right?”

Ella shot him a look. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Webber.”

“I’m on the side of realism,” he said, shrugging. “Cece’s gonna quiz you until graduation.”

Cece pointed a flashcard at him like a sword. “Thank you for recognizing my commitment to excellence.”

Wilson grinned. “That’s one word for it.”

The three of them started walking, shoes scraping against the sidewalk. Cece was still rattling off state capitals like her life depended on it. Ella was tuning her out, muttering answers under her breath just to keep Cece happy.

Wilson watched them, smiling despite himself. This was going to be the entire year, Cece overachieving, Ella pretending not to care, and him stuck in the middle, trying not to laugh.

Laredo High loomed up ahead, its brick walls already shimmering in the heat. Somewhere in that maze of hallways, Brando Copeland was probably holding court with the baseball guys, Mallory James was probably plotting his downfall, and Cece was already halfway through memorizing her next exam.

And Wilson Webber? He was just trying to survive sophomore year without getting caught in the crossfire.

They rounded the corner where the sidewalk turned to gravel, the distant hum of Laredo High growing louder, morning announcements echoing faintly from the loudspeakers, sneakers squeaking in the gym.

Ella flicked one of Cece’s flashcards into the street. “Okay, I’m calling a study break. We’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve already hit me with like forty states.”

Cece gasped, scooping up the cards dramatically. “Fine,” she said, tucking them into her bag. “Let’s talk about something else then.”

“Oh, gladly.” Ella smirked, glancing at Wilson. “So, Madame President, who’s running against you this year?”

Cece groaned so loud a passing car probably heard. “You know who.”

Wilson already did, but he let her continue anyway.

“She’s been my biggest competitor since second grade,” Cece said, crossing her arms. “Every year, it’s the same thing. Cece vs. Mallory James: Battle for Academic Supremacy.”

Ella whistled. “The rivalry continues.”

“It’s not a rivalry,” Cece said, chin lifting. “It’s a public service. I’m saving this school from her tyranny.”

Wilson hummed. “She’s not wrong.”

Cece gave him a smug little look, the kind she’d perfected since childhood. “Exactly. Wilson’s been my closest competition since we could hold pencils. Mallory can be third.”

He shrugged, pretending not to smile. “You’re the smartest girl in school. I’m just trying to keep up.”

Cece beamed. “And doing a fine job at it. Salutatorian looks good on you.”

Wilson chuckled softly, but in his chest, it stung a little. It was true. She had valedictorian locked in since she was five years old, color-coding her Crayolas while the rest of them were still eating glue.

Mallory James hated that.

She hated that Cece was always a step ahead, hated that Wilson was the quiet boy who somehow still matched her grades, hated that Ella was rich and yet not her friend instead of theirs.

But most of all, she hated that Brando Copeland, Laredo’s golden boy, with his messy grin and sunburned shoulders, never seemed to notice her the way she noticed him.

At least, not in the way she wanted.

Wilson kicked a loose rock down the street, the pit in his stomach growing as he pictured it, Mallory rolling her eyes at Brando, then sneaking that soft, fond glance when she thought no one was watching.

He’d seen it too many times.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter. But the thought of anyone looking at Brando like that, like he was someone they could have, always made Wilson’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

Cece was still talking about campaign posters and speeches, Ella was teasing her for overachieving before September was even over, but Wilson barely heard them.

He kept walking, eyes on the road ahead, feeling the weight of something unnamed pressing down behind his ribs.

The school bell rang in the distance.

It was going to be a long year.

The hallways of Laredo High buzzed like a hive, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, the air thick with heat and hairspray. The kind of morning where everyone talked too loud because the walls hadn’t woken up yet.

Cece led the charge, her bag bouncing against her hip, flashcards peeking from the side pocket like bookmarks of world domination. Their locker, Cece’s locker, sat dead-center between the cafeteria doors and the English wing, prime real estate. Of course she’d claimed it back in freshman year, color-coded shelf liners and all.

Wilson trailed behind her, curls damp from the walk, sketchbook tucked under his arm. Ella brought up the rear, sunglasses still on inside, a lollipop between her teeth even though the “no food” sign was literally taped above her head.

Cece spun the combination and the door swung open like a vault. Inside: perfect order. Binders labeled by subject, a mini calendar taped to the inside wall, and a single sticky note that said “Cece Navarro is watching you.”

Or at least, that’s how it had looked a week ago.

Now half the top shelf was chaos, lip gloss tubes, crumpled notes, a cassette case with “THE CURE” written in sharpie, and someone’s math homework folded into an airplane.

Cece froze. “Ella Sinclair.”

Ella peered over her sunglasses. “Yes, Madam President?”

Cece held up a wad of notebook paper. “Why is this here?”

“Because I needed space for my compact mirror?”

Cece’s jaw dropped. “This is my locker.”

“Our locker,” Wilson corrected gently, leaning against the one beside it.

“It’s communal,” Ella said, tossing her hair. “Like a co-op. You should feel lucky I’m bringing culture to your office supply store.”

Cece groaned, rearranging her binders like she was erasing a crime scene. “You’re insufferable.”

Wilson hid a smile behind his hand. “She’s not wrong, though. You had it too neat. We needed balance.”

“Balance?” Cece snapped a folder shut. “This is not balance, this is entropy.”

Ella smirked. “Big word for 8:45 a.m.”

Mallory James’ voice floated by from the other end of the hall, cool, sharp, laced with sugar.

She was flanked by Janice Perez and Stacey Yates, the self-appointed social committee of Laredo High.

“Honestly,” Mallory said just loud enough to carry, “you’d think they’d put the honor roll kids in their own wing so we could actually get to class without tripping over them.”

Janice laughed too hard. Stacey followed because she always did.

Cece’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn. “Ignore her.”

Wilson did, though his jaw clenched. Ella just smirked, taking off her sunglasses and slipping them onto Wilson’s face.

“Here,” she said. “If you’re gonna glare, at least look good doing it.”

He laughed despite himself.

Cece slammed a textbook into her bag. “Come on. First period’s not gonna ace itself.”

The three of them fell into step again, the hall swallowing them up, voices echoing down the linoleum corridor.

The day hadn’t even started yet, and Wilson already felt like he’d lived a lifetime.

Cece was still fuming by the time they rounded the corner, her sneakers squeaking against the freshly waxed floor. “Honestly,” she said, voice sharp, “why does she act like she’s the third smartest person in school? She’s not even close.”

Wilson snorted quietly, trying not to smile. “I mean she is in the top ten.”

Cece whipped her head toward him. “Barely.”

Ella trailed behind, lazily spinning her ring around her finger. “I don’t know, Cee. Maybe she’s just allergic to humility. Or soap. Can’t really tell.”

Cece scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not lame to be smart. I don’t care what people say.”

And maybe that was true, at least in theory. But as they passed the trophy case lined with football awards and cheerleading ribbons, a group of upperclassmen in letterman jackets brushed by. One girl, not Mallory but close enough in spirit, threw her shoulder hard into Cece as she passed.

Cece stumbled, her notebooks scattering across the floor in a bright mess of color-coded tabs and highlighted edges.

“Oh my God,” the girl said with a mock gasp. “Sorry, Navarro. Didn’t see you there under your GPA.”

Mallory, standing a few lockers down, didn’t say anything, but she laughed. That soft, deliberate kind of laugh that made it clear she wanted Cece to hear it.

Cece’s eyes flashed. “Real classy,” she muttered under her breath.

Ella crouched immediately, helping gather the fallen books. “People here have the manners of raccoons.”

Wilson knelt too, scooping up a loose worksheet. “They’re just jealous,” he said quietly, but his voice didn’t sound very convinced. He caught sight of the crowd of athletes by the stairwell and lowered his head.

Truthfully, it was lame to be smart. Or at least, that’s how it felt walking through these halls. But it didn’t matter. They had each other, and usually, they had Brando.

“Here,” Wilson said softly, handing Cece her chemistry notebook.

“Thanks.” Cece sighed, brushing off her knees. “I swear, sometimes I think this whole school’s allergic to ambition.”

“Only thing they’re allergic to is effort,” Ella said, popping her gum.

And then came a familiar voice from down the hall. “Hey, need a hand?”

They all looked up.

Brando Copeland stood a few steps away, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp from morning practice. He looked out of place in the crowded hallway, like he’d been dropped into the middle of two worlds he didn’t quite fit into.

Cece’s jaw tightened. “We’re fine.”

He crouched anyway, picking up a stray notebook and offering it to her. “Didn’t ask if you were.”

She snatched it from his hand. “Yeah, well, maybe tell your friends to stop knocking into people. Then you wouldn’t have to play hero.”

Brando froze for half a second, then straightened up, his expression unreadable. “They’re not my friends,” he said finally.

Cece gave him a skeptical look, stuffing the last of her books into her bag. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He looked down at Wilson then, just for a second. That quiet, knowing look that made Wilson’s stomach twist in that way he didn’t like to think about.

“Hey, Will,” Brando said softly.

Wilson’s throat went dry. “Hey.”

Brando smiled faintly, like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. “See you in class.”

He started down the hall toward the science wing, hands shoved in his pockets, leaving them all standing in the middle of the chaos.

Ella whistled low. “Tension,” she muttered under her breath.

Cece rolled her eyes so hard it could’ve registered on the Richter scale. “Please. He’s only nice when people are watching.”

Wilson didn’t say anything. He was still watching Brando’s retreating figure disappear around the corner, his pulse fluttering in his throat.

Cece nudged him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just ready for physics.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ella groaned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “If Mr. Caldwell talks about centrifugal force again, I’m dropping out.”

“Good luck with that,” Cece muttered. “You’d last ten minutes without me taking your notes.”

Wilson laughed softly as they started walking again, the crowd thinning, the hallway echoing with the sounds of slamming lockers and fading gossip.

The classroom was already buzzing by the time they slipped into their usual seats, front row, dead center, like the overachievers they’d been doomed to be, and Ella was there for the dramatic effect. Cece sat in the middle, already pulling out her color-coded binder, Ella claimed the left seat with a dramatic sigh, resting her chin in her palm; and Wilson, quiet as ever, sat on the right, pretending not to notice Cece’s ongoing muttering about academic discrimination.

The overhead lights flickered once before stabilizing, the fan humming above. Posters about Newton’s laws curled slightly at the edges. The smell of chalk dust and floor cleaner hung in the air.

That’s when the door swung open.

Mallory walked in, perfectly put-together, as always. Polished hair, pleated skirt, a soft pink cardigan that screamed teacher’s favorite. Janice trailed beside her, notebooks hugged to her chest, a little nervous but smiling all the same.

Ella’s eyes flicked up. Just for a second.

It wasn’t long, just long enough for Janice to notice. Their gazes caught, something unspoken there, before Janice looked quickly away, shoulders tightening. She whispered something to Mallory, nodding at whatever smug little comment Mallory made as they slid into their seats two rows back.

Wilson leaned over. “Did you ever ask Janice-”

Ella shot him a look. “Nope.”

He blinked. “Okay then.”

Before Cece could add her two cents, the classroom door opened again, and in walked Mr. Caldwell, gray tie, sleeves rolled, eyes already half done with everyone’s nonsense.

He clapped his hands once. “Alright, folks, let’s get this over with.”

Cece straightened immediately. “Good morning, Mr. Caldwell.”

“Navarro.” He nodded curtly. Then his eyes moved, scanning the room like he was mentally rearranging a chessboard. The moment they landed on Ella and Cece side by side, he groaned audibly. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

Ella blinked. “What?”

Caldwell pointed with a piece of chalk. “I moved you yesterday, Sinclair. Don’t make me regret it.”

Cece sat up straighter, affronted. “Moved her where?”

“Anywhere else,” he muttered, already walking to the board.

Ella groaned dramatically. “Come on, we weren’t even talking-”

“Yet,” he said flatly, underlining Acceleration = Force/Mass like it was sacred scripture. “I’m not doing another year of your two-person comedy hour.”

Cece folded her arms. “Mr. Caldwell, with all due respect, I get perfect grades and I listen!”

He turned, smirking. “Exactly. Which means you’ll survive without your best friend sitting beside you.”

Ella threw her head back like she was in pain. “Unbelievable.”

Caldwell scanned the room for a seat. “Sinclair, you’re switching with…” he paused, scanning for someone unbothered enough to take her, “…James.”

Cece gasped. “What?”

Mallory turned slowly, a smirk already forming. “Delighted.”

“Oh, this’ll be fun,” Ella murmured under her breath as she stood.

Cece whispered harshly, “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“Relax,” Ella said with a wink. “Now you can focus, right?”

Cece’s jaw dropped. “You traitor.”

Ella grabbed her books, making her way to the back with mock solemnity. “If I die back there, tell my parents it was for academic integrity.”

Mallory gathered her things, moving up the aisle like she was walking a runway, smugness practically radiating off her. When she sat down beside Cece, the temperature in the room dropped at least five degrees.

“Hi, partner,” Mallory said sweetly, setting her notebook down.

“Don’t talk to me,” Cece snapped, flipping open her textbook.

Mr. Caldwell pinched the bridge of his nose. “And here we go.”

From the back of the room, Ella whispered something to Janice that made her giggle softly, just enough for Mallory to look over her shoulder.

“Everything okay, Sinclair?” Mallory asked, saccharine sweet.

“Better than fine, James,” Ella replied, leaning back in her seat, looking far too pleased with herself.

Cece’s pen scratched violently against the paper. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “She acts like she invented physics. She’s only top five because she copies Jan’s homework half the time.”

Mallory didn’t even look up. “You say that like you’ve ever gotten anything below a ninety.”

Cece glared. “Exactly.”

Mr. Caldwell turned from the board, chalk dust on his sleeve, and sighed deeply. “You two done? Because if not, I can move one of you to the hallway.”

Cece froze mid-retort. “No, sir.”

Mallory smiled sweetly. “Of course not, sir.”

Wilson, barely holding it together, ducked his head behind his textbook to hide a grin.

Ella caught his eye from the back and mouthed worth it.

Caldwell sighed again, muttering something about “teenage drama” and “God testing him” before continuing his lecture.

As formulas filled the board and pencils started scratching, Wilson couldn’t help but glance sideways. Cece sat rigid, jaw tight, while Mallory casually twirled her pen and smirked every few seconds just to get under her skin.

And despite himself, Wilson smiled a little.

The hum of the overhead projector and the quiet scribble of pencils were interrupted by the crackle of the loudspeaker. The entire class groaned in unison, except Cece, who immediately straightened like the morning announcements were a sacred broadcast.

“Good morning, Coyotes!” Principal Thompson’s voice blared through the speakers, way too chipper for 8:45 a.m. “Welcome back to another exciting school year here at Laredo High. Hope everyone’s adjusting well to their schedules, yes, even you, seniors.”

Cece whispered, “He says that every year.”

Ella yawned. “He means it every year.”

Wilson tried not to laugh.

“Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance,” the voice said.

The entire class stood reluctantly, mumbling through the words. Ella mouthed the lines dramatically while Wilson elbowed her halfway through. Cece, of course, stood tall with her hand over her heart like she was running for office.

Once everyone sat down again, Principal Thompson continued. “And now for a few quick announcements. The cafeteria will no longer be serving Sloppy Joes on Wednesdays after, uh… last year’s incident.”

That earned a scattered chuckle.

“Cross-country tryouts begin this Friday. Debate team meets today after school in room 204, and the art club submissions for the fall exhibit are due next week.”

Wilson blinked, surprised when the next words came.

“And congratulations to junior Wilson Webber for winning the regional art award over the summer! Quite an accomplishment for our young artist.”

Heads turned.

Ella started clapping immediately, loud and overdramatic. “A celebrity among us!” she said.

Cece joined in proudly. “That’s my best friend!”

Wilson turned red, ducking his head into his textbook. “Oh my god, stop.”

Cece nudged him. “Don’t be modest, you’re a prodigy.”

He laughed quietly. “Yeah, a broke one.”

“And speaking of accomplishments,” Principal Thompson continued, “we’d also like to recognize Cecelia Navarro for her perfect score on last spring’s academic decathlon qualifying test. Top in the district!”

Cece immediately stood and gave an exaggerated bow.

Wilson and Ella clapped like she’d just won an Oscar. The rest of the class groaned in unison.

“Of course she did,” Mallory muttered from beside her, not even trying to be quiet.

Cece shot her a smile that could cut glass. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you from down there.”

Ella gasped softly. “Ooh, burn.”

Mr. Caldwell rubbed his temples. “Please, Lord, give me patience.”

The announcements continued.

“And in athletics, congratulations to Mallory James and Brando Copeland for being named this season’s co-captains of the varsity baseball and cheerleading teams. Let’s make Laredo proud!”

Cece froze mid-eye-roll.

Mallory straightened in her seat, preening just slightly. “Oh, what was that? Co-captain, was it?”

Cece muttered, “Of course.”

Ella leaned forward, stage-whispering, “Is this what academic injustice feels like?”

Before Cece could reply, Principal Thompson’s tone shifted, becoming that official, pause-for-dramatic-effect kind of voice.

“And finally, it’s that time of year already, student elections! Here are your official candidates for junior and senior class president.”

The room went quiet. Even Mr. Caldwell looked up.

“For the senior class,” the voice droned, “we have returning president Kevin Castillo and newcomer Maria Lopez.”

Cece tapped her pencil impatiently. “Get to the important part.”

“And for the junior class, representing the Academic Honors Council, Cecelia Navarro.”

Cece grinned, smug but composed. “As expected.”

“And representing the Athletics Committee…” There was a slight pause, like the universe itself was enjoying the tension. “…Mallory James!”

The class collectively lost it. Cheers from the back, some groans, and someone shouted, “Rematch!”

Cece’s smile faltered instantly. She turned her head slowly, locking eyes with Mallory across the aisle.

Mallory smiled like a cat that had just spotted an unattended goldfish.

Principal Thompson wasn’t done. “Vice presidential candidates are Ella Sinclair and Janice Perez! Good luck to all four candidates, campaign season officially begins Monday morning!”

Cece’s hand twitched toward her pencil like she was about to stab something.

Ella blinked. “Wait. What?”

Cece exhaled through her nose. “You’re my running mate.”

Ella laughed. “Oh my god. We’re like political icons.”

Cece gave her a look. “We’re like doomed if you don’t stop talking during my speeches.”

From two rows back, Janice kept her eyes fixed on her notebook. She didn’t dare look at Ella, even though she could feel her gaze burning through her.

Mr. Caldwell clapped once, more out of exhaustion than enthusiasm. “Alright, congratulations to all our little overachievers. Now, if we can get back to physics before one of you launches a campaign ad mid-lecture…”

Cece muttered, “I already have one drafted.”

Mallory rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”

Wilson leaned toward Ella, whispering, “Is this gonna get ugly?”

Ella grinned. “Oh, definitely. But it’s gonna be fun to watch.”

Cece and Mallory sat in their identical seats at the front of the room, identical notebooks open, identical pens poised, and the same storm brewing behind both their eyes.

If Principal Thompson wanted school spirit this year, he was about to get it.

Just not the kind he had in mind.

The bell shrieked through the speakers, scattering notebooks and sighs across the classroom. Desks screeched against the tile as everyone started packing up.

Cece’s binder snapped shut with military precision. “First week of school, and she’s already trying to turn it into a campaign war.”

Ella stretched her arms over her head. “You say that like you’re not gonna make a hundred posters by Monday.”

Cece zipped her bag without looking up. “I already bought the markers.”

Wilson slung his backpack over one shoulder, trying not to smile. “You two are gonna start an actual Cold War.”

Before either of them could answer, Mallory brushed past their row, close, deliberate, like she was making a point.

She shoulder-checked Cece hard enough to jostle her books, muttering something about “watch where you’re standing, future president.”

Cece stiffened. “Excuse me-”

But Mallory was already halfway to the door, Janice trailing behind with an apologetic glance.

Ella groaned. “Okay, that was unnecessary.”

Cece glared at the back of Mallory’s head. “I’m gonna report her for hallway aggression.”

“On what grounds?” Wilson asked, trying not to laugh.

“On principle!” Cece snapped, clutching her binder like it was a weapon.

They filed out into the hallway, buzzing with chatter and slamming lockers, and turned down toward their next class. That’s when Mallory did it again.

She was walking backward, laughing at something Janice said, and as she turned, she clipped Wilson’s shoulder, hard enough that his backpack nearly slipped off.

“Sorry,” she said, the least sorry voice imaginable.

Wilson stumbled a bit but caught himself. “It’s fine.”

Except it wasn’t.

Because standing a few feet away, leaning against the lockers, was Brando Copeland, hands shoved in his pockets, still in his baseball jacket, watching the whole thing.

The moment Mallory brushed past, Brando straightened. “Hey,” he said, his tone sharper than usual. “Watch where you’re going.”

Mallory turned, that smug smile already forming. “Relax, Copeland. Didn’t know you were Wilson’s bodyguard.”

Brando’s jaw flexed. “Didn’t know you needed to be a jerk to function.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “You sound like my dad. You sure you’re not just mad I made varsity before you?”

A few people nearby slowed down, sensing drama like sharks scenting blood.

Brando scoffed. “Yeah, that must be it. Real proud moment,”

Mallory gave an exaggerated laugh, loud enough for the hallway to hear. “God, you’re such a meathead.”

Cece gasped softly. “Oh, she did not just-”

“Cece,” Wilson muttered, grabbing her sleeve before she could jump in.

Brando just rolled his eyes, shaking his head like he was already done with her. “Whatever. Guess it makes sense. You talk big when you’ve got an audience.”

Mallory’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Brando to turn away.

Cece stood with her arms crossed, clearly trying not to gloat. “I mean, I’m not saying I enjoyed that, but I definitely enjoyed that.”

“Shut up,” Ella whispered, grinning anyway.

Brando walked up to Wilson, the sharpness in his face softening immediately. “You good?”

Wilson blinked, a little stunned. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Brando reached out, his hand brushing Wilson’s shoulder to adjust the strap of his backpack, his thumb grazing the fabric. “She hit you pretty hard.”

Wilson laughed awkwardly, though his heartbeat stuttered. “I’ve survived worse.”

“Still,” Brando said, quieter now, “you shouldn’t have to.”

Cece was watching, pretending to fiddle with her schedule. Ella, of course, was just smirking at the both of them like she’d just been handed front-row seats to her favorite soap opera.

Mallory and Janice disappeared down the hall, laughter echoing faintly behind them.

Cece muttered, “If she thinks she’s winning class president after that stunt.”

Wilson finally looked up at Brando, still standing close, still holding onto his shoulder without seeming to notice. The hallway noise faded a little, shoes squeaking, lockers slamming, chatter bouncing off the walls, and for a moment, it was just them.

“Thanks,” Wilson said softly.

Brando gave a half-smile. “Anytime, man.”

He let his hand drop, stepping back just as the late bell started ringing through the corridor.

Cece groaned. “Great. First week and I’m already getting detention for being late.”

Ella grinned, tugging her forward. “Worth it, though.”

Brando shoved his hands in his pockets again, watching them go.

Wilson lingered for a second before following, glancing back once, their eyes met across the hall, brief but heavy. Then Brando smiled, just a little.

And for a moment, Wilson forgot all about Mallory James, hallway politics, or being invisible.

Because Brando Copeland had stood up for him.

And maybe that meant more than either of them wanted to admit.

By the time the lunch bell rang, the day had blurred into one long stretch of lectures, worksheets, and the faint smell of chalk dust. The heat outside made the air feel syrup-thick, and by the time Cece, Wilson, and Ella got to the cafeteria line, they looked like they’d survived a war.

Cece had her tray clutched like a shield. “If they’re serving mystery meat again, I’m transferring.”

Ella was inspecting the options with theatrical disgust. “It’s either pizza or whatever that beige thing is. Could be a casserole. Could be a government experiment.”

Wilson, ever the peacemaker, was already smiling at the lunch ladies. “Hey, Miss Connie. Is the pizza any good today?”

Miss Connie’s whole face lit up. “For you, sweetheart? It’s always good.”

Cece groaned. “He’s such a teacher’s pet, it extends to the cafeteria staff.”

“I’m just polite,” Wilson said, holding up his hands innocently.

“She’s literally cutting him extra slices,” Ella pointed out as Miss Connie plopped an extra triangle of pizza on his tray.

“Can you blame her?” Cece muttered. “He’s the only one here who says thank you.”

The line moved forward slowly, the air filled with the metallic clatter of trays and the hum of gossip. Behind them, someone cut in line with a smooth, easy confidence that made half the girls near the soda machine turn.

Brando.

“Hey, save me a spot,” he said, slipping in behind Wilson like he’d been there all along.

Cece’s head snapped around. “You just cut three people.”

Brando smiled. “Technically, I joined my friends.”

Cece raised an eyebrow. “We’re not your friends.”

Wilson glanced back, hiding a grin. “I mean… we kind of are.”

Ella elbowed Cece lightly. “He’s right. We’ve shared trauma. That counts.”

Brando laughed, that soft, easy laugh that made the lunch ladies swoon every single time. “See? Even Ella says so.”

Miss Connie noticed him immediately. “Well, if it isn’t our star ball player! How’s practice going, Brando?”

“Hot,” he said, flashing a grin. “And I don’t mean the team.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You always were a smooth one. You want pizza or nuggets?”

“Whichever one’s not gonna kill me,” he said.

“Then you’re outta luck,” she said, dropping both on his tray.

Wilson chuckled quietly. “You’ve got her wrapped around your finger too.”

“Guess she likes polite boys,” Brando said with a wink, bumping his shoulder lightly into Wilson’s.

Cece rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her brain. “Unbelievable. You charm everybody.”

Brando smirked. “Except you.”

“Exactly,” she said flatly.

“Which makes it a challenge.”

Cece groaned. “I walked right into that.”

Ella snorted into her chocolate milk. “You always do.”

They reached the checkout, trays piled high with the kind of food only teenagers and cafeteria workers could love. The lunch lady at the register gave Brando the same fond look she gave Wilson, while Cece and Ella exchanged exasperated glances.

As they made their way toward the table near the windows, the one they always claimed, Cece was still muttering under her breath. “He’s got an entire table of baseball idiots in the back, but no, he’s our problem.”

Brando, balancing his tray easily, followed right behind. “They’re not as fun as you guys.”

“That’s not a compliment,” Cece said.

“Sure it is,” Brando countered, sitting across from Wilson. “You’re like… the honors version of fun.”

Wilson hid a laugh behind his hand. “That’s… something.”

Ella slid into her seat beside Cece, smirking. “Translation: he’s bored of locker room talk.”

“Exactly,” Brando said, pointing at her with his fork. “At least you guys argue about interesting stuff.”

Cece huffed. “Like how to survive another year without homicide?”

Brando shrugged. “That’s part of it.”

Wilson was already halfway through his pizza, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as the banter carried on around him. The cafeteria was noisy and chaotic, filled with laughter and shouts, the kind of noise that could make a person feel small if they weren’t careful. But right here, at this table, with this group, it felt like home.

Even if they’d never admit it out loud.

Cece stole a fry from Wilson’s tray, Ella was humming under her breath, and Brando was still pretending to be offended that no one appreciated his jokes.

The lunchroom was loud and alive, clattering trays, the sharp squeak of sneakers against tile, the hum of everyone trying too hard to sound like they didn’t care about anything.

“Bathroom,” Cece said suddenly, pushing her chair back.

Ella glanced up from stealing one of Wilson’s fries. “You’re missing peak Brando content.”

Brando was in the middle of balancing a chicken nugget on a spork. “Yeah, I’m doing science here.”

Cece deadpanned. “Then it’s already beneath me.”

Wilson chuckled softly, and Cece rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. She grabbed her bag and disappeared into the hallway.

The second she stepped out, the noise dulled, replaced by the rhythmic buzz of flickering lights and the distant echo of sneakers slapping against linoleum. She walked briskly toward the bathroom, heels clicking, her brain still half in overdrive about the morning.

Mallory James.

Perfect, smug, infuriating Mallory James.

The way she laughed, the way she looked down her nose at everyone, the way she said smart kids like it was an insult.

Cece pushed open the bathroom door, already rehearsing mental insults, already planning next week’s campaign flyers in her head.

But the moment she stepped inside, the sound hit her.

Quiet, muffled, like someone trying really hard not to cry.

Cece froze. The air smelled faintly like hairspray and cheap soap. The hum of the fluorescent lights felt too loud.

She didn’t move.

The crying came again, soft but sharp, the kind of sound that came from deep down, from the kind of hurt you didn’t show people unless something had cracked.

Cece knew that sound.

She stood there for a full five seconds, every part of her screaming to turn back around.

Because if it was who she thought it was, if that was Mallory James crying in a bathroom stall, Cece wanted nothing to do with it.

Mallory would’ve walked right out if it were her. Mallory had walked out before, leaving her to eat lunch alone more than once when Cece’s mouth got too sharp or her confidence too loud.

It would’ve been easy. She could’ve gone right back to the table, told Ella the line was too long, pretended she hadn’t heard anything.

But she didn’t move.

Because just as she turned to go, she heard her dad’s voice, clear as day, warm and teasing, the way it used to sound before the accident.

“Cee-Bee,” he’d said once, kneeling in front of her after she came home from school crying because another kid had called her a know-it-all. “Being smart’s not the part that matters. It’s what you do with it. You don’t use it to win. You use it to help.”

And for a second, Cece could almost see him there, oil on his hands, a pencil tucked behind his ear, smiling at her like she hung the moon.

Her throat tightened.

She turned back toward the stalls.

The crying hadn’t stopped.

Cece stepped closer, the soles of her shoes sticking faintly against the linoleum. She hesitated in front of the far stall, the one with a pair of spotless white shoes poking out beneath the door.

She could’ve walked away. She should’ve.

Instead, she knocked softly.

“Uh,” she said awkwardly, voice quieter than usual, “you okay in there?”

Silence.

 

She shifted, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.
“I mean,” she added quickly, “I’m not, like, trying to barge in or anything. Just… you sounded…” she stopped, biting her lip. “You sounded upset.”

Still nothing.

She sighed, pressing her fingers against the cool edge of the stall door.

“Look,” she said, softer now, “I’m not here to fight or whatever. Just… if you need someone, I’m here. That’s all.”

The hum of the lights filled the silence. Somewhere outside, the bell rang for fifth period.

And still, from behind the stall door, nothing but the sound of quiet, stifled breathing.

Cece leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms and staring at her reflection.

For once, she didn’t look like the girl who always had a comeback ready. She just looked tired. Concerned. Maybe even a little scared.

“Take your time,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And then she waited.

The stall door clicked open, slow and hesitant.

Cece turned her head just enough to catch movement in the mirror, Mallory, stepping out like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to. Her eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged faintly under them, her usual perfect hair slightly frizzed at the edges. She clutched the edge of her cardigan with one hand like it was armor.

She’d been crying, really crying. Not the quiet, dainty kind Cece used to see girls fake in the bathroom between classes. This was the real thing.

Mallory saw Cece and froze. Her lip trembled like she wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. She just looked down.

Cece blinked, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. This wasn’t the version of Mallory she knew. The sharp, smirking, perfect one. The one who laughed too loud when Cece stumbled on her locker combination or dropped her notes.

The bell rang again, its shrill echo bouncing off the tile.

Cece exhaled through her nose, glancing at the clock. “Forty-five minutes,” she said finally.

Mallory frowned, confused. “What?”

Cece crossed her arms. “That’s how long we’ve got until next period. Forty-five minutes.”

Mallory sniffed, wiping under her eye with the back of her hand. “Okay?”

“So,” Cece said, trying for nonchalance but failing, “we can call a truce. For forty-five minutes. After that, we can go back to… whatever this rivalry is supposed to be.”

Mallory blinked, still sniffling. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Cece said, chin tilting up. “But don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

There was a flicker, barely there, but it looked suspiciously like the beginning of a smile on Mallory’s face. “You’re impossible.”

Cece shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

She turned and made her way to the far side of the bathroom, where a narrow little bench sat beneath the high, bolted-shut window. Last year, it had been the senior girls’ unofficial smoking spot, Cece had walked in once and nearly choked on the cloud of perfume and menthol. The smell still faintly lingered, like ghosts of rebellion past.

Cece sat down, crossing one leg over the other, looking out at the sunlight leaking through the frosted glass.

Mallory hesitated in the middle of the floor, fingers twitching against her sleeve. She looked at the door once, maybe thinking about leaving, but then sighed and trudged over to the bench.

Cece didn’t look up when she sat.

They sat in silence for a minute. The kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable but wasn’t exactly painful either, just thick and strange.

Mallory leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She was still sniffling, trying to keep quiet about it. Cece reached into her bag and wordlessly handed her a tissue.

Mallory looked at it, then at her, like she couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“Don’t make it weird,” Cece said, eyes still on the window. “It’s just Kleenex.”

Mallory let out the tiniest laugh, more like a hiccup than anything. She took the tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

“Thanks,” she muttered, voice rough.

Cece just nodded. “Forty-three minutes now.”

Mallory turned her head toward her. “You’re actually timing this?”

“Of course,” Cece said, deadpan. “It’s a limited-time offer.”

Another silence settled, but softer this time. The hum of the lights filled the space between them.

For the first time since seventh grade, they weren’t arguing.

They just sat there, two tired girls in a too-bright bathroom, both pretending not to care, both knowing they kind of did.

Cece leaned back against the wall, letting her head tip to the side. “You can talk, you know,” she said finally, still not looking at her. “Or not. Doesn’t matter.”

Mallory didn’t answer. But she didn’t get up either.

And for Cece Navarro, that felt like enough.

Mallory sat there for a while, staring down at the cracked tile between her shoes. Her breathing had slowed, but her eyes were still glassy, and her hands kept wringing the tissue like it had personally offended her.

Cece didn’t push. She’d learned that sometimes silence did more work than words.

But then Mallory’s voice, quiet, thin, like it had been sitting too long in her throat, finally broke the air.

“It’s my parents,” she said. “They just-” she stopped, pressing her knuckles to her mouth, “…they never stop.”

Cece glanced at her, brow furrowing.

“All they do is fight,” Mallory continued, her voice rising just slightly, raw at the edges. “Like, not even real fights, just this constant… noise. My mom complains about everything. My dad ignores her. They’re miserable. And somehow I’m the problem because I don’t smile enough at dinner.”

Cece’s grip on her knee tightened, but she didn’t say anything yet.

Mallory let out a bitter little laugh. “My mom, God, my mom’s terrible. But not in the way people think.” She sniffed hard. “It’s all these little things. The backhanded stuff. Like she’s allergic to being proud of me.”

Cece tilted her head slightly, watching her. “What do you mean?”

Mallory gave a hollow smile. “She doesn’t care that I’m smart. That I get straight A’s. That I’m third in the grade, right behind you and Webber.”

Cece blinked, caught off guard. “You are,” she said softly. “Third, I mean.”

Mallory looked over at her, surprised by the lack of sarcasm.

“It’s true,” Cece said, shrugging a little. “You’re good. Like, really good.”

Mallory’s smile flickered, a little sad. “Doesn’t matter. My mom doesn’t care about that stuff. She just wants me to… I don’t know. Be something. Someone who looks perfect, who dates the right kind of boy, who makes her look like she’s doing a good job.”

Cece stayed quiet, but her jaw clenched.

Mallory laughed again, watery and sharp. “She actually told me last week that if I’m gonna be smart, I should at least make it look cute. Can you believe that?”

Cece’s eyes softened. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Actually, I can.”

Mallory sniffed again, wiping her face. “She keeps trying to set me up. With ball players, of course. Says swimmers have ‘too much ego,’ whatever that means. Has to be football, baseball, or basketball. As if that’s the secret to a happy life.”

Cece’s mouth twitched. “Baseball, huh?”

Mallory groaned, leaning her head back against the wall. “She literally told me to flirt with Brando.”

Cece blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Mallory said, laughing humorlessly. “Like, Brando Copeland. As if that wouldn’t end in total chaos. I mean, he’s, he’s nice, but-”

“But loud,” Cece offered.

“And smug.”

“And flirty.”

Mallory cracked a real smile this time. “Exactly. I told her no. She said I was being dramatic.”

“Shocking,” Cece deadpanned.

For a moment, it almost felt normal. Two girls talking. Not rivals. Not competing for everything. Just, people.

But then Mallory’s shoulders tensed again. “And my dad-” she started, but stopped suddenly.

Cece looked up. “What?”

Mallory pressed her lips together, her voice faltering. “He’s just… ugh. He’s there, but he’s not. He doesn’t care about anything except pretending like we’re all fine. It’s pathetic.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

And then, like the thought had just caught up with her, she froze. Her eyes flicked to Cece, and the color drained from her face. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Cece frowned. “Didn’t mean what?”

“I shouldn’t be complaining,” Mallory said quickly, her words tripping over themselves. “Your dad, he…God, I’m sorry, that was stupid of me to-”

Cece leaned forward slightly, her voice steady. “Stop.”

Mallory blinked.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Cece’s tone was gentle but firm, the way you talk to someone who’s been holding their breath for too long. “Just because my dad’s gone doesn’t mean yours being here automatically makes him good.”

Mallory stared at her, eyes wide.

Cece looked down at her hands. “He was a good dad. The best. But he’s gone. And you,” she looked up again, meeting Mallory’s gaze, “you get to say it if yours isn’t. That doesn’t make you ungrateful. It just makes you honest.”

Mallory’s throat bobbed. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Cece said. “Some dads leave without dying. Some dads die but never really leave. You… got the wrong kind of both.”

Mallory’s lip trembled again, but this time she managed a tiny laugh. “You’re really bad at comfort speeches.”

Cece huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

They sat there, the air softer between them now, the sunlight through the bolted window warming the tile.

Mallory wiped her cheeks again, quieter this time. “I don’t get you.”

Cece shrugged. “Most people don’t.”

Mallory tilted her head, studying her for a second. The light from the small, grimy window above them caught on Cece’s hair, the kind of light that made dust motes look like tiny planets.

“Why do you act like that?” Mallory asked finally.

Cece blinked. “Like what?”

“You know,” Mallory said, gesturing vaguely. “Like you’ve got everything figured out. Like you’re already running for mayor or something.”

Cece let out a short laugh, not mean, just tired. “That’s not an act, Mallory. That’s just me.”

Mallory chuckled under her breath. “Sure.”

Cece raised a brow. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Mallory said, still half-laughing. “It’s just… it’s so you. You’ve been like that since grade school.”

Cece frowned, curious despite herself. “Since grade school?”

Mallory nodded. “Yeah. I remember, third grade, I think? You corrected Mr. Alvarez on how to spell ‘onomatopoeia’ on the board. You were eight.”

Cece’s mouth quirked upward. “I was right, though.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Mallory said quickly. “But you said it with that same tone you use now, like you were personally offended he didn’t know it.”

Cece laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Mallory said, and she meant it, not in a cruel way, just a simple, surprised one. “You’ve always been the same.”

Cece looked down at her hands, twisting the ring on her thumb. “Yeah. Guess so. I mean… I never really had to learn to be any other way.”

Mallory’s laughter softened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cece hesitated, then sighed. “Just… I’m lucky, I guess. My mom doesn’t care about that stuff. The popularity thing. Who I hang out with. If I wear the right clothes or whatever.” She paused, the next words slower, heavier. “She might’ve cared, if my dad didn’t die when I was nine. But after that… things just changed.”

Mallory’s expression shifted, guilt flickering briefly across her face.

Cece leaned her head back against the tile wall, staring at the ceiling. “She couldn’t handle it for a long time. I practically lived at Wilson’s for months. His mom, Carla, she’s a nurse, so she was always around. My mom just… wasn’t. She went to work, came home, slept, did it again. I think if she didn’t have her patients, she might’ve just stopped.”

Her voice dropped a little. “It’s a wonder half of Laredo didn’t get cavities that year. She was still drilling teeth like nothing happened.”

Mallory’s laugh was small but genuine. “That’s dark.”

Cece smirked. “Yeah. Well. That’s kind of the Navarro way.”

The silence after wasn’t awkward. It was just, there. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled it, steady and indifferent.

Mallory looked at her hands, thumbs worrying the edges of the tissue that had long since disintegrated. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Most people don’t,” Cece said simply. “Not really something you bring up at pep rallies.”

Mallory nodded once, looking down again.

Cece’s expression stayed even. Calm. Like she hadn’t said anything strange at all. “My mom’s fine now,” she added after a beat. “She just doesn’t really do the whole emotional thing. We coexist. She fixes teeth. I fix everything else.”

Mallory huffed softly through her nose, the closest she’d get to a laugh.

Cece picked at a bit of peeling paint on the wall beside her. “Anyway,” she said, voice returning to its usual quick rhythm, “don’t overthink it. Some people have moms who want them to date baseball players. I have one who asks about my flossing habits. Everyone’s cursed somehow.”

Mallory smiled faintly. “That’s one way to put it.”

They didn’t look at each other again.

Mallory leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor; Cece sat back against the cool tile, eyes fixed on the sealed window above them. The light shifted slightly as a cloud passed outside, throwing soft shadows across the floor.

For a while, the only sound was the faint hum of the fluorescent light, the echo of laughter drifting from some distant classroom. Then Mallory’s voice came, soft, low, not quite steady.

“I’m only running for class president because I didn’t want you to win.”

Cece blinked, sitting up a little. “…What?”

Mallory laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s why I did it. I didn’t care about it before. But when I heard you were running, something in me just, snapped, I guess. I couldn’t stand the idea of you winning again.”

Cece frowned. “Again?”

Mallory nodded, still looking down. “You win at everything, Cece. And you don’t even see it.”

Cece snorted softly. “That’s ridiculous. You’re literally the most popular girl in our grade. I’m the one who spends her free time labeling notebooks.”

Mallory’s head lifted, her eyes sharp, almost disbelieving. “Popularity? No. You’ve got that too, you just don’t use it.”

Cece laughed, a little too quickly. “A third of the school drools over you.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said, cutting her off, “and the boys look at you, Cece. You just don’t look back.”

Cece’s breath hitched. “That’s-”

“Jason Lahey’s been trying to get your attention for months,” Mallory said, folding her arms. “And he’s not subtle. Everyone knows it. You just pretend you don’t.”

Cece’s heartbeat tripped over itself.

“I mean, God,” Mallory continued, almost laughing now, “there’s a rumor that you’re gay just because you avoid boys like the plague-”

Cece’s stomach dropped.

Her first instinct was to roll her eyes, laugh, say something sharp that would cut through the awkwardness. But the words wouldn’t come. Because it wasn’t a rumor. Not really.

She didn’t like boys. She never had. She’d tried, God, she’d tried, but every time one looked at her that way, something inside her tightened, a small, cold panic she could never quite explain.

When Wilson asked her to be his “girlfriend” back in ninth grade, it had been a joke, a cover, a harmless experiment that lasted less than a minute and ended with laughter. But she’d said yes for herself too. Because part of her wanted to feel what everyone else felt. Wanted to fix whatever it was inside her that made her different.

Her mom wouldn’t have cared, she knew that. But Cece cared. Cece always cared. Because she was Miss Perfect. Little Miss Perfect.

And perfect girls didn’t have secrets.

Perfect girls had plans, clean, structured plans that fit neatly into folders and life goals:

Valedictorian.

Rice University.

Law school.

A husband she respected but didn’t love.

A house with a white picket fence and a dog that someone else walked because she’d always be working.

Maybe a kid. Adopted, probably.

Because she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, ever do that with a man. Just the thought made her stomach twist. But she’d do what was expected. Because that was what perfect girls did. They smiled, followed the rules, stayed in line.

No falling out of step.

No making a scene.

No giving anyone a reason to look too closely.

Cece swallowed hard, forcing the noise in her chest back down where it belonged. She turned to Mallory, her voice perfectly level, perfectly practiced.

“That’s absurd,” she said. “I would never date a girl.”

Mallory blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t… I wasn’t saying you would-”

Cece cut her off, sharper this time. “Good. Because it’s ridiculous.”

She crossed her arms tightly, her posture going rigid again, the armor snapping back into place.

Mallory studied her for a second, her brow furrowing like she could see the tiny crack in the façade but didn’t know what to do with it.

“Yeah,” Mallory said finally, looking away. “Ridiculous.”

Neither of them said anything.

The light buzzed overhead, the moment hanging between them like static, awkward, fragile, too full of things neither was ready to touch.

Cece stared straight ahead, jaw tight, and Mallory went back to picking at the chipped paint on the bench.

Outside, the bell rang, echoing down the hallway.

Neither of them moved.

Mallory had gone quiet again. The air between them buzzed with leftover tension, neither of them quite looking at the other, both pretending the conversation about rumors had just been another piece of small talk that didn’t matter.

But then Mallory exhaled softly through her nose and said, almost out of nowhere, “You’re actually really pretty, you know. Especially since you got your braces off.”

Cece blinked. “What?”

Mallory shrugged, still staring at her shoes. “I’m serious. You should stop wearing those headbands, though. They take away from your face.”

Cece’s stomach twisted. The words shouldn’t have meant anything, she’d been told she was pretty before, in passing, by her mom’s friends, or teachers, or boys she never looked at long enough to care about. But this felt different. It made her feel like she’d swallowed a spark and didn’t know if it would burn or light something up.

She looked at Mallory, really looked. The way her hair curled near her shoulders, the way her eyes still shimmered faintly from crying, the faint pink on her cheeks.

“You’re pretty too,” Cece said quietly before she could stop herself.

Mallory looked up, startled.

Cece cleared her throat quickly, straightening her posture. “Thanks for the advice,” she said briskly, regaining her usual edge. “But I don’t need it.”

Mallory smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course you don’t.”

They sat in silence again, the air heavier this time, until Mallory sighed and leaned back. “Tell you what,” she said, her voice softer now. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Cece arched a brow. “I don’t make deals with the enemy.”

Mallory ignored that. “I’ll drop out of the race for class president. But only if you make me your vice president.”

Cece’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Cece didn’t even hesitate. “Deal.”

Mallory blinked. “That fast?”

Cece smirked. “Ella was never meant to be VP anyway. She’d probably turn every meeting into a slumber party.”

Mallory laughed under her breath. “She probably would.”

Cece stood, brushing off her skirt. Mallory rose a second later, still holding the tissue she’d shredded down to soft pulp.

Cece held out her hand. “Truce over,” she said.
Mallory hesitated. Something flickered behind her eyes, disappointment, maybe, but she reached out and shook anyway. Her grip was warm, firm, lingering just long enough to sting when she let go.

“Yeah,” Mallory said quietly. “Truce over. Back to being enemies.”

Cece nodded, pretending her chest didn’t ache a little at the sound of that. “Exactly.”

They pushed open the bathroom door together, stepping back into the blinding white light of the hallway.

Wilson and Ella were waiting by the lockers, both looking impatient.

“There you are!” Ella exclaimed. “Do you know what you missed?”

Cece raised a brow. “Enlighten me.”

“Frog dissection,” Ella said proudly. “It was disgusting. You would’ve loved it.”

Cece made a face. “Sounds delightful.”

Wilson crossed his arms. “You missed all of fifth period. Where were you?”

Cece adjusted her bag, expression carefully neutral. “Bathroom, felt like I was going to throw up. She came in just before the bell rang. Less than thirty seconds with Mallory James, thank God.”

Ella’s eyes narrowed. “So you were with her.”

“Coincidentally,” Cece said briskly. “Don’t make it a conspiracy.”

“Too late,” Ella muttered, falling into step beside her.

Cece stopped abruptly, turning to her. “Oh, by the way, you’re no longer vice president elect.”

Ella gasped. “What?! Excuse me? You can’t fire me!”

Cece started walking again, tuning out Ella’s protests. Her brain was still in the bathroom, still looping the moment Mallory smiled through tears, still hearing the echo of her voice. You’re actually really pretty.

She tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about Mallory at all. But her mind betrayed her, painting the memory anyway, her eyes, her hair, her hands, her teeth, her lips.

God, her lips.

Cece’s breath hitched, and before she could finish the thought, a sharp shoulder bumped into hers.

“Watch it, Navarro,” Mallory said as she passed, that same familiar smirk back in place.

Cece blinked, pulled instantly back into herself. “Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at her mouth.

Mallory disappeared down the hall, her hair catching the light just right, and Cece forced herself to focus forward again.

“Cece,” Ella was saying, still mid-rant, “you can’t just-”

But Cece wasn’t listening.

Because Jason Lahey had just appeared by the corner lockers, flashing his usual easy grin. “Hey, Cece.”

And she remembered her plan. Her checklist. Her structure.

Valedictorian.

Rice University.

Law school.

White fence.

Dog.

Man.

She could do that. She would do that.

“Hey, Jason,” she said brightly, smiling in a way that felt perfectly rehearsed.

He grinned back, satisfied, and walked alongside her.

Cece didn’t see it, but Mallory, halfway down the hall, did.

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she turned away, her expression smoothing back into something unreadable.

Cece didn’t notice. She was already laughing at something Jason said, her voice ringing down the hallway like nothing at all was wrong.

But under all that brightness, under the perfect posture, the perfect plan, something small and dangerous and new had started to stir.

And no amount of checklists in the world was going to make it stop.

Chapter Text

November 24th, 1984
Laredo, Texas

 

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and warm laundry, Carla Webber’s version of comfort, while Wilson sat on his bedroom floor surrounded by scraps of blue wrapping paper and too much tape. The radio on his desk hummed quietly, some love song from the FM station that had been on all morning.

He’d been sitting there for an hour, carefully redoing the same corner of wrapping paper, determined to make it perfect. Brando was supposed to be there any minute, home from college for Thanksgiving break.

He’d already triple-checked everything: the card, the ribbon, the little bow that kept falling off. It wasn’t that the gift itself mattered so much, it was the fact that it was their first anniversary. One year since that impossible night where everything between them finally made sense.

He didn’t even hear Carla’s footsteps until her reflection appeared in the mirror on his closet door, coffee in one hand, hospital badge clipped to her scrub pocket, hair tied up in her usual messy bun.

She leaned against the doorframe, smiling like she’d been watching him for longer than he realized. “Haven’t you gotten that boy enough gifts, baby?”

Wilson froze mid-wrap. “It’s just one,” he lied.

Carla’s eyes flicked toward the corner of his desk, where two perfectly wrapped boxes were already stacked. “Mhm. And those are for…?”

He sighed. “Those are from before. This one’s different.”

“Oh, so this one’s the important one,” she teased, sipping her coffee. “What is it this time? Another shirt? Because if Michelle has to wash one more of those, she might send you an invoice.”

Wilson grinned, cheeks red. “It’s not a shirt. I swear.”

Carla walked over and sat on the edge of his bed, glancing around the mess. “You know, I love Brando, I really do. But at this point, you might need a gift closet just for him.”

He laughed quietly, tucking the ribbon underneath the box. “You like him more than you like me.”

“Probably,” she said without hesitation, then smiled when he looked up, mock-offended. “He’s polite, funny, eats everything I cook, and calls me ma’am even though I told him to stop ten times. What’s not to like?”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but there was warmth in it. “He’s gonna be here soon.”

“I know,” Carla said softly. “Michelle said he’s been counting down the days all week. Boy practically sped all the way here I bet.”

Wilson tried not to smile too much, but it slipped out anyway. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, watching him closely. “You two, it makes me happy, you know? The way you look at him. The way he looks back.”

Wilson glanced down at the wrapping paper, his hands suddenly still. “I just want it to be good. The day, I mean.”

“It will be,” Carla said gently, reaching over to fix the crooked bow he’d tied. “You’re good. That’s enough.”

He blinked hard, smiling small. “Thanks, Mom.”

She squeezed his shoulder, stood up, and grabbed her bag from the chair. “Alright, lovebird, I gotta head out. Double shift. Tell Brando I said hi, and that he’s not allowed to steal my leftovers again.”

“Got it,” Wilson said, laughing.

At the doorway, she turned back, one hand on the frame. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

Wilson’s heart warmed in that quiet, private way. “Thanks, Mom.”

When she was gone, the house felt both too big and just right. The clock ticked faintly. The sunlight stretched across the floor. And somewhere in the distance, Wilson could almost hear it, an old truck engine rumbling down the street.

He smiled to himself, pressing the last piece of tape into place.

Brando was home.

He threw open the front door just as Brando reached the steps, nearly knocking him backward with how fast he wrapped his arms around him. Wilson buried his face in Brando’s shoulder, the scent of laundry detergent and motor oil and something sweet clinging to his sweatshirt.

Brando laughed, muffled against Wilson’s hair. “Babe, hey-” He grinned as Wilson squeezed tighter. “We just saw each other last month! Halloween, remember?”

Wilson pulled back only far enough to look at him, smiling wide and unapologetic. “Yeah, but that was a month ago.”

“Oh, tragedy,” Brando teased, ruffling Wilson’s curls before stepping inside. “The great separation of October to November.”

Wilson swatted at him, but his grin didn’t fade as Brando kicked the door shut behind them. The house was bright and cozy, smelling faintly of cinnamon from the candle Carla had left burning.

Brando’s eyes went straight to the mantle, and there it was. The photo.
The Halloween photo.

It had clearly been printed at the pharmacy downtown, a little glossy and crooked in its frame. The whole gang, half-laughing, half-yelling, their costumes already smudged and messy. Wilson stood dead center in his yellow Charlie Brown shirt, arms crossed like he was trying not to smile.

Brando, next to him, looked like he’d crawled straight out of a dust storm, Ella had insisted he be Pig-Pen because, quote, it fit his whole vibe.
Cece had her arms crossed in full Lucy mode, Mallory was halfway rolling her eyes in a pink Sally dress, Ella and Jan were leaning into each other laughing dressed as Linus and Marcie, Kate was up front in a homemade Snoopy hoodie, and behind them, like they’d crashed the party, Carla and Michelle stood with matching orange t-shirts that read The Great Big Pumpkins.

It was chaos. Pure, wonderful chaos.

Brando chuckled, walking closer to the picture. “God, look at us. I forgot about this.”

Wilson leaned against the wall, smiling. “You didn’t forget, you just tried to block it out. It was less than a month ago!”

“Can you blame me?” Brando grinned. “I was Pig-Pen. Ella really looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘You’re the dirtiest boy I know, it’s perfect.’”

Wilson laughed. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Brando shot him a look over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“You’re cute, though,” Wilson added, softening.

Brando turned back toward him, the smile tugging wider now. “That’s better.”

He crossed the small space between them and pressed a quick kiss to Wilson’s cheek before glancing around the room. It didn’t feel like just Wilson’s house anymore, it felt like his, too.

“You cleaned,” Brando said, eyebrow raised.

Wilson smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m impressed,” Brando admitted, looking around like he was cataloging all the small ways Wilson had made the place feel alive, sketches taped to the wall, a small plant by the window, a record player humming quietly in the background.

But then Wilson noticed, no gift bag, no flowers, no wrapped box in Brando’s hands.

He wasn’t even holding a card.

Wilson didn’t mention it, didn’t even let his expression change, but a small voice in his head wondered if Brando had forgotten. The thought made his chest tighten, though he pushed it down as quickly as it came.

Brando kicked off his shoes lazily near the doorway, already making himself at home the way he always did. “Man, I forgot how cold it gets in here,” he said, rubbing his arms as he headed toward the kitchen.

“Shoes off,” Wilson called after him.

Brando shot him a look over his shoulder, mid-step. “Already on it.” He tugged them off, one at a time, and tossed them neatly by the door, something he definitely didn’t do at his own house.

Wilson trailed behind him, watching as Brando opened the fridge like he owned the place. He’d been doing that since they were kids, when he and Wilson were more likely to fight over Capri Suns than make out in the back of his truck.

“Where’s Ella?” Brando asked, grabbing the milk, inspecting it, then putting it back like it had personally offended him.

“Probably with Janice,” Wilson said, leaning against the doorway. “They just got back together yesterday. Again.”

Brando let out a low laugh as he crouched down to look through the fridge shelves. “Didn’t they just break up last week?”

“Yep,” Wilson said. “Cece said they made it all of six days before Janice showed up at her door crying.”

“Classic.” Brando pulled out a leftover container, sniffed it, and winced. “What is this?”

“Probably something Mom made,” Wilson said, peering over his shoulder.

Brando squinted. “Smells like a war crime.”

“That’s chicken spaghetti,” Wilson said, straight-faced.

Brando blinked, then shut the container immediately. “Your mom tried her best.”

“She’s at work, don’t insult her cooking in her own kitchen,” Wilson said, but he was laughing now, shoulders loosening.

Brando grinned and closed the fridge, settling for a bottle of Coke instead. “I’m just saying, I’m trying to live through the holidays, not die before them.”

“You’ll live,” Wilson said.

Brando popped the cap on the bottle and leaned back against the counter, taking a sip. “You got any chips? Or actual food?”

Wilson nodded toward the cabinet. “Top shelf.”

Brando reached up, stretching to grab the bag, shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin that made Wilson’s brain short-circuit for a moment. He looked away quickly, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt.

Brando turned, bag in hand, and noticed the small flush on Wilson’s cheeks but didn’t say anything. He just smirked, shaking the bag open and grabbing a handful.

“So,” Brando said between bites, “what’s the plan tonight? You, me, bad movies, whatever leftovers survive?”

Wilson shrugged, playing it off casual. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

Brando nodded, leaning against the counter, Coke bottle sweating in his hand. He looked so at ease, like the kind of person who never had to try.

Wilson smiled, soft and small, watching him. Brando probably hadn’t forgotten their anniversary, he just didn’t make a big deal out of things like Wilson did. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe… just maybe… this time was different.

And then Brando looked up and caught him staring, grinning like he already knew.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Nothing,” Wilson said quickly, cheeks warming again.

Brando laughed, reaching out to brush his knuckles against Wilson’s arm as he passed him. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, smiling now. “You tell me that every time.”

“‘Cause it’s true every time,” Brando said, still grinning as he headed for the living room.

Wilson followed, watching him drop down onto the couch like he belonged there, which, in a way, he did. Carla loved Brando like her own, always had. And if Wilson was being honest, that was part of why this house didn’t feel like just his anymore.

It was theirs, in the way that mattered most.

Even if Brando hadn’t brought a card.

The TV hummed faintly in the corner as Brando crouched beside the cabinet that held Carla’s small but mighty VHS collection, rows of worn cases lined up like a museum of questionable taste. The living room was dim except for the soft light coming through the blinds, golden and slow, catching the dust in the air.

“Alright,” Brando muttered, squinting at the titles. “What cinematic masterpiece are we feeling today, Webber? We’ve got Footloose, Ghostbusters, Sixteen Candles, Grease 2…”

“Not Grease 2,” Wilson said immediately, from where he sat cross-legged on the couch.

Brando grinned over his shoulder. “Coward.”

He pulled out Sixteen Candles anyway, tapping the case against his palm. “This one, then. Carla’s favorite, right?”

Wilson tilted his head, pretending not to smile. “You secretly like that one.”

Brando shot him a look as he slid the tape into the VCR. “Nope. I like that you like it.”

Wilson snorted. “Sure.”

Brando flopped down beside him, the couch creaking under his weight. He shook the chip bag open again, setting the Coke bottle on the coffee table, and aimed the remote at the screen. The blue VHS logo filled the room before fading into the movie’s grainy opening credits.

For a while, neither of them said much. The faint hum of the TV filled the silence, along with the occasional crunch of Brando’s chips. Wilson watched him out of the corner of his eye, his relaxed grin, the way his legs took up too much space, how his fingers tapped lightly against his thigh to the rhythm of the movie’s score.

It was simple, painfully simple. Just them, a couch, a dumb movie, and the hum of late November air.

And somehow, it was enough to make Wilson’s chest ache.

Without saying anything, he scooted closer, curling into Brando’s side. His head found its familiar place on Brando’s shoulder, his hand resting lightly on Brando’s arm. He could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint vibration of his quiet laugh when one of the movie’s lines landed too hard.

Brando didn’t comment, didn’t make a big deal of it, just shifted his arm to pull Wilson closer, his thumb tracing small, idle circles against his upper arm.

Wilson exhaled, letting the comfort of it sink in. The sound of the movie blurred into background noise.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Brando looked down at him, smiling small but sure. “I love you too.”

He said it like it was nothing new, because it wasn’t. They’d said it a thousand times, in louder, messier ways, whispered in parking lots, yelled across baseball fields, scribbled in margins of notes they’d never meant to share. But this, this quiet, easy kind of love, hit different.

Wilson tilted his head up, and Brando leaned in, their lips meeting in a slow, familiar kiss that felt like exhale after a long day. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. Just warm. Certain.

Brando tasted like Coke and salt from the chips, his hand sliding gently into Wilson’s hair.

When they finally pulled apart, Wilson smiled, his forehead still resting against Brando’s.

For a few moments, they just stayed that way, until Brando turned his attention back to the TV. Wilson followed his gaze, pretending to watch, though the scene flickering on-screen blurred into nothing. His mind wandered, wondering if maybe Brando had forgotten.

It wasn’t like it would ruin anything. Brando wasn’t big on dates, on anniversaries, on making a big deal out of things. But still, Wilson couldn’t help it. He remembered every date, every moment, every tiny thing that felt like it meant something.

He’d wrapped those gifts carefully for a reason.

Still, he said nothing. Just stayed tucked into Brando’s side, listening to him laugh at the same dumb joke they both knew by heart.

Then, halfway through the movie, Brando sighed, tossing an empty chip bag onto the table. “I’m bored.”

Wilson blinked, glancing up at him. “Bored? You picked the movie.”

“Yeah, well.” Brando leaned forward, stretching. “Turns out, I’ve got a short attention span and this isn’t as good as I remember.”

Wilson grinned faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Brando said, flashing that grin that made Wilson forgive him for just about anything. “Come on, let’s go do something.”

Wilson tilted his head. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” Brando said, standing now, reaching for his keys off the coffee table. “We could go drive for a bit. Maybe grab some ice cream. You think Charlie’s is still open?”

Wilson perked up, a smile creeping in despite himself. Charlie’s had been their spot since before they were even them.

“Probably,” he said, already sitting up. “Let me go grab a jacket.”

He jogged up the stairs, two at a time, his heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the climb. In his room, the gifts sat stacked neatly on his desk, wrapped, labeled, waiting.

He hesitated for a second, then grabbed his book bag, slipping all three inside. Just in case.

If the night went right, maybe he’d give them to him. If not, well, maybe next time.

When he came back down, Brando was standing by the door, keys in hand, tapping them lightly against his palm.

“What’s with the bag?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wilson slung it over his shoulder with a casual shrug. “Survival supplies.”

Brando squinted at him. “Survival supplies?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, deadpan. “In case we get stranded somewhere and need to build a shelter or something.”

Brando laughed, shaking his head. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

“I do,” Brando admitted, still laughing as he opened the front door.

The air outside was cool, the sky washed in soft oranges and purples from the last of the November sunset. The smell of dry leaves and gasoline drifted faintly from the street.

Brando stepped aside, gesturing grandly toward the open door. “After you.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was impossible to hide. “Such a gentleman.”

“Only for you,” Brando said with a small bow.

Wilson walked past him, brushing shoulders as he did, and Brando followed, locking the door behind them. The truck sat waiting in the driveway, its paint catching what was left of the light.

As Brando reached to open the passenger door, Wilson caught his reflection in the window, the easy grin, the way he always looked at him like he was the only person in the world who ever mattered.

It made Wilson’s heart ache all over again.

“Come on,” Brando said, holding the door open with a mock flourish. “Your chariot awaits.”

Wilson slid into the seat, smirking. “If this thing breaks down again, I’m walking home.”

“Rude,” Brando said, shutting the door for him before jogging around to his side. “I fix this thing with my bare hands.”

“Yeah, and a lot of duct tape,” Wilson teased.

Brando started the engine, the radio crackling to life with static before a familiar song faded in, something slow, something about love that neither of them would ever admit they actually liked.

He glanced over at Wilson, eyes bright even in the dim light. “Ready?”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, his heart full, his bag sitting by his feet like a secret. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

And as the truck rolled down the quiet Laredo street, the night stretched wide open ahead of them, full of headlights, laughter, and all the things neither of them knew how to say just yet.

The truck rattled softly down the back roads, headlights slicing through the kind of Laredo dusk that looked like it could last forever. The sun was gone now, just a faint glow left on the horizon, painting the world in that hazy half-light that always made Wilson feel like he was somewhere in between dreaming and awake.

Brando reached over without thinking, lacing their fingers together on the bench seat between them. His thumb brushed lazily against Wilson’s knuckles, like it was second nature, like the space between them had never existed at all.

The radio played something soft, muffled by the hum of the road. Brando’s voice filled the rest of the silence.

“So get this,” he said, grinning already. “Scott wiped out during practice last week. Like, full-on cartoon banana-peel style. I swear I saw his soul leave his body for a second.”

Wilson laughed. “Oh my God, is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Brando said, waving it off. “Didn’t even break anything. But he almost broke my thumb when I tried to help him up. Said he was ‘testing my reflexes.’”

Wilson smiled, resting his chin in his free hand as he watched the faint orange glow from the dashboard light spill across Brando’s face. He could see how alive he got when he told stories like this, like he carried the whole world in his laugh.

“Then,” Brando continued, shaking his head with a grin, “you’ll love this, Ryan decided to celebrate the win by shotgunning a beer in our dorm. Inside. Which, of course, ended exactly how you’d think it would.”

Wilson groaned, already laughing. “He threw up, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. All over Scott’s bed,” Brando said, grimacing at the memory. “Scott just stood there like he was watching a car crash happen in slow motion.”

“And you didn’t help?”

“I laughed,” Brando admitted, trying to sound guilty and failing miserably. “Until Ryan slipped again and hit the wall. Then Scott made me help clean it up.”

Wilson was laughing now, the kind of laugh that made his stomach hurt. “That’s awful.”

“The worst part?” Brando said. “Scott refused to sleep in his bed after that, said it was ‘tainted,’ so we had to share mine for the night. One at each end, like two traumatized brothers. He kept kicking me in his sleep.”

Wilson snorted. “You’re both disasters.”

“Yeah,” Brando said, chuckling. “He’s still mad about it, though. Swore he’d never room with me again. I told him he doesn’t have a choice until graduation.”

“Poor Scott,” Wilson said, but he was still grinning. “You’re the worst roommate in Texas.”

“I prefer most entertaining,” Brando said, shooting him a sideways smile.

The truck bumped gently over a patch of rough road, and Brando tightened his grip on Wilson’s hand, steadying him without a second thought. His fingers were warm and calloused, thumb still tracing small circles that made Wilson’s pulse hum under his skin.

They passed the familiar landmarks, the old laundromat, the gas station with the flickering sign, the empty field that used to host the county fair. Every turn, every stretch of road, felt like something they’d driven a hundred times before, but somehow tonight, it felt new again.

Wilson turned his head, studying the side of Brando’s face, the easy grin, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he talked, the faint stubble he never bothered to shave during breaks. He looked older somehow, but still the same boy who once made him strawberry ice cream under a flickering streetlight and kissed him for the first time outside Charlie’s.

The thought made his heart flutter and ache all at once.

Brando didn’t notice. He was too busy talking about Ryan’s terrible aim at beer pong and how Scott swore off caffeine after a 3 a.m. espresso binge that ended with him trying to fix the dorm toaster.

Wilson nodded and laughed in all the right places, soaking in every word, every laugh, every soft squeeze of Brando’s hand.

Because it wasn’t about the stories, it never was. It was about the sound of Brando’s voice, the way the cab filled with warmth when he talked, how he always made the smallest moments feel like they mattered.

As they turned onto the road that led toward Charlie’s, the neon lights flickered faintly in the distance, same as they had two years ago, when everything between them changed.

Wilson smiled to himself, heart full and quiet.

He didn’t know what Brando had planned, or if he’d planned anything at all. But right then, with Brando’s hand in his and their laughter still hanging in the air, it didn’t really matter.

The old neon sign for Charlie’s Drive-Up buzzed faintly against the dark sky, the C half-flickering, like it was too tired to keep trying after all these years. The parking lot was mostly empty, just the crunch of Brando’s tires over gravel and the low hum of the truck’s engine filling the quiet.

As they pulled into a spot, Wilson leaned forward a little, squinting through the windshield. “Huh.”

Brando cut the engine. “What?”

Wilson tilted his head, pointing. “That looks like Cece’s car.”

Sure enough, the familiar little blue car sat crooked under the streetlight, the same one Cece always complained about because the driver’s side mirror rattled at 40 miles per hour.

Brando leaned over the steering wheel, pretending to study it. “Huh,” he said casually, his mouth twitching into a grin he didn’t bother hiding. “That is weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, still staring at it. “She’s not supposed to be home until tomorrow. She and Mal went to Austin for that, uh, law thing.” He frowned, trying to piece it together. “Why would she be here?”

Brando shrugged, too easily. “Maybe she wanted ice cream?”

Wilson blinked at him like he’d said something insane. “Cece? At Charlie’s? Please. She hates this place.”

“Oh yeah,” Brando said, trying, and failing, to sound oblivious. “Forgot about that.”

Wilson laughed softly, leaning back in his seat. “She says the vanilla here tastes like cardboard. Plus, this is where all the football guys used to hang out, remember? She swore she’d never come back after she had to pick up Jason here that one time.”

He made a face, the memory clearly sour. “Their whole… thing. She called it their rendezvous, which I think is her way of trying to make poor decisions sound classy.”

Brando chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck to hide the smile that was threatening to give him away. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Wilson was still rambling, fully lost in his own thoughts, trying to rationalize the impossible. “Maybe she let someone borrow her car? Mallory, maybe? But Mal’s with her. Huh. Weird.”

Brando hummed noncommittally, leaning his elbow against the steering wheel. His grin was small but growing, the kind that said I know something you don’t.

Wilson didn’t notice, of course he didn’t. He was too busy staring at the car like it was some kind of riddle.

“You sure you didn’t see her when you came back into town?” he asked. “Maybe she came home early and didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t see her,” Brando said, still playing innocent. “But, you know Cece. Always scheming.”

“Scheming for what, ice cream?” Wilson muttered, shaking his head.

Brando bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Cece’s car sat gleaming under the dim streetlight, the only vehicle in the lot. It looked almost deliberate, like it was waiting for them. The air was still, the neon buzz the only sound besides the slow tick of the cooling engine.

Wilson turned to him finally, brow furrowed. “This is strange.”

“Yeah,” Brando said softly, that quiet mischief in his voice. “Real strange.”

Wilson looked at him, suspicious now but still too gentle to push. “What?”

Brando’s eyes stayed on the glowing window of Charlie’s, where two shadowy figures could be seen moving inside. “Nothing,” he said, grabbing the keys from the ignition and tossing them in his hand. “Come on. Let’s go get that ice cream.”

Wilson squinted at him, half amused, half confused. “You’re acting weird.”

Brando grinned as he climbed out of the truck. “Me? Never.”

Wilson sighed but followed him anyway, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he shut the door. The warm night air hit his face, carrying the faint smell of sugar and fryer oil from inside the shop.

Cece’s car gleamed again under the streetlight. The whole thing felt oddly cinematic, like the beginning of something.
Brando held the door open for him with a little flourish, just like before. “After you,” he said, voice just a bit too pleased.

Wilson narrowed his eyes, stepping past him. “You definitely know something.”

Brando’s grin widened. “Maybe I do.”

And as the door chimed open, spilling warm light and laughter into the quiet Laredo night, Wilson realized, whatever was waiting inside, Brando had planned it.

And Cece’s car suddenly didn’t seem weird at all.

The usual bright lights were dimmed low, replaced by strings of white Christmas bulbs hanging lazily across the ceiling. The red booths had been pushed aside to make room for a small table in the middle of the room, set for two, checkered cloth, candles in soda bottles, the whole deal. The jukebox in the corner hummed softly with some slow song that didn’t fit the usual din of clinking spoons and milkshake machines.

Wilson froze just past the doorway, his eyes going wide. “What the…”

Brando smiled, casual but proud. “Not bad, huh?”

Wilson blinked, looking around in disbelief. “They… shut down Charlie’s for you?”

Brando shoved his hands into his jacket pockets like it was no big deal. “Guess they owed me a favor or two.”

Wilson turned to him, half incredulous, half completely smitten. “You’re kidding. They closed for you?”

Brando shrugged, all mock nonchalance. “I mean, after all the hours I put in here, the least they could do was let me borrow the place for one night.”

Before Wilson could respond, a familiar voice called from behind the counter. “My god, took you long enough, Brando.”

Cece Navarro appeared through the swinging kitchen door, a dish towel thrown over her shoulder, her curls tied up in a messy ponytail. She looked utterly unimpressed, and out of place in an ice cream parlor she’d sworn a thousand times to hate.

“Mallory and I have been in here cooking for hours,” Cece continued dramatically. “And you know I hate this place, I swear to-”

“Ah,” another voice interrupted her, lilting and exaggerated. “Pardon my chef friend here.”

Mallory James emerged from behind Cece, wearing an apron three sizes too big and wielding a spatula like it was fine cutlery. She straightened her posture, threw on the world’s worst British accent, and gestured grandly at the table. “We are so happy to serve you boys tonight.”

Wilson snorted, trying to smother his laugh behind his hand.

Brando played along instantly, bowing slightly. “Thank you kindly, Chef James. We are honored.”

Mallory did a little curtsy, clearly pleased with herself, while Cece rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Cece muttered, marching back toward the kitchen. “You said we were doing French!”

“That was French!” Mallory insisted, following her, indignant.

Cece scoffed. “Say that to my four years of French in high school! I never saw you in Madame Laurent’s class!”

Mallory gasped. “That wasn’t her name, was it?”

“It was!” Cece fired back.

“Well, pardon moi!” Mallory yelled, slipping back into her absurd accent as the kitchen door swung closed behind them.

Brando laughed so hard he had to cover his mouth. Wilson was doubled over, tears in his eyes.

“God, I missed them,” Wilson said, trying to catch his breath.

Brando grinned, pulling a chair out for him. “Yeah, they missed you too. Well, Cece missed complaining about you.”

Wilson shook his head, smiling wide as he sat down, still in awe of everything. The candles flickered between them, the light soft against Brando’s face.

“So this was the plan,” Wilson said quietly. “You really didn’t forget.”

Brando smirked, leaning his elbows on the table. “Forget our anniversary? Not a chance.”

From the back, the sound of clattering dishes and muffled bickering floated through the door.

Wilson looked toward it, laughing again, the tension from earlier melting into something warm and steady. “You really got Cece to come here?”

Brando shrugged, his grin turning soft. “Told her I needed her help making the night perfect. She said that was impossible but agreed anyway.”

Wilson looked down at the table, cheeks flushed with quiet affection. “It’s perfect,” he said softly.

Brando smiled, wide, genuine, that kind of smile that reached his eyes.

And from the kitchen, Cece’s voice cut through again, exasperated: “Mallory, if you burn one more waffle, I swear to God-”

Mallory’s laugh followed instantly. “Je ne comprends pas!”

Cece groaned loud enough for both of them to hear.

Brando and Wilson both cracked up, their laughter echoing through the empty shop, filling it with everything the night was supposed to be.

The soft hum of Head Over Heels still spun from the jukebox, a little warbled but somehow even sweeter for it. The candles were half melted by now, wax puddling onto the checkered tablecloth. The “fancy” dinner, burnt lasagna and garlic bread a shade too dark, sat between them, barely touched, because neither of them could stop smiling.

Brando leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily around Wilson’s shoulders. “You know, for someone who claims to hate this place, Cece makes a mean… whatever that was.”

Wilson laughed. “Yeah, I think it was supposed to be Italian.”

“Mm. Or French.”

“Or something.”

They both laughed again, soft and full, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deeper than just amusement.

And when the laughter faded, Wilson turned in his chair, eyes catching on the soft flicker of the candlelight against Brando’s face. For a second, he didn’t say anything. He just reached for his bag.

Brando raised an eyebrow. “You packing up the leftovers?”

Wilson smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

Brando stared, eyebrows knitting. “Will-”

“Don’t start,” Wilson said. “They’re small.”

Brando sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue. “Alright, hit me.”

Wilson pushed the first one toward him, the one wrapped in tissue. “Open that one last,” he said quickly. “Start with the paper.”

Brando tore it open and grinned instantly. It was a packet of his favorite caramel candies. “You remembered,” he said, shaking his head.

“You eat them like air,” Wilson replied. “I figured you’d need them back at school.”

“Best gift already,” Brando said, pocketing them.

“Next one.”

The second package was the newspaper one, taped with too much effort. Inside was a sketch, simple pencil, clean lines, but achingly detailed. It was the carving from the tree out in freer, the same scene from their last night before Wilson left for Austin.

Brando went quiet.

“Do you like it?” Wilson asked, voice small.

Brando blinked a few times before smiling softly. “Like it? It’s-” He stopped himself, swallowing. “It’s us.”

Wilson nodded, gaze dropping shyly to the table.

Brando leaned closer, thumb brushing the edge of the page, careful not to smudge it. “You even got the wobbly W.”

“Yeah,” Wilson murmured. “How could I not?”

Brando huffed a laugh through his nose. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The song faded into the next track, something slow, quieter.

Then Wilson pushed the final, tissue-wrapped gift toward him. “Okay. Last one.”

Brando peeled it open slowly this time, careful, almost nervous. Inside was a small silver chain, thin and light, with a tiny pendant, a wishbone, smooth and simple.

Brando’s breath caught.

“I saw it in this shop downtown,” Wilson said quietly. “Thought maybe it’d bring us luck or something.”

Brando’s hands were trembling as he held it up, the light catching on the silver. His voice cracked when he spoke. “You- Wilson, this is…”

“I wanted you to have it,” Wilson said, his voice soft, almost shy now. “Because, I don’t know. We made it a year. Through everything. Besides you said you had a lot of wishes.”

Brando blinked hard, his throat tightening as he reached across the table and pulled Wilson into a kiss. It wasn’t hurried or heavy, it was soft, full of everything neither of them had said yet.

When they finally broke apart, Brando’s forehead rested against Wilson’s, their breaths tangled in the air between them. “You’re gonna make me cry, Webber,” Brando whispered.

Wilson smiled against his skin. “You already are, Copeland.”

Brando laughed, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, okay, your turn.”

Wilson pulled back, blinking. “My turn?”

Brando nodded, standing up and heading to the counter. He came back holding something folded, a worn brown racer jacket. Wilson’s breath hitched before Brando even spoke.

“I figured,” Brando said, smiling softly, “you might as well make it official. You stole it anyway.”

Wilson stared at him, speechless.

“I mean,” Brando continued, setting it gently in Wilson’s lap, “you ‘borrowed’ it for the move to Austin, and then just… never gave it back. So, now it’s yours. The jacket, and me, I guess.”

Wilson’s chest felt like it might burst. He stood up and threw his arms around Brando, the jacket pressed between them. “You’re such an idiot,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Brando grinned into his hair. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

They kissed again, this one slower, deeper, the kind that hummed through every nerve and memory they shared.
And then-

“CECE!”

Both of them jumped as the kitchen door slammed open. Cece burst out, fake mustache crooked, an oversized chef hat nearly covering her eyes. She marched dramatically toward them, holding a steaming plate of… something.
“Messieurs!” she announced, plunking the plate down in front of Wilson with flair. “Your final course, our specialité du jour!”

Wilson blinked down at the dish. “Uh… what is it?”

“Don’t ask,” Brando muttered under his breath.

Cece stood tall, smiling through her fake mustache. “It is for you, Monsieur Webber. Because…” she paused for dramatic effect, lowering her voice and pointing a finger at him. “ONLY YOU.”

Wilson frowned. “What?”

Cece’s fake smile twitched. “I said…ONLY YOU.”

He blinked again. “Yeah, I heard you…”

Cece’s smile broke, her teeth clenched. “MALLORY! TURN ON THE DAMN YAZOO!”

From the kitchen came a panicked shout: “I’m trying!”

Cece groaned, hip-checking the jukebox as she stormed past. It let out a buzz, and then, miraculously, those opening synths started playing, soft and glowing.

Cece turned back around, triumphant. “Mmm. Enjoy, Monsieur Webber,” she said with an exaggerated bow, her accent slipping halfway through.

Mallory appeared in the doorway, also wearing a chef hat, and muttered, “We are professionals.”

Cece rolled her eyes. “You burned the breadsticks, James.”

Mallory threw up her hands. “They were crispy!”

Cece glared, pointing the spatula at her. “You don’t even know what crispy means.”

Wilson and Brando were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

Cece and Mallory disappeared back into the kitchen, still arguing in a mess of half-English, half-French insults, the door swinging behind them as Only You played softly over the speakers.

Brando looked at Wilson again, eyes warm, the silver wishbone glinting between them. “Looks like they’re fighting for us.”

Wilson grinned, taking Brando’s hand. “They always do.”

The jukebox light flickered, and the song carried on, soft, sweet, and endless, as the two of them sat there in the little ice cream shop that held their first kiss, surrounded by laughter, love, and the sound of everything that had ever meant home.

Chapter Text

The Navarro house smelled like cinnamon toothpaste and popcorn butter, an oddly perfect mix for a Friday night in 1980.

Carla stood in the doorway, coat half on, purse slung over her shoulder, smiling at the sight of Wilson already kicking off his sneakers and making himself at home. Cece and Ella were sprawled across the floor with sleeping bags and soda cans, a stack of VHS tapes piled dangerously high on the coffee table.

“Thanks again for letting him stay, Jess,” Carla said, glancing over at her oldest friend, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

Jess waved her off with a grin. “Oh, please. Wilson’s the least of my worries. I’ve got those two,” she nodded toward Cece and Ella, “who’ve already gone through half the snack cabinet and are currently debating whether or not ‘Grease’ counts as a romance or a musical.”

Ella, without looking up, yelled, “It’s both!”

Cece adjusted her glasses, braces flashing in the lamplight. “No, it’s a cultural milestone, Ella.”

Jess smirked. “See what I mean?”

Carla laughed, tugging at her coat sleeve. “God, you’re raising a future politician.”

“Or lawyer,” Jess said, side-eyeing Cece. “You know she made me sign a ‘legally binding’ sleepover contract when she was nine?”

Carla laughed again. “That sounds about right.” She looked over at Wilson, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, already halfway through a bowl of popcorn. “You be good, okay?”

Wilson nodded, mouth full. “Always am.”

“Uh-huh,” Carla said, mock-suspicious. “And remember, no prank calls this time. Last time I had to apologize to the pastor.”

Cece perked up immediately. “Technically that was Ella’s idea!”

Ella gasped dramatically. “Excuse me! You dialed!”

Jess groaned from the kitchen. “If the phone bill is weird this month, I’m sending it to both your mothers.”

Carla covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “You know, I don’t miss this part,” she teased, glancing at Jess. “How’s business been? Still pulling teeth for half of Laredo?”

Jess nodded, pouring herself a glass of water. “Busy as ever. Every kid in town suddenly needs braces, which, I’m pretty sure, is a scam my own daughter’s responsible for.”

“Mom!” Cece protested. “That’s called networking!”

Carla smiled, shaking her head. “Matt’s doing alright,” she said softly, circling back to Jess’s earlier question. “Long hours, but he’s good. Still thinks he’s twenty-five and can fix a car in the driveway without throwing out his back.”

Jess snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Carla sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall, 9:07 p.m. Her overnight shift loomed, but she lingered anyway. “You sure it’s okay if I run straight from here? He’s gonna crash after midnight snacks anyway.”

Jess waved her hand again. “You know this house runs on caffeine and chaos. He’s fine here.”

Before Carla could answer, Ella jumped up, tugging her arm. “Carlaaa, we’re gonna start the movie! You gotta go before Cece rewinds it for the fifteenth time!”

Cece huffed. “Because some of us like context, Ella.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “Alright, girls, calm down before I cancel the popcorn privileges.”

Carla crouched to hug Wilson, pressing a quick kiss to his hair. “Be good, okay? And don’t let them bully you into a makeover again.”

Cece put a hand on her hip. “That was once, and he looked amazing.”

Wilson groaned. “I had glitter in my eyebrows for a week.”

Ella grinned. “Worth it.”

Carla laughed, straightening. “God help you, Jess.”

“Please,” Jess said, grabbing her coffee mug. “At this point, I thrive on it.”

Carla lingered one last moment, her eyes soft. “Alright, my little monsters. Have fun, and no one break anything. Or anyone.”

“Yes, ma’am!” all three chorused, barely hiding their laughter.

As the front door closed behind her, Wilson watched through the window until Carla’s car backed down the driveway, taillights glowing red in the dark.

Cece clapped her hands together, already in command. “Alright, people. The night begins now.”

Ella flopped backward onto her sleeping bag. “You sound like you’re starting a cult.”

Cece smirked. “A cult of organization.”

Wilson grinned, shaking his head as he reached for another handful of popcorn. “Same thing.”

The TV screen flickered to life, washing the room in a soft glow. Outside, the streetlight hummed, and the Navarro house settled into the familiar chaos of a Friday night, laughter, friendship, and the kind of warmth that made even January in Laredo feel like summer.

By 10:30, the living room looked like a battlefield of teenage chaos. The popcorn bowl was empty, the VHS of Grease was rewound and paused right before the “Tell me about it, stud” line because Cece insisted it was cinematic art, and Ella had claimed the couch like a queen, wrapped in a blanket with her feet resting on Wilson’s sleeping bag.

Jess reappeared from the hallway, arms crossed, wearing a pink robe and that classic mom face that said she was both amused and exhausted. “Alright, you three,” she announced, “it’s time for me to pretend I’m getting eight hours of sleep.”

Ella groaned. “Booooo.”

“Don’t ‘boo’ me,” Jess said, picking up a stray soda can. “Last time you three had a ‘quiet night,’ my neighbor almost called the police because someone,” she gave Ella a pointed look “Decided the front porch needed a 3 A.M. concert.”

Ella sat up straighter, pretending to be offended. “It was a good song!”

Jess smirked. “Not when you’re screaming “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” into the night like you’re auditioning for American Bandstand.”

Cece giggled. “She’s got you there.”

Jess turned her gaze toward her daughter. “And you, Miss Popcorn Teeth, do not eat anything that’ll get stuck in your braces tonight. I mean it.”

Cece groaned dramatically, sinking into her beanbag. “Isn’t that the perk of having a dentist as a mom? You fix the damage!”

Jess raised an eyebrow. “Cece.”

Cece blinked innocently. “I’m just saying! You made this bed, Dr. Navarro.”

Jess shook her head, laughing as she started toward the hallway. “Goodnight, you weirdos. Try not to burn the house down.”

As soon as her bedroom door clicked shut, the silence lasted maybe five seconds.

Then Cece gasped dramatically, spinning toward Ella and Wilson. “Okay, so, there’s this new guy in my French class.”

Wilson groaned into his pillow. “Here we go.”

Ella perked up. “Ooh, new guy? Details, Navarro. Fast.”

Cece grinned, adjusting her glasses and sitting forward like she was about to make a PowerPoint presentation. “He transferred right after Christmas break. From Dallas. Totally cute. Brown hair, kinda floppy, and he has this, like, effortless jacket thing going on, like James Dean, but if James Dean did his homework.”

Ella gasped. “You’re in love.”

Cece scoffed. “I am interested. There’s a difference.”

Wilson looked up from where he was sprawled out, skeptical. “You haven’t even talked to him, have you?”

Cece hesitated. “…No.”

Ella burst out laughing. “So you’ve just been staring at him across the room like a creep.”

“I have observed him,” Cece said, defensive. “There’s a difference between staring and observing.”

Wilson smirked. “No, there isn’t.”

Cece threw a popcorn kernel at him. “Shut up, Webber.”

Ella was already plotting. “Okay, what’s his name? I need to know if it’s crush material or not.”

Cece adjusted her glasses again, a little too nonchalantly. “Elliot.”

Ella wrinkled her nose. “Elliot? That’s… okay.”

Cece rolled her eyes. “You’re so picky.”

“I have standards,” Ella said, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “If you’re gonna have a crush, it has to sound good in a song. ‘Cece and Elliot’? No rhythm.”

Cece blinked. “You base crushes on how lyrical they sound?”

“Obviously.”

Wilson shook his head, amused. “You’re both insane.”

Cece smirked. “You say that like you’ve never had a crush, Wilson.”

He froze for half a second. “I didn’t say that.”

Ella pounced instantly. “Ohhhh, so there is someone.”

Wilson turned red. “No, I just said-”

Cece gasped like she’d solved a murder. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not!”

Ella grinned. “You so are.”

Cece leaned forward, chin in hand. “So who is she?”

Wilson grabbed a pillow, groaning into it. “Why did I agree to this sleepover.”

“Because your mom works nights,” Ella sang.

“And because you love us,” Cece added sweetly.

Wilson mumbled into the pillow. “…Regretting it.”

Cece leaned back with a smug smile. “He’s totally hiding something.”

Ella nodded. “Oh, definitely. We’ll get it out of him before sunrise.”

Cece grinned. “Bet?”

Ella grinned back. “Bet.”

Wilson groaned again, but he was smiling, because as much as he complained, there was nowhere else he’d rather be than right there, surrounded by the two girls who knew him better than anyone, in a living room that smelled like popcorn and toothpaste and home.

Cece flopped onto her stomach, chin propped up on her hands, kicking her socked feet in the air. “Okay, can we talk about how this semester switch absolutely ruined my life schedule-wise?”

Ella threw a piece of popcorn at her. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time,” Cece said, dramatic as ever. “My whole routine is off. I have to think now before I walk to class, and I don’t like that.”

Wilson leaned back against the couch. “You’ve had two days of the new schedule.”

“Two days too long,” she said, pouting.

Ella rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “At least you get good classes. I have a bunch of random electives. Oh! I have a few classes with Brando.”

Cece immediately groaned. “Oh, lucky you.”

Wilson smirked, catching it. “I have him in two too. Gym and art.”

Ella laughed. “Wait, Brando in art? I give that a week before he starts doodling baseball bats and calling it abstract.”

Wilson grinned. “He’s actually not bad. He draws cars. And he’s quiet in there, which is nice.”

Cece snorted. “Quiet? Brando Copeland? Did he hit his head with a baseball bat?”

“He’s different in art,” Wilson said simply, not elaborating.

Ella tilted her head, giving him a knowing little smirk but let it go. “Well, I have health with him. He sits in the back with Eddie and makes fun of the videos.”

Cece adjusted her glasses, unimpressed. “We’ll he threw a paper football at me in history today, so.”

Wilson laughed. “That sounds right.”

“I swear he’s allergic to maturity,” Cece muttered. “He and Jason Lahey both. They’re like twin disasters.”

Ella was grinning. “Come on, Cece, you don’t hate him.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Cece insisted, throwing a pillow at her. “He’s cocky and loud and-”

“He’s actually kinda nice?” Ella offered with a sly smile.

Cece gasped. “Take that back.”

Wilson, fighting laughter, looked between them. “You do hang out with him, though.”

Cece blinked. “Excuse me?”

“At my house!” Wilson pointed out. “He’s there, like, every other weekend. You could leave if you hated him so much.”

Cece crossed her arms. “I’m not gonna let him chase me away from my best friend’s house.”

Wilson grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re welcome,” she shot back.

Ella was already flipping through her notebook like she was doing inventory. “Okay, so let’s see who’s stuck where this semester. I have health, gym, and biology with Brando, god help me. And Cece, you have every single honors class with Mallory James, right?”

Cece groaned instantly. “Don’t remind me.”

Ella and Wilson exchanged a look.

“She’s so… ugh,” Cece continued, flopping back dramatically. “You know how she answers every question like she’s auditioning for Jeopardy? And she’s always sitting in the front row with her hand up before the teacher even finishes talking? It’s like she’s allergic to being normal.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “You mean like you?”

Cece gasped. “Excuse me?!”

Ella burst out laughing.

“I’m nothing like her,” Cece said firmly, glaring at Wilson. “I have charisma.”

Wilson snorted. “Yeah, sure. Charisma and highlighters.”

“Exactly,” Cece said proudly. “Mallory James couldn’t color-code her notes to save her life.”

Ella smirked. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

Cece grabbed the nearest throw pillow and smacked her with it. “I will end you, Sinclair.”

Wilson laughed so hard he nearly choked on his soda. “At least you and I have a few honors classes together,” he said once he caught his breath. “And we all have lunch together. Brando too.”

Cece groaned again, rolling onto her back. “Perfect. My dream lunch table. Me, the human golden retriever, the brooding artist, and the person who chews with her mouth open.”

Ella raised her eyebrows. “Which one’s which?”

Cece pointed lazily. “Brando, him, you, in that order.”

Wilson chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re lucky we put up with you.”

“I’m a delight,” Cece said simply, smiling up at the ceiling.

“Sure,” Ella teased. “A delight with braces, glasses, and a superiority complex.”

Cece grinned, not even offended. “And don’t you forget it.”

The laughter settled into a comfortable hum, one of those easy, familiar sounds that only existed between people who’d grown up together. Outside, the Navarro porch light buzzed, casting soft gold through the window. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Inside, the three of them lay tangled in blankets and the simple rhythm of shared stories, school, friends, crushes, the whole messy miracle of being fourteen.

By the time the clock hit 11:45, the living room was a war zone of empty chip bags, spilled soda, and friendship bracelets half-finished and forgotten.

Cece had somehow convinced them all to play Truth or Dare, because of course she did, she claimed it was “a statistically proven way to strengthen emotional bonds.”

Wilson sat cross-legged on the carpet, a half-eaten Twizzler hanging out of his mouth. “Alright,” he said, voice muffled, “no backing out this time. Last round, Cece dared you to prank call the gas station, Ella, and you chickened out.”

“I did not chicken out,” Ella argued, eyes narrowing. “I just didn’t want to get arrested.”

Cece rolled her eyes, spinning the empty Coke bottle in the center of the circle. “That’s literally what a chicken would say.”

The bottle clinked to a stop, pointing at Ella.

Cece smirked. “Perfect. Truth or dare?”

Ella thought about it for half a second. “Truth. I’m not doing any of your weird dares again.”

“Coward,” Cece teased. “Fine. What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to a boy?”

Ella threw her head back. “Oh, easy. I once told Cody Parker his new haircut made him look like one of the Beatles.”

Wilson grinned. “That’s not bad.”

“He said, ‘Thanks, which one?’ and I said ‘Yoko Ono,’” Ella said flatly.

Cece wheezed so hard she choked on her soda. “You did not!”

“Oh, I did,” Ella said proudly. “He didn’t talk to me for a week.”

The bottle spun again, clicking between them until it stopped, Cece this time.

“Ohhhh,” Wilson sing-songed, rubbing his hands together. “This is gonna be good.”

“Truth or dare,” Ella said, her smile already wicked.

Cece adjusted her glasses like she was preparing for battle. “Truth. Because I’m not stupid.”

Ella smirked, drawing it out. “Alright. Who’s the prettiest girl in school?”

Cece blinked. “That’s easy. You.”

Ella flipped her hair, preening. “Obviously. But other than me.”

Cece leaned back, pretending to think deeply. “Okay, me.”

Ella groaned. “That’s not an answer!”

“It’s true, though!” Cece said, feigning innocence.

Wilson laughed. “She’s not wrong.”

“Answer the question, Cece!” Ella said, trying to snatch a pillow to throw.

Cece sighed dramatically, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Fine. If you must know, I mean… Mallory is objectively attractive. So I’d be doing wrong by the people if I didn’t say her.”

Wilson snorted. “You hate Mallory.”

“I didn’t say I like her,” Cece said quickly, “I said she’s pretty. There’s a difference.”

Ella smirked, leaning closer. “Uh-huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

Cece groaned. “I don’t know! I’m not looking at girls!”

Wilson’s grin widened. “You look at my cousin all the time.”

Cece froze, cheeks instantly pink. “Rory is different!”

Ella was already laughing, clutching her stomach. “Different how?”

Cece grabbed a pillow and hit her with it. “She’s not from here! She’s like… mysterious. She only comes around during the summers, it’s like-”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “A summer fling?”

Cece gasped. “A fling that never happens!” she said quickly, cheeks still red. “I just…she’s older and cool and she wears sunglasses inside, okay?”

Ella could barely breathe from laughing. “You literally drool every time she helps Carla with the grill or Matt with the truck.”

Cece groaned, burying her face in her hands. “You two are impossible.”

Wilson grinned. “You’re just mad we caught you.”

Cece peeked through her fingers. “You’re lucky I like you, Webber.”

Ella smirked. “Aw, don’t worry, Cece. You’ll see Rory again this summer. Maybe she’ll let you hold the wrench this time.”

Cece threw another pillow, this time hard enough to make Ella squeal.

“Okay!” Wilson said, laughing so hard his sides hurt. “Okay! Truce before someone breaks the lamp again!”

Cece crossed her arms, but even she was smiling. “Fine. But next round, it’s my question.”

Ella leaned back with a smirk. “Bring it on.”

Cece groaned. “I hate both of you.”

But she didn’t mean it. The room glowed with that rare kind of warmth, teenage, dumb, endless, the kind that makes you think maybe growing up won’t be so bad if you’re doing it together.

The night had melted into the kind of delirious chaos only sugar, soda, and 14-year-old energy could create.

The Coke bottle had spun at least twenty times, each round somehow more ridiculous than the last.

Wilson had already been dared to wear Cece’s headband for five full minutes, Cece had admitted she’d once cried in class when she got a 98 instead of a 100, and Ella, after endless teasing, had finally worked up the nerve to prank call the gas station.

“Hi, uh, do you sell… gas?” she’d asked in a deep voice before panic set in and she slammed the phone down.

They laughed so hard Wilson nearly fell off the couch, and even Cece, who pretended to be above that kind of thing, had tears in her eyes from laughing.

By the time the clock blinked 12:03 a.m., the world outside was quiet, Laredo asleep, the streetlight buzzing faintly through the window. Inside, the three of them were still going, sprawled out across blankets and pillows, faces glowing from the TV’s blue light.

Cece spun the bottle one more time. “Okay, last round.”

It clinked in a slow circle before stopping squarely on Wilson.

“Of course,” he said, groaning.

Cece smirked. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he said without thinking.

Ella grinned. “Oooh, dangerous.”

Cece’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “Alright then, Webber. Tell us, who do you like?”

Wilson immediately sat up. “Pass.”

“No passes!” Ella said, pointing dramatically. “That’s a rule!”

“I’ll take a dare,” he said quickly, shifting in his sleeping bag.

Cece and Ella exchanged a look. “Oh, so you do like someone,” Cece said, sing-songing.

“No,” Wilson said too fast.

“Oh my God, it’s someone we know, isn’t it?” Ella gasped. “Tell us! Is it me?!”

Wilson nearly choked. “What?! No!”

Cece leaned in. “Then it’s me, obviously.”

Wilson groaned, hiding his face. “It’s not you either!”

“Then who?” Ella pressed, eyes wide with the kind of gossip-driven curiosity only teenage girls could muster. “Janice Perez from choir? You sit near her, don’t you?”

“No!” Wilson said again, voice pitching high.

Cece crossed her arms, smiling. “Then who is it?”

Wilson’s stomach twisted. He looked at his hands, the tiny scar on his thumb from that summer he and Brando had tried to fix Carla’s mailbox. He thought about the way Brando always ruffled his hair, how his smile hit him right in the ribs every time. The thought made his chest ache and his throat tighten.

He didn’t want to say it. He couldn’t. But it was sitting on his tongue anyway.

He fiddled with the drawstring of his hoodie. “It’s… it’s not any of those girls.”

Cece and Ella went quiet for a second.

Ella tilted her head. “Then who?”

Wilson’s voice came out small. “It’s… Brando.”

For a heartbeat, the room froze. The TV hummed softly in the background, flickering across their faces.

Cece blinked first, her mouth opening slightly. “Brando Copeland?”

Wilson nodded, not looking up. “Yeah. I know, it’s… it’s stupid.”

Ella and Cece exchanged a quick look, then both turned back to him.

“It’s not stupid,” Cece said softly.

“Yeah,” Ella said, voice gentler than usual. “It’s actually kind of sweet.”

Wilson laughed once, shaky. “Yeah, okay. Sweet. Until he finds out and decides never to talk to me again.”

Cece reached over and nudged him with her foot. “He won’t. He’s too dumb to notice, anyway. You’ve liked him forever, huh?”

Wilson hesitated, then nodded. “Pretty much.”

Ella smiled, reaching out to grab his hand. “Honestly? I kind of always thought you did.”

Wilson looked up, startled. “You did?”

Ella shrugged. “You light up when he’s around. Like, it’s obvious.”

Cece grinned faintly. “Yeah. I just figured you’d tell us when you were ready.”

Wilson’s throat tightened again, this time for a different reason. “You guys aren’t weirded out?”

Cece made a face. “Please. Half the school’s weird. You’re fine.”

Ella added, teasing but warm, “Besides, I’ve always wanted a token gay friend. You’re just helping me live my dream.”

Wilson laughed through a sniffle. “You’re ridiculous.”

Cece leaned over and bumped her shoulder into his. “We love you, dummy.”

Wilson looked at her, really looked, and saw nothing but sincerity. “I love you guys too.”

The three of them sat there, in a mess of blankets and junk food and late-night quiet, the kind of stillness that only came after every secret was out.

Cece broke it first, softly. “So… you think Brando knows?”

Wilson sighed. “God, I hope not.”

Ella grinned. “You say that like he wouldn’t totally like you back.”

Cece rolled her eyes. “Don’t fill his head, Ella.”

But she was smiling.

Wilson smiled too, small, but real. For the first time, it didn’t feel scary to say it out loud.

Cece flicked off the lamp, leaving only the glow of the TV. “Okay,” she said, voice soft. “Truth or dare is officially over before I start crying.”

Ella nodded, snuggling under her blanket. “Agreed.”

Wilson lay back, staring at the ceiling, his heart weirdly light.

The last thing he heard before drifting to sleep was Cece whispering, “Don’t worry, Will. Your secret’s safe with us.”

And it was.

The house had gone quiet in that way only 3 a.m. could bring, soft, still, with the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old pipes settling.

Wilson padded down the hall, rubbing at his eyes. The living room looked different in the dark; the TV was off now, the popcorn bowl tipped on its side, a glittering mess of salt and crumbs across the carpet. Ella was passed out cold on the couch, one leg dangling over the side, an empty can of Sprite balanced precariously on her stomach. Her hair had fallen across her face, and every few seconds, she let out the tiniest snore.

Cece was nowhere to be seen, her blanket folded in a pile, sleeping bag abandoned. She’d probably migrated to her room hours ago.

Wilson tiptoed into the kitchen, the linoleum cool under his bare feet. He opened the fridge, squinting at the sudden light, and grabbed a bottle of water. The cold air brushed his face as he leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip.

Everything was still.

It hit him then, harder now that the laughter had faded and the secrets had settled.

They knew.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes tracing the pattern of moonlight spilling across the countertop. The words kept looping in his head: It’s Brando. The way Cece’s face softened, the way Ella smiled too wide, trying to make it easier for him. They’d said it wasn’t weird, that it was fine, that they loved him no matter what.

But he couldn’t stop thinking, did they mean it?

Because they were fourteen. Because they said nice things all the time, the same way everyone did at that age, because it was easier than being honest.

He’d heard them whisper before, about other people. About classmates, about clothes, about someone’s haircut or laugh. They didn’t mean to be mean, it was just what kids did.

And now he was wondering if his name would end up in one of those whispered afterthoughts.

He stared at his reflection in the window above the sink, faint, ghosted by the moonlight. His eyes looked tired. His curls were flattened on one side. He didn’t look brave or relieved like he thought he would. Just small.

He wanted to believe them. He really did. Cece had said it so matter-of-factly, “Please. Half the school’s weird. You’re fine.”, like it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. And Ella had been so casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, just another piece of trivia about him.

But what if that was just them being nice?

What if Monday, when school started again, things changed? What if they started watching what they said around him? What if they stopped inviting him to sleepovers and inside jokes and everything that made life feel okay?

He looked back toward the living room. Ella shifted in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent, clutching the couch pillow like a lifeline.

He almost laughed. Of course she was out cold. She could sleep through a tornado.

And she didn’t deserve to be woken up, not for this. Ella had her own stuff. Her parents fought every other week, and she brushed it off with jokes and eyeliner, but he saw the cracks sometimes. The way she’d go quiet mid-laugh.

No, she didn’t need to hear him spiral at 3 a.m. about being weird or broken or different.

He capped the bottle, setting it down quietly on the counter.

Cece’s room light was off upstairs, but he could see the faint outline of it, the soft yellow glow from under her door. She always left her lamp on, said she couldn’t sleep in total darkness.

He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his T-shirt and took a deep breath.

Maybe she’d still be awake.

The steps creaked softly as he made his way up, careful, deliberate, his hand sliding along the banister. Every sound felt too loud in the quiet house, the shift of wood, the faint hum of the fridge, the slow beating of his own heart.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped.

Cece’s door was cracked slightly, the dim light spilling into the hallway. He could see her posters, ABBA, The Go-Go’s, a half-torn photo of a young Meryl Streep, glinting faintly on the walls.

He hesitated. His fingers hovered near the doorframe, not quite touching.

He didn’t know what he wanted from her, reassurance? A promise she’d keep his secret? Or maybe just to not feel alone in it.

He exhaled, chest tight.

Then, quietly, he sat down on the top step, just outside her room, the glow from her lamp washing faintly over his knees.

He didn’t knock. Not yet.

He just sat there, listening to the hum of the house, waiting for the courage to find him again.

Cece startled awake to the softest knock on her door, more of a tap, really. For a second, she thought she’d dreamed it. Her ABBA poster fluttered slightly in the draft from the cracked window, and the little pink night-light plugged into the wall hummed faintly.

“…Cece?”

Her head shot up, her silk eye mask crooked across her forehead. She blinked, adjusting to the low glow of her bedside lamp. Wilson stood in the doorway, barefoot and small-looking in the oversized T-shirt he’d borrowed from Carla.

She rubbed her eyes. “Will? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

He gave a half-shrug, eyes darting to the carpet. “That’s what some people call it, yeah.”

Cece frowned, pushing herself up and patting the bed beside her. “What?”

Wilson hesitated before stepping in, closing the door gently behind him. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands like they were holding something heavy.

“I just…” he started, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to feel right now. I thought I’d feel better after telling you guys, but it’s like, it’s worse.”

Cece tilted her head, her sleepiness fading quick. “Worse how?”

He laughed, soft and sad. “Like, what if you didn’t mean it? What if you say it’s okay now but you don’t actually think that? Or what if people at school find out and everything changes?”

Cece sighed quietly, crossing her legs and facing him fully. “Will, stop.”

He kept going. “I don’t want people to look at me and see something wrong. Or weird. Or gross. I just… I don’t want to be that person, you know? The one everyone whispers about.”

“Wilson,” Cece said gently. “No one’s gonna think that.”

He shook his head, tears threatening again. “You don’t know that.”

“Hey,” she said softly, touching his shoulder. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, and she smiled, a small, sleepy, honest one. “You’re still you. The same kid who draws all over his homework and gets nervous talking to cashiers. The same one who made me a friendship bracelet in fifth grade and pretended it was just ‘practice.’ You’re still my best friend.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t tell Ella that.”

Cece grinned. “Please. I’ll let her think she’s your favorite. I know the truth.”

That got a real laugh out of him, the kind that sounded like relief.

Then his voice got quiet again. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Cece’s expression softened. “Of course I won’t. Not a word. And Ella won’t either, you know that.”

He nodded, but she could tell it wasn’t enough. His shoulders were still tense, his hands twisting in his lap. “I just don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “People are gonna find out, Cece. They always do.”

Cece was quiet for a moment, her brain already turning gears. Then she snapped her fingers. “Okay. I have a plan.”

Wilson blinked. “A plan?”

“Yeah.” She sat up straighter, her hair sticking up a little, voice suddenly wide awake. “We can fake date.”

He stared at her. “…What?”

She grinned. “Think about it! It’s perfect. You’re my fake boyfriend, I’m your fake girlfriend. No one suspects a thing. Everyone stops asking questions, and you don’t have to hide, you just get to exist. Easy.”

Wilson blinked again, completely bewildered. “You’d do that for me?”

“Obviously,” Cece said, waving her hand like it was nothing. “You’re my best friend. Plus, it’ll give me practice for when I’m a lawyer and need to commit perjury convincingly.”

He let out a wet laugh, wiping his eyes. “You’re insane.”

She smirked. “And you’re welcome.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “What’s the catch?”

“One condition,” she said, pointing at him.

He groaned. “I knew it.”

“You have to carry my books to class every day. Even the big ones.”

He laughed, the kind that cracked his voice in half. “Fine. Deal.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wait, two conditions.”

Wilson sighed, amused. “Here we go.”

“We have to go to the Valentine’s Day dance together,” she declared proudly. “It’ll sell the story. And Ella’s coming too, obviously. Maybe you can convince Brando to come. Make it a whole group thing.”

Wilson smiled softly, shaking his head. “Yeah. We can do that.”

Cece leaned back, looking pleased with herself, and for a second, the quiet stretched comfortably between them. The kind of quiet that came after a plan, no matter how ridiculous, made everything feel a little lighter.

But then Wilson’s smile faltered. His hands twisted in his lap again. “I mean…” He exhaled. “I don’t even know if I am, you know? Gay.”

Cece tilted her head, watching him.

“I haven’t even kissed a girl,” he said, voice small. “Yet alone a boy. What if I just think I am, and I’m wrong?”

Cece hummed thoughtfully, playing with the hem of her blanket. “Well,” she said after a second, “we could kiss.”

Wilson blinked. “What?”

She shrugged. “Just to see. I haven’t kissed anyone either. It’s hard with braces. Plus, boys don’t look at me.”

He turned toward her, eyebrows raised. “That’s not true.”

“It is true,” she said simply. “The last boy who even talked to me was Jeremy Carter in fifth grade, and that was only because I lent him my ruler.”

Wilson almost smiled. “Maybe he liked your ruler.”

Cece rolled her eyes. “Focus. I’m saying it could be, like, an experiment. Just for science.”

He looked at her, really looked, and then laughed quietly. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer innovative,” she said, already leaning a little closer, her tone so matter-of-fact it almost calmed him.

He hesitated, heart thudding. “Okay… yeah. I mean, just to see, right?”

Cece nodded. “Exactly.”

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Wilson leaned in, awkward and slow, and Cece met him halfway. Their noses bumped. They both laughed under their breath before trying again.

The kiss was… strange.

Her lips were soft but a little chapped, and his were cold from the water he’d had earlier. Her braces grazed his bottom lip, cutting it just enough to sting, but he didn’t flinch. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t right either, not the way he imagined kissing Brando would be.

They pulled apart after a few seconds, both blinking, a little startled by their own boldness.

Cece wiped her mouth, wrinkling her nose. “So?”

Wilson gave a half-shrug, trying to find the words.

“Still gay?” she asked, deadpan.

He let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Still gay.”

Cece nodded, like she’d been expecting that answer. “I assumed so.”

There was a small pause before she tilted her head. “Was it at least good? I mean, I am your first kiss. You could give me some feedback or something.”

Wilson laughed again, the sound gentler this time. “Yeah, no, it was great! Really warm…” He cleared his throat. “Cherry ChapStick was a great choice.”

Cece smirked, pleased. “I knew it. It’s classic. I almost went with bubblegum, but it felt too childish, you know?”

“Totally,” he said, trying not to laugh.

She started rambling, waving her hands as she spoke. “It’s the flavor of confidence, really. Cherry just says, ‘I’m put together.’ It’s timeless. You could wear it to court one day and still look professional. And-”

“Cece.”

She blinked, snapping out of it. “What?”

He smiled faintly. “You talk too much.”

Cece grinned, unbothered. “Yeah, well, someone has to fill the silence.” She pulled her blanket up and crossed her arms triumphantly. “Good. It’s settled then. Operation Webber Navarro is officially underway.”

He rolled his eyes, laughing. “That’s the dumbest name for a fake relationship ever.”

“It’s iconic,” she countered, kissing his cheek before flopping back against her pillow dramatically. “Now, you’re my boyfriend, so technically you have to say goodnight before you leave.”

He laughed again, quiet, but this time it was real. “Goodnight, Cece.”

She smiled, tucking herself under the blanket. “Goodnight, Will.”

He sat there for a moment longer, watching her eyelids flutter shut, her breathing even out into that light, content rhythm of someone who’d already moved on to dreaming.

The room was still warm with leftover laughter and secrets that didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Wilson stood, brushing his hand over his cheek where her ChapStick still lingered faintly. He glanced once more at her sleeping form before slipping out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

For the first time that night, he didn’t feel scared, just steady, like something inside him had finally clicked into place.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe that maybe everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

It was early, too early for anyone in the Copeland-Webber house to be awake willingly.

The Laredo sun was just barely starting to burn through the thin morning fog, catching on the dew outside and making the front yard shimmer like glass. Wilson’s suitcase sat by the door, wheels crooked, an overstuffed portfolio bag leaning against it like it was too tired to stand.

Brando was hovering, mug of coffee in one hand, trying to look relaxed. Rose could tell. He always got fidgety whenever Wilson had to leave for something, tracing his thumb along the edge of his mug, checking the flight time every six minutes like it might suddenly change.

“Papa,” Rose said, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “You’re staring.”

Brando blinked and looked away, pretending to sip from his empty mug. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are,” she teased. “You’ve been doing that thing where you pretend you’re listening but you’re actually imagining the plane crashing.”

Wilson laughed from by the couch, still straightening his portfolio. “Oh good, she’s psychic now.”

“I’m observant,” Rose said. “It’s hereditary.”

Wilson smiled softly at her, the kind of tired, proud smile that always made Brando melt a little. “Alright, Miss Observant,” he said. “Make sure your papa doesn’t accidentally donate all my sketchbooks while I’m gone.”

Brando looked mock-offended. “Excuse me, I would never. I’m a responsible adult.”

Rose and Wilson answered at the same time. “You lost the garage keys twice last week.”

Brando huffed. “You’re both fired.”

The tension broke, just a little. Wilson zipped his suitcase closed, kneeling beside it like he could squeeze his nerves in with the clothes. “It’s just… this expo’s huge,” he said, his voice lighter now but his hands fidgeting. “Preston’s gonna be there, and maybe Marsha and Gen if they can make it. Lydia and Del are coming in tomorrow night for the panel. It’s…” He hesitated, glancing between them. “It’s a lot.”

Brando nodded quickly, too quickly. “It’ll be fun! It’s like a… a girls…and Wilson trip.”

Rose groaned. “Papa.”

“What?” Brando said, grinning sheepishly. “Cece and Mal are meeting him there! It’s the whole crew. Just like the old days!”

Wilson laughed, that soft, familiar laugh that made Brando’s eyes go soft without him realizing. “Yeah,” he said. “Just like the old days. I wish Ella and Jan could make it, though.”

Rose perked up. “Aren’t they in Aruba?”

Wilson nodded, adjusting the strap on his bag. “Yeah. Something about a conference they’re leading. What did she call it again?”

Brando snapped his fingers. “Uh, something ridiculous. Oh! ‘Love After Legal Trouble: Healing the Heart Through Divorce 2.0.’”

Rose burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

“Nope,” Brando said proudly. “That’s the real name. It’s apparently a couples’ retreat for people who broke up and then got back together. Ella said they’re doing a keynote called ‘To Leave or Not to Leave.’”

Wilson smiled, shaking his head. “They’re perfect for it, honestly.”

“Yeah,” Brando said. “They get to argue in paradise. Living the dream.”

Rose grinned. “You guys could totally do something like that.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “You think we’re that dramatic?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

Brando smirked, crossing his arms. “At least we’d sell tickets.”

Wilson gave him a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Brando said, stepping closer, “you keep me around.”

Wilson sighed but his smile gave him away. He reached out and straightened Brando’s collar, unnecessary, since Brando wasn’t the one flying, but it was muscle memory now. He’d been doing it for decades. “Promise you’ll try to relax while I’m gone?”

Brando hesitated, then nodded. “Cross my heart.”

Wilson didn’t look convinced, but Rose stepped forward, slipping her hand into his. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t burn the house down,” she said.

“Or clean it too much,” Brando added. “Those are both risks.”

Wilson squeezed her hand. “I’m counting on you.”

The car honked outside, the taxi, punctual for once. Wilson took a deep breath, looked at both of them like he wanted to memorize the moment, and said softly, “Okay. Guess that’s me.”

Rose hugged him first, tight, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “You’re gonna be amazing,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Rosie.”

Then Brando pulled him in, quick, strong, lingering a second longer than Rose expected. The kind of hug that says everything without needing to.

When Wilson finally stepped out onto the porch, suitcase rolling behind him, Rose leaned on the doorframe and watched him wave before the taxi turned the corner. The morning light was warm now, cutting through the quiet street, and for a second, everything felt suspended, soft and golden.

Brando stood beside her, staring out like he was trying not to already miss him.

Rose nudged him gently. “Alright, Romeo. You promised him you’d relax, not mope.”

Brando rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Your dad should’ve never shown you those pictures from my college spring formal. It’s not Romeo, it’s Papa!”

Rose smirked. “You had your collar popped and a rose in your mouth, I’m sorry, that’s not ‘Papa,’ that’s full-on Shakespearean heartbreak.”

He groaned, looking toward the ceiling like he was begging for strength. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” she said, grabbing her hair tie off her wrist and twisting her hair up.

Brando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze flicked toward the hallway. The ceiling fan above them creaked faintly, spinning slow in the heat. “Alright,” he said, like he was trying to sound enthusiastic. “So, you gonna take the attic or the garage?”

Rose didn’t even hesitate. “Attic. Totally.”

“Seriously?” Brando said, squinting at her. “You’d rather bake alive up there than clean the garage?”

She nodded confidently. “Yes. Because there are raccoons in that garage. And possibly ghosts.”

Brando’s eyes widened a little. “Don’t say that!”

Rose laughed, already heading toward the hallway. “What, raccoons?”

“No! Ghosts!” He lowered his voice like he was afraid of summoning one. “This house has enough history, okay? I don’t need to find out some long-lost Webber relative’s been haunting the lawn mower.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she teased, pulling down the attic cord. It came loose with a soft creak, a thin line of dust falling like confetti.

“I’m cautious,” he countered. “You know how much weird stuff your dad’s family collected? I found a ceramic frog with teeth in the basement once.”

Rose gagged. “Oh my God, that’s disgusting. Why would you keep that?”

“Ask your father,” Brando said, crossing his arms. “He said it was ‘vintage art.’”

“Okay, well, I’m not scared of frogs or ghosts or whatever.” She reached for the attic ladder and pulled it down, dust scattering around them. “Besides, you’d probably just talk to the ghosts anyway.”

“I’m friendly!” he argued. “And if they’re friendly ghosts, I don’t see the problem.”

Rose giggled, shaking her head. “You’re such a dork.”

“You’re just jealous I’ve got good ghost energy,” he shot back.

She started up the ladder, the wood creaking under her sneakers. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what it is.”

Brando stood at the base, watching her climb. “Be careful up there! I don’t need to tell your father I let you fall through the ceiling!”

“I’ll survive,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve got youth and sarcasm on my side.”

“Great,” Brando muttered. “Two things I lost in 1989.”

Rose disappeared into the dim glow of the attic, the air thick and heavy with heat. The faint smell of cedar and dust hit her immediately, and when she clicked on the dangling light bulb, it flickered a few times before glowing steady.

“Whoa,” she called down. “Papa, it’s like a time capsule up here.”

Brando’s voice floated up. “Don’t make fun of my past!”

“I’m not!” she said, laughing. “I’m just saying, there’s, like, everything up here. Boxes, clothes, a… baseball trophy?” She leaned closer to one of the shelves. “Who’s Terry?”

Brando hesitated. “Terry Copeland. My… cousin. Long story. Don’t open that one.”

“Why?” she asked, grinning. “Did you kill him?”

“Rose!”

“Okay, okay,” she laughed, dusting off another box. “Wow, there’s even a box labeled ‘My Love.’ Like, literally in marker. Did you write this?”

“Maybe,” Brando said, his tone already wary.

She knelt down, running her hand along the faded cardboard, tracing the black ink that had started to blur with time. “So, attic or garage?” she teased, echoing his earlier question.

He hesitated, glancing down the hall toward the open garage door. “Garage,” he decided. “Definitely Garage.”

Rose smirked from above. “Good choice, Papa.”

The attic light buzzed faintly, golden and warm against the dust. Somewhere in the stacks of forgotten boxes, something waited, a folded piece of paper, sealed decades ago, holding the one truth Brando Copeland never meant for anyone, especially his daughter, to find.

Rose crouched in the middle of the attic, cross-legged among towers of boxes that smelled like dust, old wood, and history. The bulb above her buzzed like a lazy bee, throwing everything in that soft amber haze that made it feel less like a storage space and more like a museum.

She grabbed the nearest box, one labeled SUMMER STUFF (DO NOT THROW AWAY) in her papa’s looping handwriting, and pried it open with the corner of an old metal ruler. Inside, the first thing she saw was a cracked cassette case with a faded label: Cece’s Road Trip Mix ‘89.

“Classic Aunt Cece,” she muttered, smiling as she turned it over. In sharpie, someone, probably Ella, had added, ‘Do not let Cece DJ ever again.’

The next layer was a stack of folded t-shirts, one from Rice University, another from a half-marathon, and a bright yellow one that said CAMP COPELAND-WEBBER - 1988 - Cece’s Team, No Cheating! in glitter pen. She giggled. “Embarrassing.”

Deeper in the box, she found an old paper crown, construction paper, glitter, and a taped-on tag that read Ella’s Birthday 1986. Rose brushed the edges, still faintly sticky with dried glue. “Aw, Aunt Ella,” she whispered.

The next box was labeled MEMORIES/DO NOT TOUCH a warning she, of course, ignored immediately. Inside, a handful of Polaroids curled with age, the colors all warm and washed out. She shuffled through them slowly, her grin growing with every click of memory.

One of Brando at seventeen, baseball jersey, glove slung over his shoulder, grin so big it could power a city.

Another of Wilson beside him, younger but already softer around the eyes, holding up a sketchbook to block the camera.

There were others, Cece and Mallory, caught mid-laugh at what looked like a college campus; Ella and Janice in matching sunglasses, clinking plastic cups in what Rose knew was one of their “friendship” pictures that later became “relationship” pictures, Carla in scrubs, Michelle beside her, both with tired eyes and wide smiles like women who’d seen it all and still chose to laugh about it.

Rose ran her thumb over that one, her grandmas. She’d heard every story, every inside joke that came from those two, but seeing them like that, so young, so alive, made something ache sweetly in her chest.

“Man,” she said to herself, “you guys really had it all figured out.”

The next box down had RANDOM scrawled across it. She opened it and found a faded softball cap that said Northwood Tech, a photo strip of a younger Uncle Scott and Aunt Kate making faces at a carnival booth, and a note tucked inside that read, “Kate’s first carnival!”

For a while, she just sat there, surrounded by other people’s lives, every ticket stub, every Polaroid, every dumb trinket that somehow carried decades of laughter. These weren’t just names she’d grown up hearing, they were her people.

Aunt Cece with her lawyer voice and endless advice.

Aunt Mal with her quiet patience.

Ella and Jan, chaotic and perfect, always calling her “kid” like she was still five.

Kate, forever the cool aunt who let her drive early.

Uncle Scott, who made the worst dad jokes known to man.

Grandma Michelle, all warmth and sharp wit.

Grandma Carla, steady and strong, the kind of person who could fix anything, even hearts.

She smiled to herself, eyes stinging a little. “You guys really were something, huh?”

Her hand brushed another stack of photos, some from before she was born, some from the years she didn’t quite remember. Her dads, always together in the background of every picture. Sometimes side by side, sometimes looking at each other like the whole world had gone quiet.

She held one up, a Polaroid from what must’ve been the early ‘90s. Brando sitting on the hood of a truck, Wilson leaning against him, both of them barefoot and sunburned, their smiles tired but easy.

Rose laughed softly, shaking her head. “You two are disgusting.”

But her voice cracked a little when she said it.

The next box she reached for was smaller, tucked in the back, half-hidden under a blanket that smelled faintly of cedar. It had no label, just an old rubber band holding it shut and a corner that had started to peel away.

Inside, she found the usual, papers, faded receipts, an old journal that looked like it had seen better days. But tucked between the pages was a small stack of folded letters, tied together with string.

She smiled at first, thinking they were love notes, maybe between her dads, maybe from friends long gone. But as she picked one up, she noticed something strange.

The handwriting was familiar, messy, slanted, the ink fading, but the name written across the front made her freeze.

Wilson.

July 27th, 1982.

Her papa’s handwriting.

And no stamp. No fold marks. No sign it had ever been sent.

Rose stared at it for a long time, heart starting to pound.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, thumb brushing the edge of the envelope. “What the hell are you?”

She blinked, reading it again, her stomach tightening. She’d heard about that summer before. Not on purpose, never on purpose, but in the way kids pick things up. In the quiet moments when voices got sharp downstairs. In the half-whispered arguments that weren’t meant for her.

The summer of 1982.

She could still remember the first time she heard her dad say it, his voice low, his hands wringing the hem of his sleeve. It was years ago, one of those nights when she was supposed to be asleep but couldn’t be, when their laughter from the living room turned to silence, and then to words that carried through the vents.

It always started the same way, Wilson saying something about July, his voice trembling at the edges. Something about that night, and how Brando didn’t show up.

She remembered lying in bed, clutching her pillow, not really understanding. Just hearing those fragments that stuck to her like burrs.

“You kissed me, and then you disappeared, Bran. You didn’t even come say goodbye.”

“I know.”

“You knew how much that wrecked me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

It always ended the same too. Brando apologizing. Wilson going quiet. Then, after a pause, the sound of them finding each other again, soft voices, sometimes a few sobs, that fragile truce that always followed.

Rose had never asked what it meant. She didn’t have to. The pieces were there if you paid attention, old photos, stories from her aunts that trailed off too soon, the way her papa always looked away when 1983 came up like it was a bruise that hadn’t quite faded.

And now she was holding something from that year. From that summer.

She traced the writing again, the way her papa had written Wilson’s name, careful, deliberate, like he was afraid to press too hard.

WILSON.

No “Dear,” no “To,” just Wilson. It felt almost raw.

Rose swallowed hard.

Brando Copeland not showing up was hard to imagine. Her papa was the guy who always showed up. He was there for every soccer game, every show she was in at school, every 3 a.m. nightmare. He was the one who fixed her broken bike chain at twelve, drove four hours round trip for an art fair she wasn’t even in, and sat through three consecutive recitals when she switched from violin to guitar “for creative growth.”

He showed up for her, for her dad, for everyone.

So the idea of him not showing up, especially for Wilson, didn’t make sense.

But maybe it wasn’t the same back then. Maybe there was a time before he was the version of himself she knew. Before he learned how to stay.

She thought about all the stories she did know, the high school ones that Cece and Ella still told over wine and laughter, the wild summer days in Laredo before everything fell apart and came back together again. But nobody ever talked about what happened that summer, or even early in 1983.

It was like a missing page in a story everyone else had memorized.

Rose turned the envelope again, holding it closer to the light. The ink shimmered faintly, still legible despite the years. The corners were worn soft like someone had picked it up too many times, then decided against opening it, or against sending it.

She could picture her papa, younger, sitting at some kitchen table with a pen in hand and the weight of something he didn’t know how to say pressing against his chest.

The thought made her heart ache.

She sat back on her heels, the attic around her quiet except for the hum of the bulb. Dust hung in the air, floating through the streaks of late afternoon sunlight.

Rose let out a slow breath and placed the letter gently in her lap, staring down at the name scrawled across it one more time.

Wilson.

Her dad. Her papa.

Whatever this letter was, it wasn’t small. It wasn’t casual. It was July 1982.

And she knew, deep down, that once she read it, things might not look the same again.

She set the letter aside carefully, like it might break, and stared at the ceiling, her pulse quick and uneven.

For the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know everything about the people she loved most.

Rose had just brushed her thumb along the edge of the envelope when a faint sound drifted up from below, music.

At first, it was muffled, just bass and beat. But then the attic floor began to tremble faintly under the stomp of boots, and she heard it clearly now, Shania Twain.

“I’m gonna getcha good…”

She blinked, half-annoyed, half-curious, and crawled over to the open window that faced the backyard. A warm gust of air rolled in, thick with the smell of grass and motor oil.

And there he was.

Brando Copeland, her papa, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, hips way too committed for a man his age, spinning a broom like it was a microphone. The garage door was wide open, a mess of tools and boxes behind him, and the old radio balanced on the hood of the truck was turned all the way up.

Rose couldn’t help it, she smiled.

He turned, saw her leaning on the sill, and his face split into that familiar grin that had never once changed with age. He pointed up at her dramatically, shouting over the music,

“Your dad loves this song! You know we saw her in concert?!”

She laughed, resting her chin on her hand. “You’ve told me like, a million times, Papa.”

Brando’s voice carried up bright and full of pride. “You were just a baby! You had to wear those cute little headphones, big purple ones! I swear, Shania looked at you. She probably saw you bouncing around and thought, ‘what a cool kid!’”

Rose rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. “Uh huh. Totally. I’m sure she definitely noticed the screaming baby in row twelve.”

He nodded seriously, still dancing, spinning the broom again like it was a partner. “Oh, she did. She so did. There’s probably a picture of it up there somewhere! Let me come help you find it!”

Her heart jumped. The letter, she’d almost forgotten. It was still sitting there behind her, the name “Wilson” peeking out in black ink.

Panic flared just enough to make her voice too quick. “No! No, I saw it already!”

Brando stopped mid-step, blinking. “You did?”

She nodded fast. “Yeah, yeah! It was right on top of the boxes! Big photo, me in a bucket hat, looking… cute and loud.”

He squinted at her, that skeptical dad look that had raised her. But then his face softened. “You really do remember everything, huh?”

“Runs in the family,” she said lightly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

He smiled at that, small, real, a little tired around the edges. “Well,” he said, grabbing the broom again, “if you find the picture again, let me know. We should frame it. Shania Twain smiled at us, that’s history, Rosie!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll send it to the Smithsonian,” she teased.

He wagged a finger at her, then turned back toward the radio just as the music lifted again.

“So don’t try to run, honeyyyy!”

Rose covered her face, laughing into her hand as he tried to hit the note. His voice cracked halfway through, but that didn’t stop him from trying again, louder, even worse.

“Love can be funnnn!”

He looked up again, beaming like a kid, and pointed right at her. “See? Still got it!”

“Sure, Papa,” she called down, laughing, “you’re a rock star.”

“I was once!” he shouted back, stepping on his own foot mid-twirl.

She shook her head, still smiling. “I’m going back to cleaning before you break a hip!”

“Hey! ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ I’m playin’ that next!” he said, snapping his fingers off-beat as the song faded into static.

Rose turned from the window, still giggling to herself as she brushed a tear of laughter from her eye. The attic felt warmer now, like the air had shifted.

But when her eyes fell back on the envelope, July 27th, 1982, the smile faltered.

Brando’s voice still carried faintly from the backyard, humming tunelessly, happy and off-key. The same man who’d just danced to Shania Twain like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And yet, he’d written this.

A letter he never sent.

A letter from the day after.

Rose took a shaky breath, her fingers twitching toward it again. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to read it now or ever.

But curiosity has a heartbeat of its own.

She carefully unfolded the letter, the paper soft and yellowed, the ink slightly smeared in spots where it must’ve been touched too many times.

The handwriting was messy, Brando’s, definitely.

“Dear Wilson Matthew Webber,”

Rose snorted softly despite herself. “Wilson Matthew,” she whispered. “God, Dad, what a nerdy name.”

But it fit him. Of course it did. The kind of name that belonged to the guy who alphabetized his records and labeled the flour jar at home.

She read on.

”I don’t really know why I’m writing this. You’ll be gone by the time I work up the guts to send it, and maybe that’s for the best. Yesterday feels like something I dreamed. I keep thinking if I close my eyes hard enough, it’ll play again the same way, the lake, the jump, the song, your laugh. Everything before I messed it up.”

Rose’s eyes flicked down the page. Her heart started to race.

He had written about it.

“I kissed you. And then I lied to you about what it meant. I told you it was nothing, like it was some stupid experiment. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. And I wanted to tell you this morning. I swear I did. I wanted to show up and say I was sorry and that I meant it. Every bit of it. But my dad saw us.”

Rose’s breath hitched. She sat back, the paper trembling in her hands.

Brando never talked about his dad. Not once. In fifteen years, she’d never even heard his name.

Her eyes moved faster now, the words blurring.

“He saw us, and he said if I ever went near you again, he’d make sure we both regretted it. You know what he’s like, Will. You’ve seen it. He’s loud and mean and he thinks love is weakness. I thought I could handle him, but last night I believed him. I don’t think he’d just hurt me. I think he’d hurt you too.”

Rose pressed her hand to her mouth. Her chest ached like something inside her had cracked open.

“I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for anymore. For the kiss, for the lie, for being a coward. Cece’s right to hate me. Ella probably is too. But even Cece Navarro couldn’t hate me as much as I hate myself right now.”

That line made her laugh through tears. “You still can’t write without being dramatic, Papa,” she murmured, her voice shaking.

“Tell Carla I said thank you for letting me steal her son every summer. Tell her I tried to be good to him. Tell her I’ll make it right someday. You deserve better than me. You always have.But if someday you can forgive me, if you can even think of me without getting sick, I hope you’ll remember the lake. Remember the way you laughed when I sang Elton John. I wanted to tell you so badly that you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen in that moment. Because you were. You still are.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get to say I love you again. But I do.”

“Love, Brando Edward Copeland”

 

The attic was silent except for the low hum of the lightbulb. Rose sat there for a long time, letter limp in her hands, tears blurring the ink until it shimmered.

Her papa had been seventeen.

Seventeen and terrified and already carrying more guilt than anyone should.

She could picture it now, the truck, the music, the water, the silence after. The way it must’ve felt to have everything and lose it in the same breath.

And the idea that he had written this, that he had meant to send it, but couldn’t, it broke her in a way she hadn’t expected.

Rose ran her fingers over the signature. The loops of his name. The ghost of who he’d been before he ever became her papa.

Then she looked down at the last line again.

”I don’t know if I’ll ever get to say I love you again. But I do.”

Her throat tightened.

Downstairs, through the open window, she could still hear faint movement, Brando humming to himself, the sound of the broom sweeping across the garage floor.

He had no idea she was sitting here holding the one thing he never sent. The one truth he’d tried to bury.

Rose wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stared at the words one more time.

“God, Papa,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You really did love him first.”

Rose sat there in the thick quiet, the letter resting in her lap like it might burn a hole straight through her jeans.

Her heart was still pounding, not fast, not panicked, just heavy. Like every beat was dragging up more questions than she knew how to handle.

She could put it away.

Fold it back into the envelope, slip it beneath the old yearbooks, let it fade into the attic dust where it had been buried for years.

No one knew about this.

Not Wilson. Not her aunts. Not her grandmas. Not anyone.

And maybe that was the point.

She looked down at her papa’s handwriting again, the smudged letters where the ink had bled, the way his name trailed off at the end like he’d run out of air. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see this. He hadn’t even sent it.

And yet…

She sighed, pressing her thumb to the edge of the paper.

After all, she was her father’s daughter.

If there was one thing she’d inherited through the years from Wilson Matthew Webber it was curiosity. Unrelenting, nosy, impossible curiosity.

Her dad always told stories about how he’d been a little detective when he was her age, sneaking into Carla’s purse to read hospital memos, eavesdropping on Ella’s phone calls just to figure out who she was dating, keeping entire notebooks full of “observations” about his friends that he later turned into sketches.

She could see him now, fifteen, like her, a magnifying glass in hand and way too much faith in his own subtlety.

And she knew if he’d found something like this, he wouldn’t have left it alone either.

She unfolded the letter again, scanning over the names.

Wilson. Cece. Ella. Carla.

Each one felt like a breadcrumb, leading somewhere deeper. Somewhere that maybe her papa had never wanted her to go.

But maybe he needed her to.

If he was still apologizing for something that wasn’t really his fault, if he still carried that kind of guilt after all these years, maybe understanding it was the only way to let it go.

She read over one line again, tracing the words with her finger,

“Cece’s right to hate me. Ella probably is too.”

Rose snorted softly through a tear. “Yeah, Aunt Cece hates everyone at least a little bit. Occupational hazard.”

Her eyes moved to the next part, the one that mentioned her grandma Carla.

”Tell Carla I said thank you for letting me steal her son every summer. Tell her I tried to be good to him.”

Rose’s heart twisted. Carla would know something. She always did. And Cece definitely would, she’d practically grown up in the middle of all of it.

And Ella? Ella saw everything.

And then, of course, there was Grandma Michelle, Brando’s mom. The one person who could tell her what really happened that morning, when her papa didn’t leave the house.

Rose exhaled shakily, brushing her hair out of her face. Her plan was already forming. She’d start small. Ask questions casually. Play dumb. Work her way up until she found out what she needed to know.

Simple enough.

She tucked the letter back into its envelope and slipped it inside her pocket, her heart still thudding.

From outside, through the open attic window, she heard a sudden guitar riff, way too loud, followed by a voice belting slightly off-key,

“I’ve been to the year 3000…”

Rose blinked, sitting up straighter.

Oh no.

“Not much has changed, but they live underwater!”

Her papa was singing. Loudly.

Of course he was.

She peeked out the window again to see him standing in the driveway now, broom replaced with a wrench he was using as a microphone. He was dancing terribly, head bobbing, one foot tapping against the cracked concrete as he twirled around the truck.

Brando Copeland, retired ballplayer, hopeless romantic, and apparent Jonas Brothers superfan.

She groaned, but she was smiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He noticed her watching again, grin spreading wide. “This one’s a classic, Rosie! They’re bringing real music back!”

“Oh my God,” she said under her breath, leaning against the frame. “You’ve been listening to them for two weeks straight.”

He cupped a hand around his mouth. “It’s called having taste!”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re lucky Papa’s not home, he’d make you listen to Joni Mitchell as punishment.”

Brando gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “Don’t threaten me with poetry!”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

As he spun the wrench again, dramatically mouthing “your great-great-great-granddaughter is doing fine,” Rose turned back toward the attic.

Her tote bag sat beside her, the letter inside, waiting.

She took one last look at her papa from the window, happy, loud, and entirely unaware that the past he’d buried had just clawed its way back into daylight.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself. “Let’s find out what really happened.”

And with that, she knelt back down beside the boxes, heart already racing with the thrill of the hunt.

Rose sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the letter tucked safely into her lap like a piece of radioactive history. Her heart wouldn’t slow down; it thumped right up in her throat, loud enough to drown out the faint hum of Year 3000 still echoing from the backyard.

She pulled open her nightstand drawer and grabbed her flip phone, the one her dads had bought her “for emergencies only.” Well, this was an emergency. At least, it felt like one. Her papa had written a letter that could rewrite their entire family history. That had to count.

She flipped it open with a snap, thumb hovering over the buttons.

Aunt Cece.

If anyone knew anything about 1982, and wasn’t afraid to talk about it, it was her.

Rose scrolled to her name and pressed call.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the robotic voice,

“You’ve reached Cecelia Navarro of Navarro & Co. Law Offices. Please leave your name and-”

Rose groaned, throwing her head back. “Oh, come on.”

She flipped the phone shut dramatically and stood up. “Fine. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way.”

She padded down the hallway into the kitchen, still barefoot, the letter burning a hole in her pocket. The fridge was plastered with photos, receipts, magnets, and, thank God, a business card.

Cecelia Navarro & Co.

Houston, Texas.

Underneath the logo in gold print: Family Law • Corporate • Criminal Defense • Everything in Between.

Rose squinted at the two numbers listed, office 1 and office 2, and picked the first one.

It rang once before someone answered, crisp and professional.

“Cecelia Navarro & Co., good afternoon. How may I direct your call?”

Rose froze. “Uh, hi! I, um, need to speak to Ce, uh, Ms. Navarro.”

“Do you mean Cecelia?” the woman asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Rose said quickly, trying to sound older.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

Her brain went blank. Then, on instinct, “Jessica. Jessica Roberts. I, uh, need legal representation for a… case.”

“What kind of case, Ms. Roberts?”

“Um.” She scanned the fridge, desperate for inspiration. There was a grocery list: milk, eggs, trash bags-

“Oh! Property dispute. Yeah. Over, uh, a fence. My neighbor built one too close to my driveway.”

The woman sounded unimpressed. “One moment.”

Rose paced in a tight circle, biting her thumbnail. If Cece found out she was prank-calling her own firm, she’d probably make her draft a mock-lawsuit as punishment.

A click, then a familiar voice, sharp, commanding, and somehow warm underneath it all.

“Cecelia Navarro speaking. Before we begin, my hourly rate is three-hundred and fifty dollars for consultation, four-hundred if it requires travel, and-”

“Aunt Cece!” Rose interrupted, nearly shouting.

A pause. Then Cece’s tone dropped instantly from courtroom to kitchen-table.

“Rosie? What on earth, why are you calling the firm? You’ve got my number!”

“I tried!” Rose said, plopping down at the counter. “It went straight to voicemail.”

“Oh.” Cece sighed. “That explains why Aunt Mal’s been complaining all day that I’m ignoring her. I think I put it on silent and I can’t figure out how to get it off. She bought me this new phone and-”

Rose cut her off, heart hammering. “What do you know about July 1982?”

There was silence on the other end.

Not the kind where someone was about to speak. The kind where the air itself shifted.

Rose could hear Cece’s faint exhale, soft, startled, wary.

“…Rosie,” she said slowly, her voice suddenly careful. “Why are you asking me that?”

Rose swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter.

She wasn’t sure how to answer that yet.

Not until she knew how deep this secret went.

Rose’s heart was pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears.

There was no way she could tell Aunt Cece the truth, that she’d found an old letter her papa wrote the day after the kiss. The day he didn’t show up. The day that changed everything.

So she took a breath, let her voice wobble just enough to sound honest, and lied.

“I, uh… I heard my dads fighting last night,” she said quickly, twisting the phone cord between her fingers. “And Dad kept saying something about July, like, the day before he left, and how Papa didn’t show up the next morning.”

Cece didn’t respond right away. Rose could hear a soft shuffle, papers maybe, or Cece adjusting in her chair. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower.

“Well…” Cece said, slowly. “I mean, from what I’ve heard, that’s what happened.”

Rose sat up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. “What do you mean?”

Cece hesitated. “Your papa kissed your dad. And then… chickened out and didn’t show up the next day.”

Rose blinked. Her stomach flipped. “He what?”

“Yeah,” Cece said, almost gently. “Bran kissed him. It was the night before Wilson left for Austin. We didn’t find out right away, your dad just kept saying something happened, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I remember he was wrecked, Rosie. He cried and cried that day. I think he waited for hours on the porch for Brando to show up.”

Rose’s throat tightened. “He… he never told me that.”

Cece sighed softly on the other end. “Yeah, well, he didn’t tell anyone until a few weeks later. He just said Brando kissed him, then disappeared. Honestly, I think your papa was just scared. You know how he was back then, all pressure and expectations and that awful father of his breathing down his neck.”

Rose bit her lip. Cece didn’t know how right she was.

“But, uh-” Cece continued, her tone lightening. “You know what’s funny? Your papa started dating Aunt Mal a few months later! Can you believe that? Brando Copeland, my future wife’s ex-boyfriend!”
Rose laughed. “God, I always forget about that.”

“Oh, yeah.” Cece laughed, the sound bright and warm, like she was leaning back in her chair just thinking about it. “God, that was something. He was moody, she was bossy, and we all knew it wasn’t gonna last, but at the time, it was like the talk of Laredo. My best friend’s “best friend” dating my biggest rival? Scandalous.”

Rose couldn’t help smiling a little, though her head was still spinning.

“Ugh,” Cece went on. “What a throwback. Anyway, if anyone remembers more about that whole mess, it’d be her. Mallory was there for most of it. You might try asking her.”

Rose made a mental note. Aunt Mal. That’d be stop number two.

But Cece’s voice shifted again, her teasing fading into something more serious. “Now, hold on a minute, why were your dads fighting in front of you? What’s that about?”

Rose froze. “Uh-”

“Rosie.” Cece’s tone sharpened, full lawyer mode now. “Why the hell were they fighting? I thought they were past all that.”

“It’s— it’s nothing big!” Rose lied quickly, wincing. “Just, like, small stuff!”

Cece didn’t sound convinced. “When I see your dad tomorrow in Nashville, I’m gonna give him a real stern talking-to, don’t you worry. He’ll be sorry he-”

“Bye!” Rose said quickly, panic in her voice. “Love ya!”

“Wait, Rosie-!”

She clicked the phone shut before Cece could finish, heart still racing.

The silence in her room came back all at once.

She sat there on the bed, staring at her reflection in the black screen of her phone. For a second, she could still hear Cece’s faint voice before the line cut, “Love you too! So much!”, echoing like an afterthought.

Rose took a deep breath and looked down at the letter again, the words I love you staring back at her in her papa’s handwriting.

Cece’s version matched up, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Not even close.

Brando hadn’t just been scared to see Wilson go. He’d been threatened.

Rose exhaled shakily, standing up and glancing toward her window.

Outside, the music had changed again. Brando was now halfway through another Jonas Brothers song, holding a garden rake like a microphone, spinning in circles with zero shame.

Rose couldn’t help smiling through the swirl of emotion. “You have no idea what I just found, do you?”

Her phone buzzed in her hand, a text from Aunt Cece.
Aunt Cee: I love you! Never hang up on me again.
Aunt Cee: If you talk to Mal, let her know I’m not ignoring her. I know she thinks I am.

Rose laughed softly to herself, flipping the phone shut.

“Okay,” she murmured, glancing toward the letter again. “Aunt Mal’s turn.”

One ring is all it took.

“Hey, Rosie girl!”

The nickname hit her with a smile instantly. Aunt Mallory’s voice was all warmth and energy, like she’d just walked straight into the room with a hug and a coffee in hand.

“Hi, Aunt Mal.”

“Hi, my favorite niece. What’s up? You sound… suspicious. Like Cece found out you stole her office pens again suspicious.”

Rose laughed nervously. “No, no, nothing like that. I, um…” She twisted the hem of her shirt, looking down at the folded letter on her lap. “I found something.”

Mallory hummed. “Oh boy. That’s usually Cece’s line before she gets subpoenaed. What’d you find?”

Rose took a deep breath. “A letter. From Papa. It’s old. Like, 1982 old.”

The line went quiet for a second. “…What kind of letter, Rosie?”

“It’s addressed to Dad,” she said carefully. “But he never sent it. It’s from the day after the kiss. You know, the kiss.”

Mallory exhaled softly. “Ah, I see.”

“You know about it?”

“Not much,” Mallory admitted, voice softer now. “That was before your papa and I ever dated. We didn’t even talk back then, not really. I was still too busy trying to beat Cece in every class and pretending I wasn’t completely miserable.” She gave a low laugh that carried a tinge of nostalgia. “He was just… that baseball boy who hung around your dad. Everyone knew about them. Nobody talked about it, but we knew.”

Rose frowned, disappointment flickering across her face. “So you don’t know what happened that day?”

“Not exactly,” Mallory said gently. “By the time I came into the picture, everything between them was already broken. I remember your papa being quiet. Like he had something sitting on his chest all the time. Guess now I know what it was.”

Rose nodded slowly, even though Mallory couldn’t see her. “Okay, then, what about his dad?”

There was a pause on the other end before Mallory let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh God.”

“You met him?”

“Oh, I met him,” Mallory said with a scoff. “He loved me. Thought I was the perfect little girl for his son, polite, straight-A student, came from a ‘good family.’” She made air quotes with her voice alone. “And I acted like I liked him, but really, he was a dick.” She caught herself. “Oh, sorry, language. Don’t tell your dads I said that.”

Rose smirked. “I won’t.”

“Anyway,” Mallory continued, tone dipping more serious. “He wasn’t a good guy, Rosie. Not toward your papa, not toward your Grandma Michelle. He wasn’t even decent to your dad or Grandma Carla, and they were practically saints back then.”

Rose frowned. “I never met him. No one ever talks about him.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said quietly. “That’s on purpose. You remember that story about your Aunt Kate’s first birthday party?”

“The one where the you and Aunt Ella got drunk somehow?”
Mallory laughed. “That’s the one. He started that fight with your Grandma Michelle and Papa. It got bad, Rosie. Like, really bad. That was the last time I saw him. Your Grandma Michelle probably saw him more than anyone after that, since she had to handle custody with him after the divorce. But I don’t think she’s spoken his name in years. And honestly?”

“What?”

“I don’t blame her,” Mallory said simply. “Some people are better left in the past.”

Rose was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing the letter’s edge. “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll try to call Aunt Ella next. Maybe she knows more.”

“Oh good luck with that,” Mallory said dryly. “I’ve been trying to reach her and Jan all week. No reception in Aruba, apparently. Or maybe they just turned their phones off for that couples seminar thing they’re hosting.”

Rose shook her head, smiling despite herself.

“If you can’t get through to them,” Mallory added, “try your grandmas. But you know they don’t know how to work a phone to save their lives, so you’ll probably have to go over there in person.”

“Yeah,” Rose said, a little grin tugging at her lips. “Grandma Carla still thinks texting is witchcraft.”

Mallory snorted. “And Michelle only knows how to send emojis. Last week she sent me twelve different fruit ones and told me to ‘guess her mood.’”

That got another laugh out of Rose, lighter this time. “Thanks, Aunt Mal.”

“Anytime, Rosie girl,” Mallory said, voice soft again. “You okay? This stuff’s heavy.”

“I’m fine,” Rose lied gently. “I just wanna know the truth.”

“I get that,” Mallory said. “You’re your dads’ kid through and through.”

Before they hung up, Mallory added, “Oh, and hey, have you talked to your Aunt Cece yet? She’s not answering my calls.”

Rose smiled. “Yeah, I got through to her. Somehow she turned her phone on silent and can’t get it off.”

Mallory sighed, laughing under her breath. “Of course she did. Good thing she became a lawyer and not one of those… computer techs. She’d be sued.”

They both laughed, and for a second it almost felt normal, just another one of Aunt Mal’s midweek calls.

But when the line went dead, Rose looked down at the letter again, her laughter fading into something quiet and heavy.

If even Mallory didn’t know everything…

That meant the truth was buried deeper than anyone thought.

And there were only two people left who might still have the missing pieces.

Grandma Michelle.

And Grandma Carla.

Rose adjusted the strap of her tote bag and took one last glance around the living room before heading out. Through the open windows, warm sunlight poured in, and somewhere outside, she could hear the faint hum of music, that familiar sound of her papa in his element.

As she stepped out the front door, the song hit her full blast, Natasha Bedingfield, of course.

“I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined…”

Brando Copeland was in the garage, singing along like it was 2006’s biggest stadium tour. His voice wasn’t bad, just loud. He had the radio turned up high, the broom in his hand doubling as a mic, and a bucket of soapy water at his feet that he hadn’t actually touched in fifteen minutes.

Rose leaned against the doorway, biting back a grin. “Papa, you realize you’re supposed to be cleaning, right?”

Brando jumped slightly, then turned, grinning as soon as he saw her. “Excuse me, I am cleaning,” he gestured to the spotless car hood behind him, “And giving the neighbors a free concert. You’re welcome, Laredo.”

Rose laughed, rolling her eyes as she stepped into the garage. “You sound like Grandma Carla when she sings to the radio.”

“That’s a compliment,” he said proudly, still half-dancing. “She’s got range.”

She shook her head, setting her tote bag in the basket of her bike, her dad’s old vintage red Schwinn, the one he’d sworn was “practically a Webber family heirloom.” The seat was a little worn, the handlebars wrapped in fading leather, but it gleamed under the sunlight like it had a heartbeat.

Brando noticed and leaned his elbow on the car roof, softening immediately. “You taking the Schwinn out?”

“Yeah,” she said, checking the chain. “I thought I’d go have lunch with the grandmas.”

He nodded, wiping his hands on a rag. “Tell them I said hi. And don’t let Grandma Michelle talk you into another round of poker, okay? You barely survived last time.”

“She cheated!” Rose protested, laughing.

“No, she’s just terrifyingly competitive,” Brando said with mock seriousness. “Runs in the family.”

She smiled. “What about you? What are you doing today besides pretending to mop?”

“I’ll probably run by the hardware store later,” he said. “Then maybe organize the garage again. You know, manly domestic stuff.”

“Like karaoke?” she teased.

He gasped, pressing a hand to his heart. “That’s art, thank you very much.”

She snorted. “Uh-huh.”

He tossed the rag onto the hood and grabbed a water bottle. “Just be back in time for dinner, okay? I’m making your favorite, chicken parm night.”

Rose raised an eyebrow. “That’s your favorite.”

He shrugged, smirking. “You’re my daughter, so you love it too. It’s genetic.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “Papa, I’m adopted.”

Brando tilted his head, smiling that soft, warm, quiet kind of smile that always knocked the breath out of her a little. “Yeah, and you’re still mine. Me and your dad’s. Doesn’t change the science.”

She looked at him for a second longer, the music filling the pause. God, he meant it. He always did.

“Okay,” she said, swinging her leg over the bike. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Be safe,” he said, giving her handlebars a pat before she took off. “And don’t do wheelies this time, I’m not explaining another tire mark on the mailbox to your dad.”

“That was one time!” she called as she pedaled toward the street.

He laughed, shaking his head, and turned the music up again.

”Feel the rain on your skin, no one else can feel it for you..”

By the time she hit the end of the driveway, he was full-on dancing again, broom in hand, spinning in place and missing a high note so spectacularly she nearly fell off the bike laughing.

She looked back once, her papa grinning under the afternoon light, mouthing the lyrics like he believed every word.

”Today is where your book begins… the rest is still unwritten…”

“Yeah,” she whispered, smiling as she turned the corner. “Guess it is.”

And then she was gone, the sound of his voice fading behind her as the tires of the red Schwinn carried her straight toward the past.

The Copeland house hadn’t changed much since the eighties, at least, not in the ways that mattered. The white paint had yellowed in the sun, the porch creaked when you stepped on the middle board, and there was still a faint smell of lemon cleaner and garden soil that somehow just was Grandma Michelle.

Rose coasted up the driveway, brakes squeaking a little on the Schwinn’s front tire, and smiled as soon as she spotted them.

There they were. Her grandmas.

Michelle sat perfectly poised in her rocking chair, reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose, a paperback in one hand and a sweating glass of sweet tea in the other. Beside her, Carla was not poised, she was half-standing, half-sitting, clutching a cordless phone to her ear like she was trying to kill it through sheer force of will.

“I told you, sir,” Carla snapped into the receiver, “I’m not interested in upgrading my cable plan! I barely watch the TV I already pay for!”

Michelle didn’t even look up from her book. “He’s probably calling from a computer, Car. You’re fighting one of them robots they talk about on the news.”

“Well, the robot better back off,” Carla muttered, pacing the porch, one slipper slapping against the floorboards.

Rose was already laughing by the time she got off the bike, the chain jangling as it hit the kickstand.

“Hey, Grandma!” she called, heading up the steps.

Carla turned, relief flooding her face. “Oh, thank God. Rosie, honey, come here, figure out how to get this guy off the phone before I throw it in the yard.”

Rose grinned, walking over and pressing the big red button. Click.

“There,” she said. “Problem solved.”

Carla blinked. “Well, damn. I should’ve thought of that.”

Michelle snorted, closing her book. “You’ve been outsmarted by a teenager. Again.”

Rose leaned down as both women stood to hug her, wrapping her up in warmth that smelled like lavender and sun tea.

“What brings you by, sweetheart?” Michelle asked, brushing a bit of hair off Rose’s face. “You need some money?”

Rose laughed. “No, Aunt Cece already sent me some the other day.”

Both grandmas groaned in unison.

“Of course she did,” Carla said, shaking her head. “She’s gonna bankrupt herself sending everyone ‘just because’ checks.”

“Or maybe she’s just showing off her lawyer money again,” Michelle teased, sitting back down.

Rose smiled, setting her tote bag on the porch railing and sinking into the swing. “Maybe.”

They sat like that for a while, the lazy hum of cicadas filling the silence. Carla offered her tea, Michelle pointed out a bluebird that kept nesting in the same tree every year. The air was thick and slow, and for a moment, Rose almost convinced herself she’d come here just to visit.

Almost.

But her heartbeat told another story.

Carla narrowed her eyes suddenly, leaning forward in her chair. “Alright, spit it out.”

Rose blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t bike all the way over here for tea and birdwatching,” Carla said, hands on her hips. “So what are you actually here for?”

Michelle looked up, quiet but curious. “You in some kind of trouble, baby?”

Rose hesitated, then reached into her tote bag. Her fingers brushed the edge of the old, folded envelope.

She pulled it out slowly, setting it down on the table between them.

Both grandmas glanced at it. Then at each other.

Carla’s smile faltered. Michelle’s book lowered completely.

“Where’d you get that?” Michelle asked softly, the slightest edge creeping into her voice.

“The attic,” Rose said. “Papa’s old stuff. It’s dated July 27th, 1982.”

The porch went still. Even the wind seemed to quiet.

Carla looked at Michelle again, one of those silent conversations that only people who’ve known each other fifty years can have.

Finally, Carla sighed, standing up and resting a hand on Rose’s shoulder.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Let’s go inside.”

Michelle nodded, closing her book and setting it on the chair as she stood. “Yeah,” she murmured. “It’s time someone told you what really happened.”

Rose’s pulse quickened, but she followed them without a word, the letter tucked tightly in her hand as the screen door creaked open behind them.

Inside, the air felt cooler, quieter, but heavy in that way silence sometimes is when the past is about to wake up. The living room looked exactly how Rose remembered it, floral couch that had outlived entire decades, family photos lined along the walls, the faint smell of lemon cleaner and potpourri hanging in the air.

Michelle sat first, smoothing her hands down her jeans like she was bracing herself. Carla followed, sitting beside her, the two women sinking into the same rhythm they’d had since their sons were in diapers, one steady, one strong, both soft around the edges.

Rose perched on the edge of the chair across from them, clutching the letter in both hands.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Michelle exhaled, the sound breaking the quiet like glass.

“This is all his fault, you know.”

Carla glanced at her. “Michelle-”

“No,” Michelle said sharply, shaking her head. “It is. It’s all Chris Copeland’s damn fault.”

Rose blinked, heart skipping. That name, she’d never heard it before. But the way her grandma said it, low and angry and pained all at once, told her everything she needed to know.

Her grandfather.

Except she would never call him that.

Michelle’s jaw tightened. “If he hadn’t said what he said to Brando that night…”

Carla put a hand over hers. “I know.”

“…our boys would’ve had it so much easier.”

Michelle looked down at her lap, knuckles white against her denim.

Rose stared between them, the words circling in her head like a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit together. “Okay,” she said finally, voice quiet but steady. “Someone’s gotta tell me what’s going on. What happened?”

Carla sighed, sitting back. “You sure you wanna know, baby?”

“I found the letter,” Rose said softly. “I think I already do.”

Michelle rubbed her temples. “Alright.” She looked at Carla, then back at Rose. “Your papa didn’t show up that morning, July 27th, 1982, because Chris caught him. He’d seen him kiss your dad the night before.”

Rose froze. She had read it in the letter but hearing it out loud felt different. It made it real.

Michelle’s voice cracked a little as she went on. “He waited up for him. Brando came home late from work, and Chris was just sitting there. He didn’t even yell at first. Just… looked at him. And then he started in with that cruel, quiet voice he used to use when he wanted to really hurt you.”

Carla looked down, nodding grimly. “He told Brando that if he ever went near Wilson again, he’d ruin it for both of them. Said he’d tell everyone in town, pull him off the team, cut off his college money, make sure Wilson’s family got dragged down too.”

Rose’s throat tightened.

Michelle was staring out the window now, voice trembling but firm. “My boy was seventeen, Rosie. Seventeen, scared, and so full of love he didn’t know where to put it. He was terrified. So he did what scared kids do, he froze. He didn’t go. He thought he was protecting everyone.”

Carla’s hand found Michelle’s again, their fingers intertwining, steadying.

“That’s why he wrote the letter,” Carla said softly. “He stayed up that whole night writing it. Michelle found it later, a few weeks after he left for college. He never mailed it.”

Rose frowned. “Wait… you found it?”

Michelle nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was in a stack of old school stuff. I took it with me to the hospital that day and showed Carla.”

Carla sighed, rubbing her thumb along Michelle’s hand. “We sat in the break room for two hours trying to decide what to do with it.”

Rose tilted her head, confused. “Why didn’t you send it? Or tell Dad?”

The two women shared a long, knowing look, the kind that said they’d been turning that question over for decades.

“Because,” Carla said quietly, “Wilson was hurting. Bad. He’d waited for hours that morning. I’d never seen him cry like that. He barely spoke for weeks, and when he did, it was just ‘I don’t know why he didn’t come.’ I couldn’t have handed him that letter and let him relive it all.”

Michelle nodded, eyes glassy. “And Brando… he was a mess too. He called me from the baseball field a week later, crying so hard he couldn’t breathe. I thought maybe, one day, they’d find their way back to each other. But if I mailed that letter then? It would’ve made things worse.”

“So you both just hid it?” Rose asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Michelle swallowed. “We kept it safe. That’s what we told ourselves. Carla put it in a box with the yearbooks and the baby pictures. I didn’t even think about it again until, well, until you found it.”

Carla smiled sadly. “You have to understand, Rosie, your papa and your dad? They were always gonna end up together. We could see it even back then. They just had to take the long way.”

Michelle’s hand brushed away a tear she hadn’t noticed. “It was never a matter of if, only when.”

Rose sat back, the letter limp in her hands, her chest full of something she couldn’t name, grief, love, disbelief, all tangled up together.

Her grandmas watched her carefully, waiting for her to speak.

Finally, Rose managed a whisper. “So all this time… they didn’t even know?”

Carla shook her head. “No, baby. But they found their way back anyway. Without us, without the letter, without permission. That’s how you know it was meant to be.”

Michelle smiled faintly, squeezing Carla’s hand. “Some stories don’t need to be fixed. They just find their ending when they’re supposed to.”

Rose looked down at the faded paper, tracing the edges of her papa’s handwriting.

For the first time since she found it, she understood what it really was.

Not just an apology.

Not just a secret.

A beginning that never got mailed, but somehow, still found its way home.

Carla and Michelle sat there in the thick quiet for a long while, the letter resting between them on the coffee table, yellowed paper, folded corners, all those years pressed into one small, fragile thing. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, stirring the warm air but not the tension.

Michelle was the first to speak. Her voice was softer this time, but it carried a tremor, something like resolve beneath the grief. “Maybe…” she started, her eyes still on the letter, “maybe it’s time to bring it up.”

Carla’s head snapped toward her. “Michelle-”

“No,” Michelle said, firmer now. “Car, you see how they act when they fight. Every time, it’s the same damn thing. It always circles back to this. That night. That morning.”

Carla’s lips pressed together, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and fear. “You think I don’t know that? Every time Wilson’s voice cracks, I hear it. Every time Brando goes quiet, I see it.”

“Exactly,” Michelle said, leaning forward. “And I know my boy. He carries guilt like it’s his second skin. But Wilson, you know him too, Car. If he knew the truth, if he really knew… he’d never bring it up again. Not like that.”

 

Carla faltered. Her fingers twisted in her lap, her gaze dropping to the floor.

She’d heard it herself too many times, those late-night arguments between their sons, muffled through phone calls or half-whispered confessions when one of them had come by for comfort.

The same refrain, over and over again.

You didn’t show up that morning.

Brando would always apologize, voice breaking. Wilson would always forgive him, for everything but that.

And now, here it was. The one thing that could finally end it.

Carla swallowed hard, looking up at Michelle. “You’re right.”

Michelle met her eyes, something tired but certain passing between them.

Carla reached for the letter, her thumb brushing the corner before she turned to Rose.

“If you want to take this back with you,” she said carefully, “and ask your papa yourself, do it.”

Rose looked up, startled.

“But if you’d rather forget about it…” Carla continued, her voice low and serious, “…you can leave it here. We’ll take care of it. We’ll make sure it never sees the light of the Laredo sun again.”

Michelle nodded beside her, the weight of decades sitting heavy in her posture. “Either way, it’s your choice now, sweetheart. You found it. You get to decide what happens to it.”

For a second, none of them moved.

Rose could feel both women watching her, not pressuring, not demanding, but hoping. Hoping she’d do what they couldn’t, what they hadn’t been brave enough to do all those years ago.

She looked down at the letter one last time. The ink faded, the paper thin, but the feeling still alive inside it. The love. The fear. The apology that had never made it where it was meant to go.

She took a breath, steady and sure, and nodded.

“I’ll take it,” she said quietly. “It’s time to rewrite this whole thing.”

Carla smiled then, small, proud, sad all at once. Michelle’s eyes glistened behind her glasses.

Rose slipped the letter back into her tote, careful, reverent. “I know my papa. He’s a good man. A good dad. And…” She hesitated, her voice softening. “I don’t want it to be anything different. Even during a fight.”

Michelle reached over, resting a gentle hand on her knee. “Then maybe it’s time he hears it from you.”

Carla exhaled, nodding. “Yeah, baby. Maybe it is.”

Rose stood slowly, slinging the tote over her shoulder again. She gave them both a small, determined smile. “Thanks, grandmas.”

As she turned to leave, the two women exchanged another look, this one quieter, lighter, full of something that looked like relief.

Carla spoke softly once Rose was out the door. “She’s more like them than she knows.”

Michelle smiled faintly, eyes following the light spilling through the window. “Stubborn? Brave?”

“Both,” Carla said. “Exactly both.”

Outside, the sound of bike tires hummed against the gravel, fading into the warm hum of the Texas afternoon, carrying the past with it, straight toward the man who needed to face it.

The afternoon sun hit hard when Rose turned the corner back onto her street, that sharp Laredo heat that made the whole sky shimmer. Her legs burned from pedaling, her chest still tight from everything her grandmas had said. But she didn’t slow down, didn’t coast or stop to think. She just rode straight home, the letter pressed like a heartbeat against her side in her tote.

As she rolled up to the house, she could already hear him.

“I don’t want another pretty face…”

Brando Copeland was standing in the driveway, hose in one hand, sponge in the other, belting Beautiful Soul like it was his national anthem. His faded ball cap was turned backward, and his T-shirt clung to him from the water, dark spots splattered down the front.

He looked up when he heard the squeak of the Schwinn brakes. “Hey, Rosie!” he called over the music, grinning. “You’re back early. I thought lunch would last longer!”

But she didn’t grin back. She barely even waited for the bike to stop before her feet hit the ground, gravel crunching under her sneakers.

Brando’s smile faltered. “Rosie?”

She stood there, heart pounding, and held up the letter.

“I found this.”

The hose slipped from his hand, water splashing across the pavement and soaking his sneakers.

Brando froze, color draining from his face so fast it made her stomach twist.

“Rose,” he started, voice tight. “That letter-”

“Would solve a lot,” she said sharply, cutting him off.

He blinked at her. “Rosie, please, it’s not-”

“You wrote it,” she said, voice rising. “You meant it. And you never sent it. Why?”

He ran a hand through his hair, the air around him seeming to shift, the easygoing dad act slipping, replaced by something quieter, older, sadder.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

She crossed her arms. “Then uncomplicate it.”

“Rose.” His tone carried a warning now, but she didn’t back down.

“No, you don’t get to shut me out,” she said, stepping closer. “I’ve spent all day trying to figure this out, Aunt Cece, Aunt Mal, even Grandma Michelle and Grandma Carla, and they all told me bits and pieces, but no one ever told me the truth. I want to hear it from you. Why didn’t you send it?”

He swallowed hard, his jaw flexing as he looked at her, the letter still trembling in her hand.

For a moment, it was like she could see seventeen-year-old Brando right there in front of her again, scared, cornered, and trying to make sense of the mess his own father had built around him.

He took a shaky breath and reached out his hand. “Let me see it.”

She hesitated but handed it over, her eyes never leaving his face.

He held it like it might break, thumb brushing over the fold. “I never wanted you or your dad to find this,” he murmured. “Not because I was ashamed, but because… I didn’t want you guys hinking less of me.”

“Papa-”

“No, listen.” He looked up, his voice steadier now but softer. “That night, I wrote everything I was too scared to say. Everything I should’ve said to your dad. But I didn’t send it because I thought I was protecting him. Protecting me. Protecting all of us.”

“From what?” she pressed.

He looked past her, toward the horizon, like the memory was hanging there still. “From my father. From the kind of hate that doesn’t fade, no matter how right you are.”

Rose felt her breath hitch. “He said something to you, didn’t he?”

Brando’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. He said a lot of things. None of them worth repeating. But I believed him. I believed that if I showed up that morning, if I went near your dad again, it would ruin his life. And I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let him get hurt because of me.”

Rose blinked, her eyes stinging. “So you just let him think you didn’t care?”

Brando nodded slowly, his voice breaking. “I thought he’d move on. That it’d be better if he hated me. I didn’t know it would stay with him this long.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hose dripping onto the driveway, the soft hiss of the water pooling near their feet.

Then Brando sighed, running his thumb over the fold again before looking at her. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you everything. Whatever you want to know.”

Rose searched his face, still half-hesitant, half-heartbroken, but she nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly, tired, but real. “Alright, Rosie. Let’s finally finish this story.”

He turned toward the porch, the letter still in his hand, and she followed, leaving the hose still running, Beautiful Soul still playing softly from the garage radio, and the ghosts of 1982 waiting quietly behind them.

They sat in the living room, the same one that held their family photos, their laughter, their fights, and now, finally, their truth.

Brando set the letter carefully on the coffee table between them, then leaned back, exhaling hard like he’d been holding this breath for twenty-four years. Rose stayed quiet, hands in her lap, eyes fixed on him.

“I tried to leave your dad alone after that day,” Brando said finally, voice low but steady. “You know I didn’t send that letter. And I tried not to call him, either. But I just… couldn’t.”

He looked down at his hands, older now, lined, but still the same hands that had written those words so many years ago. “I missed him so much, Rosie. Even just as my friend. I’d known him my whole life. And suddenly I wasn’t supposed to talk to him? Pretend like he didn’t exist? I thought maybe if I kept my distance, he’d get over it, forget me, find someone else. But that was wishful thinking. I couldn’t stay away.”

Rose nodded gently, piecing it together. “That’s when he went to go stay with Grandpa Matt in Austin, right? The year Grandma Carla and him got divorced.”

Brando gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah. That’s the year. And I told myself I wouldn’t call him. I wanted him to hate me, to think I didn’t care. But I couldn’t do it. I called anyway. I wrote letters. I just…” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just acted like the kiss didn’t happen. And it killed me, Rosie. Every day. But what killed me worse was knowing I was killing him, too.”

The weight of that landed between them like something physical, heavy, sharp, but familiar.

Rose’s throat felt tight. “Papa… what about Chris?”

Brando stiffened slightly at the name, his jaw working before he answered. “Haven’t seen him in years. Don’t want to. The guy’s made a mess of every life he ever touched.”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “He actually tried to call once, needed Aunt Cece’s help with some lawsuit or something. She wouldn’t even take the call. Said she’d rather represent a cockroach.”

That earned a soft laugh from Rose, and it loosened something in Brando’s chest.

“She’s always been loyal,” he said, smiling faintly. “Always had my back, even when she didn’t want to. Your Aunt Cece doesn’t forgive people who hurt the people she loves. And Chris… well. There’s a reason Katie doesn’t talk to him either.”

His voice darkened, quieter. “No one likes him. He was never a dad. Not to me, not to her.”

Rose hesitated. “Did he ever-?”

Brando shook his head, but the sadness didn’t fade. “He wasn’t even a husband to your grandma. When she was pregnant with Kate, that man was never home. I was seventeen, still in high school, and I was the one making sure she ate, making sure she got to her appointments, that she didn’t fall asleep crying every night.”

Rose’s heart clenched. “You were just a kid.”

“I had to grow up fast,” Brando said simply. “And I guess that’s why it all hit me so hard when I realized I was turning into him. When I hurt your dad, when I lied, when I ran away from what I felt, I sounded just like him. And that terrified me.”

He paused, looking at her, his eyes glassy but steady. “That’s why I never wanted you to find this letter. Because it’s proof that I let fear win. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be the man who raised me.”

Rose leaned forward, shaking her head. “You’re not him, Papa.”

Brando gave a soft laugh that came out half-broken. “Maybe not anymore. But back then? I was scared I could be.”

The silence that followed was gentle this time, the kind that didn’t demand filling.

Rose reached out, resting her hand over his. “You’ve never been anything like him. You’re the reason I know what a good dad is supposed to be. What love’s supposed to look like.”

Brando smiled at her, eyes wet. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

He swallowed hard, glancing toward the letter again, then back at her. “Guess I needed to hear that today.”

“Guess I needed to say it,” she said softly.

Brando squeezed her hand. “Your dad was right. You really did get his heart.”

Rose smiled faintly. “And your stubbornness.”

That made him laugh, full, warm, a sound that filled the whole room. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You definitely got that.”

They sat there a moment longer, the afternoon sun stretching through the blinds, touching the edge of that old letter on the table, the one Brando had once written out of fear, but that now, finally, sat in the open, surrounded by love.

Rose leaned back on the couch, crossing her arms lightly, her voice quieter now but no less firm.

“So why not tell Dad now?” she asked. “He always brings it up when you guys fight. Every time, it’s the same thing, ‘you didn’t show up,’ ‘you left me that morning.’”

 

Brando exhaled through his nose, long and tired. He shut his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“I know he does,” he said softly. “And I hate it, Rosie. I hate that you ever hear it.”

She shrugged gently. “You guys don’t fight that much.”

“Once is too much,” Brando said, eyes still closed. “I don’t like fighting. I never did. Not with your dad. Not with anyone, really. He’s everything I ever wanted when I was your age. I swore I’d never be the guy who raises his voice or makes the people he loves cry. But sometimes…” He paused, letting the words come slowly, “sometimes love just… pulls at old scars, y’know? Especially ours.”

Rose frowned, watching him closely. “That’s not a reason, though. You could tell him. You should tell him.”

Brando opened his eyes again. They were soft, but there was something haunted behind them.

“I know,” he said, “and I’ve thought about it. God knows I’ve thought about it. But your dad…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Your dad has this way of holding onto pain. Not because he wants to, but because it’s part of how he feels things. That’s what makes him such a great artist. He can take something ugly and turn it into something beautiful. But it also means that when something hurts him, he keeps it. He paints it, writes it, breathes it. He lives in it until he can understand it. And I-”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “I don’t ever want to take that away from him. Not even the pain that came from me.”

Rose blinked. “That’s kind of messed up, Papa.”

He laughed weakly. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s true. And besides,” he added, looking away for a moment, “I don’t want him to think I’m trying to rewrite the past just to make myself feel better. If I tell him now, after all these years, it might feel like I’m just trying to fix something for me. And I don’t want that. Not after how far we’ve come.”

Rose was quiet for a long beat, processing that.

“He deserves to know, though,” she said finally.

Brando nodded slowly. “You’re right. He does.” He reached up, running a hand through his hair, voice turning softer, like he was confessing to himself more than to her. “I think about it every time we fight. Every time he walks away and I see that look, like he’s seventeen again, standing there in that stupid Freer shirt, waiting for me to show up. And I didn’t.”

Rose’s throat tightened. “But you wanted to.”

“I did,” Brando said, his voice cracking slightly. “I wanted to so bad. I stayed up all night trying to plan a way but-“ he cut himself off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I didn’t. And I’ve been trying to make it up to him ever since.”

Rose bit her lip, quiet for a moment. Then she reached out, resting a hand on his knee.

“You have,” she said softly. “He knows that. Even when he brings it up, I think he knows.”

Brando smiled a little, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe. But some part of him will always be that kid who waited for me and got nothing. I can’t fix that. I just try to love him enough now to make up for it.”

They sat there in silence again. The cicadas buzzed outside, the air conditioner hummed faintly, and the weight of twenty-four years seemed to hang between them, delicate but bearable now.

Rose leaned back against the couch. “You’re both idiots, you know that?”

Brando laughed, startled, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

“You should still tell him, though,” she said, grinning faintly. “Just maybe not during a fight.”

Brando looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Deal.”

And for the first time in a long time, he actually looked lighter, like speaking the truth, even part of it, had finally loosened something that had been trapped inside him since 1982.

The house was quiet in that soft, lived-in way it always got after dinner, dishes drying in the rack, the hum of the TV filling the space, the low scent of leftover chicken parmesan still clinging to the air.

Brando sat in his armchair, half-watching the baseball game, his attention somewhere else entirely. The crowd on the TV roared, but his mind was far away, still tracing the lines of that old letter, the look on Rose’s face when she’d held it in her hands.

He leaned back, eyes wandering up the staircase. From behind his daughter’s closed door came the faintest sound of music, soft, lilting, full of ache.

“When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry, and curse at the wind…”

Paramore. “The Only Exception.”

Brando smiled to himself, shaking his head. She got that from Wilson, always filling the house with some song that said too much and everything all at once.

He let the verse play, humming along under his breath. By the time the chorus drifted down, you are the only exception, he’d already looked away from the TV. His eyes fell to the coffee table.

The letter still sat there, edges soft and yellowed, the past folded into every crease.

He stared at it for a long moment, then stood, sliding it carefully into his hand like it was something alive. The game still buzzed behind him as he walked toward the hallway, his bare feet padding against the tile.

The home office, Wilson’s studio, really, smelled faintly of oil paint and cedar. Brushes sat in a mason jar by the window, half-cleaned, and one of Wilson’s latest canvases leaned against the wall, unfinished but glowing even in the dim light.

Brando sat down at the desk, the old wooden chair creaking under him. He pulled open the drawer where they kept the mailing supplies, priority stamps, envelopes, labels, and set them out in neat rows.

He hesitated for only a second before sliding the letter out of its aging fold. He read it again, quietly this time, lips moving but no sound coming out. By the time he reached the end, his eyes were wet again.

He smiled through it.

Then he reached for a clean envelope, big enough to fit the envelope without folding it. He slid the old one inside and sealed it carefully, pressing along the edges like a ritual.

From a sticky note pad beside the phone, he tore off one small square and wrote in his slow, careful handwriting,

“You really are the only exception. PS. Listen to that song.”

He stuck it on top of the sealed envelope, then wrote out the hotel address in Nashville, Wilson’s expo itinerary had been magneted to the fridge all week. When he finished, he sat back in the chair, exhaling through his nose like he’d just crossed a finish line a million years late.

“Yeah,” he murmured to himself, smiling faintly. “You’re a good guy, Brando. You’re nothing like him.”

He stood, envelope in hand, and padded barefoot out to the front door. The night air was warm and heavy with the smell of cut grass. He opened the mailbox, slipped the envelope inside, and let the metal flap shut with a soft click.

For a moment he just stood there, looking out over the quiet street, the flicker of a streetlight painting gold across his face. He nodded once, half to himself, half to the world, and whispered, “You did good, kid.”

Upstairs, the light from Rose’s window spilled faintly across the yard.

She had seen him step outside, the letter in his hand, and watched him from her father’s old room, his room before everything changed. The music still played softly behind her.

“Oh, and I’m on my way to believing…”

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, eyes following him as he walked back toward the house, still humming under his breath.

He disappeared under the porch light, and she smiled, small, quiet, proud.

“You’re a good guy, Papa,” she whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re nothing like him.”

Outside, the mailbox stood still under the porch light, holding a letter that was somehow late and exactly on time.

Chapter Text

December 1992
Houston, Texas.

 

Cece Navarro sat curled up on the far end of her navy-blue couch, her legs tucked under a throw blanket, a half-finished glass of wine sweating on the coffee table. Her apartment was quiet except for the low hum of It Ain’t Over ’Til It’s Over drifting from the little stereo on the shelf, Lenny Kravitz’s voice melting into the December night.

She mouthed the words, soft, barely there, just enough to fill the space that had felt too big lately.

The city outside her window was still alive, cars rumbling down Westheimer, someone shouting a name across the street, the flicker of neon from the diner downstairs cutting against her Christmas lights. It wasn’t snowing, it never did in Houston, but the air had that kind of chill that made the whole world feel lonely.

She tilted her glass toward the stereo, like a silent toast.

“Yeah, Lenny. Tell me about it.”

It had been a little over two months since Ella called her with the news.

Two months since she heard it in that hesitant, careful tone, like saying it too loud would make it worse.

Mallory’s engaged. To Simon Keller.

Cece had laughed when Ella said it. Or maybe it was a scoff. Something sharp enough to cover the crack in her voice.

Simon Keller. The college sweetheart. The golden boy with a perfect jawline and a mediocre personality.

Mallory told Brando first, of course. Cece wasn’t even surprised. She told herself she was only hurt because of that, because she didn’t hear it from Mallory herself. But that wasn’t the truth, and she knew it.

The truth sat heavy somewhere beneath her ribs. It burned hotter than the wine.

It wasn’t that Mallory was engaged.

It was who she was engaged to.

It was the fact that Cece could still hear her laugh, could still remember how she looked when she got nervous in class, or how her hair smelled like cheap citrus shampoo in the Rice apartment. It was the unspoken rule between them, between everyone.

They didn’t talk about what happened in college.

They pretended it was just a thing that faded with time, like a bruise that never really healed but didn’t hurt enough to press anymore.

She hummed along to the last chorus, leaning her head against the couch cushion.

The wine, the music, the faint buzz of streetlight outside, it all blurred together into something sad and sweet and familiar.

Cece closed her eyes and sighed, barely whispering the words back to the stereo,

“It ain’t over…”

But she didn’t believe it.

Not for a second.

The knock of her wine glass against the coffee table made the only real sound in the apartment, that and the low scratch of the record player. Free Fallin’ spun softly, all dreamy and sad and too on the nose for a Thursday night.

Cece sighed, sinking deeper into her couch. Her hair was down, her glasses slightly crooked, and her blanket half-slipped off her shoulder. “Esquire,” she muttered toward the kitchen, “if you’re silently judging me for my music choices, you can come do it to my face.”

A moment later, soft paws padded across the tile. The Russian Blue appeared, sleek, silver, perfect, and perpetually unimpressed. He jumped onto the couch beside her with practiced ease, curling into the warm space against her thigh.

“There you are,” she said, running a hand over his back. His fur was cool to the touch, he must’ve been sitting by the window again, watching Houston traffic blink below.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured. “You love her too, you know. Don’t try to act above it.”

He blinked once, slow, patient, like he did know exactly who she meant.

Cece smiled tiredly, her thumb tracing the edge of his ear. “This song, ” she exhaled, leaning her head back against the couch, “It’s about her. It has to be. ‘She’s a good girl, loves her mama, loves Jesus and America too…’ Tell me that isn’t Mallory James?”

Esquire’s tail flicked, unimpressed.

Cece laughed softly, her voice breaking just a little. “Yeah, yeah. You think I’m being dramatic. You should’ve seen us, though. We were-” she stopped herself, pressing her lips together. “Doesn’t matter. She was your mom, too, you know. We picked you out together. Well, I picked you. She said you had ‘too much attitude’ for a kitten, which was probably her way of saying she liked you.”

The cat blinked again, settling his chin on her leg.

Valerie’s keys jingled against the door before Cece even had time to move Esquire off her lap.

“I mean, not your mom in, like, a mom way,” she was muttering to herself, voice trailing off as the lock clicked. “Just… in the ‘we bought you together during our delusional era’ way. Friends. Two friends buying a cat. Totally normal.”

“Babe?”

Cece froze mid-sip. The glass hovered in the air. “In here, Val!”

Esquire’s reaction was immediate, a swift stretch, a flick of his tail, and then the soft thud-thud-thud of paws retreating down the hallway. As always, the cat vanished the second Valerie Kearns entered the picture.

Val stepped in, smelling faintly of the grocery store, that odd mix of bakery sugar and plastic bags. Her red H-E-B polo was wrinkled, her hair tied up loosely, and she carried an envelope bundle in one hand. “I see someone forgot to check the mailbox again?” she teased, holding it up.

Cece smiled tightly, tucking her legs beneath her blanket. “Busy day. Lots of phone calls.”

Val hummed, setting the mail on the coffee table before dropping her bag to the floor. Her eyes landed on the empty wine glass. “Long day, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Val kicked off her shoes and plopped down next to her, already glancing around. “Where’s Mr. Fancy Pants?”

Cece blinked. “You mean Esquire?”

Val smirked. “Yeah. Squish.”

Cece groaned audibly. “Please stop calling him that.”

“He looks like a Squish,” Val argued, reaching over to grab the wine bottle and pour herself a little splash. “I still think it’s insane you give him his own room. Who does that?”

“He likes his space,” Cece said simply, adjusting her glasses. “You of all people should understand that.”

Val rolled her eyes but leaned back into the couch. “I could use that room. You know, if I ever just… moved in.”

Cece’s mouth twitched. “When you start paying the bills, you can pick whichever guest room you want.”

“Guest room.” Val grinned, reaching for the stack of envelopes. “Big talk for someone who’s about to host my model train collection over Christmas.”

Cece laughed despite herself. “Oh my god, Val, you’re not still on that-”

“I just think it’s a waste of good space,” Val said, shuffling through the mail. “A cat with his own room? Come on.”

Cece sighed, deadpan. “I think it’s crazy that you refuse to call him by his legal name.”

Val shot her a grin, completely ignoring the jab as she flipped through the last few envelopes.

“Bill, bill, ad, something from your mom, oh.” She paused, holding up a glossy red envelope with a little gold tree printed on the corner. “Christmas card from your friends.”

Cece looked up from her glass, uninterested until Val added, “Will and Bran.”

That got her attention. “Oh, great,” she muttered, taking the envelope. “I’m sure it’s aggressively wholesome.”

Val chuckled. “Probably.” She went back to sorting the rest of the stack, oblivious as Cece tore open the flap.

Inside was a simple, cheerful photo, Wilson and Brando, both in matching red sweaters, leaning against the fence outside Carla’s old house. Brando’s arm was slung casually around Wilson’s shoulders, Wilson’s smile was soft and easy, the kind that came from being loved for a long time.

Cece smiled faintly at first, she always thought they were disgustingly perfect together, but then something small, tiny, caught her eye.

Wilson’s hand rested lightly over Brando’s, and right there, glinting against his skin in the faint sunlight, was a band. Thin. Silver. Subtle enough that someone else might’ve missed it.

Cece didn’t.

Her breath caught. “Oh my god.”

Val didn’t even look up. “What?”

Cece blinked hard, leaning forward to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. “What do you mean what? You don’t see it?”

Val sighed, finally glancing up. “See what, Cece?”

Cece held the card closer to her face. “The ring! On his hand! Look!”

Val squinted, unimpressed. “You’re kidding. That little speck? Could be the camera glare.”

Cece’s jaw tightened. “It’s not glare. I know what a ring looks like, Valerie.”

Val smirked, teasing. “Well, yeah, you are a lawyer. Catching rings is part of the job, huh?”

“Not funny,” Cece muttered, setting her wine glass down and standing abruptly. Her pulse was thrumming as she crossed the room, grabbing the phone off its cradle.

She dialed fast, too fast, and pressed the receiver to her ear. One ring. Two. Then,

“Hi! You’ve reached Ella and Jan, leave a message after the beep!”

Cece groaned, slumping against the counter. She hung up before the beep even finished, rubbing her temple.

Val peeked over from the couch, the cat-shaped cushion now her pillow. “You seriously just called Ella about a Christmas card?”

Cece ignored her completely, rifling through the phonebook beside the landline until her finger landed on a familiar name. The ink was faded, but the letters still stung.

Mallory James.

She froze for a moment, staring at it, the card still clutched in her other hand.

Val yawned. “You good over there, Sherlock?”

Cece set the phone back on the counter, her mind a storm. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Val hummed, unconvinced but not enough to push. She went back to the TV, flipping through channels.

Cece, meanwhile, looked back down at that name.

Mallory James.

Her heart kicked once, hard, against her ribs.

She exhaled through her nose. “Yeah,” she muttered to herself. “Totally fine.”

Cece stared at the phone for a good ten seconds before dialing, like maybe the buttons would rearrange themselves into a reason not to.

But they didn’t.

The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered, warm and casual as always.

“Hello?”

Cece swallowed. “Hey, um… it’s Cece.”

A pause, short, but there. Then Mallory’s voice softened. “Hey, Cece.”

They’d spoken since the engagement. Pretended things were fine. Emails, a few polite calls, one brunch where Cece left early under the excuse of “trial prep” but really just couldn’t stand watching her ring sparkle in the sunlight.

“Did you- uh,” Cece started, glancing toward Val, “did you get the flowers I sent you?”

Mallory chuckled quietly. “All four bouquets? Yeah, Cece, I got them. Twice a month, like clockwork.”

Cece hummed, playing dumb. “Right. I just wanted to make sure they arrived okay.”

Mallory hesitated, teasing. “You know, I think your flower guy forgot Simon’s name again. Every card says ‘Mallory James - love, Cece Navarro.’”

Cece smirked faintly, her chest tight. “Huh. Weird. My florist must not take direction well.”

“Mm,” Mallory said, the sound filled with laughter she was clearly trying to suppress. “I’ll be sure to tell Simon your florist’s out to get him.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. “So, uh… what did I do to receive a call from Houston’s most prestigious lawyer on this beautiful December night?”

Cece laughed softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Did you get a Christmas card from Wilson and Brando?”

“Yeah,” Mallory said easily. “It’s on our fridge right now.” In the background, Cece heard movement, the low rumble of a man’s voice.

“Who’re you talking to?” Simon’s voice asked, faint but unmistakably polite.

“Cee,” Mallory said simply.

There was a pause. Then a sigh, followed by an unenthusiastic hum before his footsteps faded away.

Cece exhaled slowly. “Right. Well, look at it.”

Mallory sounded confused. “At the card?”

“Yeah. Look closer. Like, really look at it.”

Cece leaned forward, gripping the phone tighter as she listened to the faint shuffle of Mallory moving, the crinkle of the card being pulled from the fridge.

“Okay,” Mallory said after a moment. “Looking.”

“Look at Wil’s hand.”
“Okay…”

Cece’s heart pounded so loud she could hear it echoing in the receiver.

Mallory’s tone was dry. “Cece, what am I supposed to be seeing here?”

Cece hesitated, just for a second, and then the words spilled out of her like they’d been sitting at the back of her throat for years.

“He’s wearing a ring, Mallory.”

Silence.

“What?”

Cece pressed her hand to her forehead. “A ring. On his left hand. You know, the finger.”

Mallory squinted at the photo, still not seeing it. “You’re sure?”

Cece groaned. “I’m a lawyer, Mal. I’m sure. You think I don’t notice fine details? I’ve spent half my career cross-examining liars, trust me, I can spot a ring.”

Mallory was quiet for a second, the air between them shifting. “So… what, you think they’re…?”

Cece leaned back on the counter, staring at the photo on her own table. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean-” she stopped, her voice dropping. “Maybe they just finally… did it.”

Mallory’s voice was careful. “You sound like you’re about to draft a legal brief over this.”

Cece scoffed, pacing the kitchen. “I just- he’s wearing a ring, Mal! And you know Brando, if they were gonna do something like this, they’d probably just… do it quietly. No announcements, no party, just… them.”

Mallory sighed. “You’re spiraling.”

“Maybe I am,” Cece said, frustrated. “But you know them. You know what that ring means.”

There was another silence. Cece could almost picture her, sitting at the kitchen table in Laredo, head tilted, thumb brushing her ring absentmindedly.

“Cee…” Mallory started softly. “Why does it matter this much to you?”

Cece froze, her throat tightening.

“It doesn’t,” she lied quickly.

“Right,” Mallory said gently. “Sure.”

Cece’s voice wavered just a little. “I’m just saying, if they did, get engaged or whatever, they could’ve at least told me.”

Mallory chuckled under her breath. “You sound jealous.”

Cece bristled. “I’m not jealous.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

Cece rolled her eyes, clutching the phone tighter. “You’re infuriating.”

“Mm. You’ve mentioned.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. It was quiet except for the faint hum of static, both of them sitting in different cities, staring at the same photograph that suddenly meant more than it should.

Then Mallory’s voice softened again. “Cece?”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you, too.”

Cece shut her eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”

And then, like always, neither of them hung up first.

Cece’s hand drummed against the counter, the phone still warm against her ear. The silence had stretched too long, thick and restless, and her brain, always two steps ahead of her better judgment, lit up with the kind of terrible idea that only made sense when you were a little wine-drunk and still stupidly in love with your ex-something.

“Hey!” she blurted suddenly, the energy in her voice jolting Mallory out of whatever quiet spiral she was in. “What if… what if we just go ambush them?”

Mallory blinked audibly. “…what?”

“You know,” Cece pressed on, pacing the kitchen now, glass in hand, cat staring at her like she’d lost it. “Like, we drive through the night, show up at their house, and figure out if they really are… engaged or whatever. Face to face. Old-fashioned investigative journalism.”

There was a long pause before Mallory laughed. “You want to drive through the night and go confront our best friends about a potential secret engagement?”

Cece didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I absolutely do.”

She heard Mallory exhale a half-laugh, the kind that was equal parts disbelief and something softer. “Of course you do.”

Cece grinned a little. “Have you moved yet?”

“No, not yet,” Mallory said, her voice shifting, calmer now. “In a couple months. I finally found a place in Three Rivers. Cute, small, kinda old, but the backyard’s nice. And the school offered me the full-time therapist position.”

Cece nodded, tracing her thumb along the rim of her glass. “Yeah, I’ll have to come see it.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said, smiling through the phone. “You should.”

Cece hesitated, twirling the cord. “So you’re still…?”

Mallory finished for her. “Still in Houston while Simon finishes his neurology stuff.”

Cece hummed quietly. “Dr. Keller, huh.”

Mallory hummed back, a touch of playfulness in her tone. “Guess there’ll be two of them soon, right?”

Cece didn’t answer right away, her lips twitching faintly. “…Right.”

Another stretch of quiet, not uncomfortable, just charged, until Cece broke it again. “So. You coming?”

“What?”

“To Laredo.” Cece’s voice was steady now. “Tonight. We can split the drive, crash at my mom’s if we have to. You know you want to see them too.”

Mallory hesitated, and Cece could almost hear her chewing her lip on the other end, running through all the reasons not to, Simon, work, common sense, before sighing.

“Yeah,” Mallory said finally. “Of course I’m coming.”

Cece smiled, wide and victorious. “Good. Pack a bag.”

Mallory laughed quietly. “You’re insane.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Cece corrected. “It’s my job to chase the truth.”

Mallory laughed again, softer this time. “You’re still insane.”

Cece grinned into the receiver, already grabbing her coat. “And you still love it.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, faintly, “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Cece moved through the apartment like a woman on a mission, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, suitcase half-zipped, Esquire watching from his perch on the windowsill with wide, judgmental eyes.

“Val!” she called out, over the sound of her heels tapping across the hardwood. “Hey, can you come here for a sec?”

Valerie appeared in the hallway a moment later, still in her H-E-B polo, “I just got home, Cece. What’s up?”

Cece hung up the phone and gave her most charming, don’t-be-mad smile. “So, um, I’m going to be out of town for a few days. Could you feed Esquire while I’m gone?”

Val blinked. “Out of town?”

Cece nodded quickly, stuffing another blouse into her bag. “Yeah, just a quick trip, nothing crazy. Gotta head home for a bit. My friend is coming with me.”

Val crossed her arms. “Your friend? Meaning who?”

Cece winced slightly. “Mallory.”

There was a pause so sharp you could’ve heard Esquire’s tail flick.

Val stared at her, flat-eyed. “You’re kidding.”
Cece sighed, zipping her suitcase. “It’s not like that, Val. She’s just- look, it’s a long story. She’s coming with me to visit Wilson and Brando.”

“Of course she is,” Val muttered, pushing a hand through her hair. “You and Mallory, back on the road together. Classic Navarro disaster.”

Cece rolled her eyes. “Come on, don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Val said, her tone too light to be believable. “Just saying, some of us learned to stop playing with fire after college.”

Cece froze halfway through reaching for her jacket, biting back the thousand things she could’ve said. Instead, she exhaled slowly. “Val, can you feed him or not?”

Val shrugged, eyes still sharp. “I’m working doubles this weekend. We’re short-staffed because of the holiday rush.”

“Val,” Cece pleaded. “Just stop in once a day. You can even stay here if you want. He won’t bother you.”

Val’s lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but refused to. “He always bothers me. He hisses every time I walk past his room.”

Cece sighed. “Because you called him Squish. He’s an Esquire. He has standards.”

Val snorted. “He’s a cat, Cece.”

“A cat with taste.”

Val rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it if I can keep my model trains here in Esquire’s room.”

Cece froze. “Absolutely not.”

“Then no deal.”

“Val.”

“Cece.”

The standoff stretched. Esquire meowed once, unimpressed.

Cece groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine! I’ll make space in my own closet for the damn trains.”

Val grinned, triumphant. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Cece glared. “You’re insufferable.”

Val leaned in, stealing a quick kiss on the cheek. “You love it.”

Cece wiped the spot with the back of her hand, but she was smiling. “Barely.”

“Uh-huh.” Val murmured. “Have fun with Mallory.”

Cece pretended not to hear the edge in her voice. “Feed my cat, Valerie.”

Val smirked and kicked off her shoes. “Fine, I’ll stay the night. Can’t have Houston’s most important attorney’s precious boy starving on my watch.”

Cece was about to retort when a knock sounded at the door. Both women froze. Cece frowned. “Who-”

Val had already turned toward the entryway. “Guess I’ll get it.”

Cece’s stomach flipped as she peered over the back of the couch, watching Val open the door.

And there she was.

Mallory James.

Denim jacket, messy ponytail, the same half-smile that always managed to look effortless and dangerous all at once.

“Oh, Mallory,” Cece said, straightening up so fast she nearly tripped over Esquire’s toy mouse. “I was gonna come get you.”

Mallory nodded, her voice warm. “Yeah, I just thought I’d come see Esqui first.”

At the sound of his name, the cat trotted into the living room, tail high, all pretense of indifference gone. He went straight for Mallory’s legs, winding around them with a low, happy purr.

Cece smiled despite herself. “There’s mama’s boy.”

Mallory bent down and scooped him up, her grin softening. “God, he’s gotten big.”

“I know,” Cece said, hands on her hips. “He’s still an asshole, though. Always judging me. I swear it’s like we talk sometimes-”

Val cut in dryly, still by the door. “He’s a cat, Cece. He doesn’t talk.”

Mallory chuckled, scratching under Esquire’s chin. “You know, cats actually mirror their owners’ emotional states. The more defensive you are, the more reactive they get. So technically, he’s just responding to you.”

Cece raised an eyebrow. “Oh, look who’s still trying to psychoanalyze me.”

Mallory smirked. “Occupational hazard.”

Val rolled her eyes. “Occupational nonsense,” she muttered, then her gaze dropped to Mallory’s hand, the glint of the gold engagement ring catching under the lamp light.

“Congrats, by the way,” Val said smoothly, leaning against the doorframe.

Mallory smiled, polite but genuine. “Thanks.”

Val turned to Cece, that teasing glint back in her eyes. “Now I just gotta figure out how to lock this one down, huh?”

Cece laughed, but it came out too quick, too bright. “Oh, you know what I always say, no marriage for me!” She waved her hand like it was a running joke. “Who says we can’t just date forever, right?”

Mallory laughed softly, setting Esquire back on the ground. The cat immediately brushed against her legs again, choosing sides like always.

“Right,” Mallory said. “Forever.”

Cece’s throat felt dry. She reached for her wine glass on instinct, ignoring Val’s knowing look.

“So,” Mallory said, trying to lighten the mood. “Road trip ready?”

Cece nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Bags packed. Gas tank full. Emotional damage thriving.”

Val sighed dramatically. “You two are going to come back with matching tattoos or something, I can feel it.”

Mallory grinned. “Don’t tempt me.”

Cece laughed weakly, cheeks pink, and turned away before either of them could see her face. “Okay,” she said, grabbing her keys from the counter. “Let’s hit the road before I remember why this is a terrible idea.”

Val smirked. “You already know it’s a terrible idea.”

Cece shot her a look over her shoulder. “And yet, here I am.”

As the door closed behind them, Val looked down at Esquire, who’d jumped back onto his perch and was staring toward the door, tail flicking.

“Well,” she said, sighing, “guess it’s just us, Squish.”

Esquire blinked once.

“Yeah, I know,” Val muttered. “I hate this as much as you.”

The highway stretched out ahead of them, a long silver ribbon of quiet and cool air. The radio flickered between stations, the occasional static hum slipping through. For being so close to the holidays, it was almost unsettling how empty it was, not that either of them minded. The less traffic, the less chance for small talk to turn into real talk.

It was awkward, sure. But it was their kind of awkward, the old, familiar kind that didn’t feel uncomfortable, just… alive. Like muscle memory. Like something you could fall back into without thinking.

Mallory had her feet kicked up on the dash, one hand lazily playing with the air vent as she told some story about a teacher at her school who accidentally set off the fire alarm making popcorn. Cece was halfway listening, halfway zoning out, fingers drumming the steering wheel, until,

“Oh my gosh!” she squealed suddenly, nearly making Mallory jump out of her seat. “Mal, it’s our song!”

Mallory blinked. “What?”

Cece pointed at the radio like it was divine intervention. “The Clash! Rock the Casbah!”

Mallory groaned. “Oh, God.”

But Cece was already dancing in her seat, shoulders bouncing, hair whipping as she sang along off-key. The car swerved slightly, earning a honk from a pickup that sped past.

“Jesus, Navarro, keep your hands on the wheel!” Mallory laughed, clutching the door handle.

“Come on, Mal, you remember!” Cece grinned, turning the volume up. “October 1983! I somehow convinced you to come back home with me to Laredo for fall break. You tried to stay in Houston, said your parents were going to Utah and you were gonna stay at school-”

Mallory interrupted, her smile tugging wider. “But you insisted I stay with you. I know. I remember.”

Cece’s grin softened into something fonder. “And I made you sing this song.”

Mallory tilted her head. “You bullied me into singing it.”

“Semantics.” Cece waved her hand dramatically. “You didn’t want to, but I finally got you to do it. Just like I’m about to now.”

She held up an invisible microphone, grinning wildly. “Come on, Mal. It’s The Clash!”

Mallory rolled her eyes so hard it was theatrical. “Not a chance, Navarro.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I mean it this time.”

Cece shot her a look. “You absolutely don’t.”

Mallory fought it, tried to stare straight ahead. But Cece’s grin was contagious, her energy impossible to ignore, and when Cece started dramatically mouthing the lyrics at her, Mallory finally cracked.

“Fine,” she muttered, grabbing the invisible mic out of Cece’s hand.

Cece gasped, triumphant.

And just like that, they were teenagers again, windows down, hair flying, shouting lyrics into the wind.

“Shareef he don’t like it!”

Cece drummed her palms on the steering wheel. Mallory did the backup “Rockin’ the Casbah!” line like she’d never stopped.

By the chorus, they were both yelling, laughing so hard they missed half the words, their voices lost somewhere between the music and the rush of highway air.

Cece could feel her chest ache, not from the laughter, but from how easy it felt. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like pretending.

By the time they rolled into Laredo, the horizon was still black-blue, that soft, almost holy kind of quiet before dawn. The car hummed beneath them, headlights slicing through the dark. Mallory yawned, curling deeper into her seat, hair a mess and voice scratchy from too many hours of singing and gas station coffee.

“Okay,” she mumbled, blinking at the clock. “What’s the plan? We stay at your mom’s tonight and then-”

Cece cut her off immediately, eyes wide and alive despite the hour. “Absolutely not. We confront tonight. After we pick up Ella and Jan.”

Mallory groaned. “Cece. It’s four a.m. The only thing I’m confronting is a pillow.”

Cece turned into a familiar street with alarming confidence. “Oh, please. You think Ella Sinclair is asleep right now? The woman probably alphabetizes her vinyls when she can’t rest.”

Mallory gave her a disbelieving look, right up until Cece slowed in front of a little yellow house with warm light pouring through the windows. Inside, behind sheer curtains, two figures were moving, swaying, laughing.

Cece grinned, smug. “See?”

Mallory leaned closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass. The faint sound of Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain drifted through the air, timeless and steady. Ella and Jan were in the living room, dancing barefoot, heads thrown back in laughter, Jan twirling Ella so fast her robe slipped off one shoulder.

Mallory’s chest ached a little. “God. Coming back here reminds me how much I miss them. All of them.”

Cece shut off the engine and stepped out of her car. “That why you haven’t been home in months?”

Mallory hesitated before following. “What?”

“You said you were busy,” Cece said, quietly. “But maybe it’s just that, coming back means you’ll miss it all too much when you leave again.”

Mallory looked out the window again. “No,” she said softly, “I’m just… busy. Wedding planning and all of that.”

Cece hummed, pretending to believe her. “Picked a venue yet? What’ll it be for the Dr. Kellers? Country club? Beachside wedding? Something with a champagne fountain?”

Mallory gave her a look. “I- I don’t know. Whatever he wants.”

Cece nodded slowly, eyes still on her. “Right. But what about what you want? Last time I checked, you wanted a spring wedding so baby’s breath would be in season.”

Mallory froze, words dying on her tongue.

Cece tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Those still your favorite, or have I been adding them to all those bouquets for no reason?”

Mallory blinked, quiet for a long beat. “You said you had a florist.”

Cece smiled to herself, soft and knowing. “Right. Yeah. My florist.” She leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Is my florist adding them in for no reason?”

Mallory’s mouth opened, but before she could find an answer, the front door swung open.

Ella stood there, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from dancing, looking completely unsurprised. “Great,” she said dryly. “I was wondering when you two would get here.”

Jan peeked around her shoulder, holding a glass of some sort of alcohol. “Didn’t think you’d actually drive through the night,” she said, yawning.

Cece grinned, stepping onto the porch. “Oh, please. I’ve done crazier for less.”

Ella raised a brow. “That, I believe.”

Mallory stood back for a second, watching them all, the porch light flickering, the house warm and alive in a way that made her chest feel too small for her heart. She felt Cece’s hand brush hers as they stepped inside, soft and fleeting, and for just a moment, she let herself imagine that maybe, just maybe, the night wasn’t a mistake.

The warmth of the house hit them the second they stepped in, soft lamplight, incense still faint in the air, and the hum of a record fading out. The room smelled like cinnamon and whiskey and something so Ella and Jan that Mallory could’ve cried just being in it again.

“Look who decided to rise from the Houston ashes,” Jan said, waving her half-empty glass of whiskey as she sauntered toward them. She was barefoot, wearing one of Ella’s shirts that definitely wasn’t hers. “Drink?”

Mallory smiled tiredly. “No thanks.”

“Driving,” Cece added, already pulling off her scarf.

Ella grinned and plucked the bottle right out of Jan’s hand. “More for me.”

Cece, without missing a beat, reached out and took it away. “Absolutely not. I need your brain cells functional for this mission.”

Ella blinked. “Mission?”

Mallory laughed, sinking onto the couch as Esquire’s cousin cat, Lennon, a lazy ragdoll, padded across the rug. “She means we’re about to commit social chaos,” she said.

Cece pointed dramatically. “Exactly.”

Jan flopped down next to her, glass forgotten. “I missed this. The chaos energy. The Laredo reunion tour.”

Mallory chuckled softly, looking between them all, the house was alive, cluttered, loud, and exactly how she remembered it. “How did you even know we were coming? Did Cece call you guys or something?”

Ella burst out laughing, collapsing into the armchair. “Nope.”

Jan grinned into her glass. “Didn’t have to.”

Cece frowned. “Wait, what?”

Ella leaned forward, voice low and mischievous. “When I saw that card, I knew.”

Cece blinked. “You what?”

“I saw it immediately,” Ella said, smirking. “That little glint? It’s hard to catch because the ring’s so tiny, but it’s there.”

Cece gasped, clutching her chest like it was a scandal. “Oh my god, right? Val said it was just a camera glare at first, and for like, one split second, I almost believed her, but-”

Mallory groaned. “Wait, wait, wait. You two are telling me you just knew we’d show up because of a ring in a Christmas card?”

Jan laughed, propping her chin on her hand. “Because you’re our best friends, and we know you too damn well.”

Ella nodded, still fighting a giggle. “And also because this one-” she pointed at Cece, who was halfway through rummaging through her purse for something dramatic to hold “Cannot resist coming home for even the smallest thing. If Wilsom sneezed too loud, she’d be in her car within the hour.”

Cece huffed. “Okay, first of all, that only happened once.”

Mallory raised an eyebrow. “Once?”

Jan snorted. “She drove four hours because she thought Brando broke his arm.”

“He called me and said he was in a sling!” Cece defended. “How was I supposed to know it was for Kate’s dog?”

Ella snorted into the whiskey bottle, then lifted it like a toast. “Like I said, some things never change.”

Cece rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

Mallory watched the three of them, her friends, her girls, her people, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like Houston or Three Rivers or anywhere else. It just felt like home.

And then Ella leaned forward, mischief flickering like static in her eyes. “So,” she said, grin widening, “we’re doing this tonight?”

Cece nodded solemnly. “We’re doing this tonight.”

Jan poured another drink. “God help us all.”

Lennon was sprawled out across the back of the couch like he paid the rent, his fur a cloud of cream and gray, his blue eyes half-open in judgment as the girls crowded around the coffee table. His tail flicked once when Cece plopped down beside him with a thud.

“So,” Ella said, dragging out the word as she poured herself another glass of whiskey. “How’s Simon? How’s work?”

Mallory tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Simon’s good,” she said automatically, the way someone might say fine when asked how they’re doing. “And work’s fine too. I’m still at that middle school in Houston, but-”

She perked up slightly. “I got that offer from Three Rivers I was telling Jan about! Full-time therapist position. I even bought a little house up there, so cute. You guys’ll have to come see it.”

Ella smiled, stretching out her legs. “We will. And you know Brando’s gonna want to inspect all of it before you move in.”

Cece laughed, swirling what was left in her glass. “Right, because the neurologist doesn’t know how to work a simple hammer or drill.”

Mallory rolled her eyes. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Cece said cheerfully.

Jan leaned forward, eyes dropping to Mallory’s hand. “You haven’t been home since you got engaged,” she said, reaching out. “Let me see the ring.”

Mallory hesitated, then lifted her hand. The ring gleamed under Ella’s old floor lamp, big, flashy, catching the light like it wanted attention.

Jan whistled. “Wow. It’s gorgeous.”

Mallory smiled faintly. “I told him not to go crazy.”

Cece squinted. “You hate gold.”

Everyone froze.

Cece shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, taking another sip. “What? She does.”

Mallory’s lips parted, then closed again. “I told him not to get this one,” she muttered.

Ella frowned, leaning forward. “Wait, you knew he was proposing?”

Mallory flushed. “Yeah, he- he wanted it to go perfectly, so he told me beforehand. Just to make sure I wore something nice, got my nails done, you know…”

Cece laughed under her breath. “How romantic.”

Ella shoved her shoulder lightly, half-scolding, half-laughing. “Be nice.”

Mallory looked down at her ring again, as if trying to make herself feel something that wasn’t there. “I love it,” she said finally, too quickly. Then she cleared her throat. “So-”

Before she could finish, the back door creaked open. A blur of black fur tore through the kitchen, nails clicking against the tile.

“Sarge!” Jan called from the other room. “You better not have tracked mud in this damn house again!”

Cece blinked. “Who the hell is Sarge-”

But she didn’t have to ask again, because Mallory was already on the floor, laughing, as the black lab puppy bounded into her arms. “Oh my God, look at you!” she cooed, cradling him against her chest. “You’re still so little!”

The puppy wagged furiously, tongue lolling out, tail knocking into a stack of magazines.

Jan appeared in the doorway, smiling sheepishly. “Sargent Pepper. We found him on the street last month and couldn’t resist.”

Lennon, still perched on the couch, let out a low, unimpressed huff.

Cece smirked. “Sargent Pepper?”

Jan grinned. “Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”

Ella plopped down beside her cat, who immediately swatted at her hair. “We’re Beatles lovers,” she said simply, gesturing between the lazy ragdoll and the excitable lab. “Lennon and Sarge. Balance, baby.”

Mallory laughed so hard she had to sit back on her heels. “You two are actually ridiculous.”

Cece grinned, looking around the room, the puppy, the cat, the whiskey bottles, the warmth. “They’re ridiculous,” she said, “but they’re happy. Maybe alcoholics but we can discuss that later.”

Ella smirked. “And you’re jealous.”

Cece shot her a look, but her smile didn’t fade.

For a moment, the house filled with laughter, the sound of old friends falling into rhythm again, of memories re-stitching themselves in the quiet hours of a December morning. And for the first time in a long time, the four of them, bruised hearts, tangled pasts and all, felt like the girls they used to be.

By the time they made it back out to the driveway, the sky was beginning to tint pale blue, dawn creeping up on them like a slow confession. The air had that December bite, crisp, dry, and just cold enough to make Cece regret her outfit choice.

Mallory opened the back door of the car, only for Sarge to bound straight past her, tail wagging, tongue hanging out. He jumped into the front seat like he owned the place.

Cece froze mid-step. “Absolutely not. No. No dogs in my car.”

Mallory, already laughing, hooked an arm under the pup’s belly. “Come on, Cece, he’s fine.”

“He’s not fine!” Cece cried, exasperated. “He’s going to get dog hair all over my seats, and this car smells like Chanel and hard work!”

Mallory just shrugged, looking far too pleased with herself. “Then use that lawyer money to get it cleaned.”

From the porch, Ella whistled low. “She’s got you there, counselor.”

Jan, standing behind her with the keys to the house, added, “We can’t leave the baby here alone, Cece. He’ll be heartbroken.”

Sarge wagged like he understood.

Cece pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. “Fine. Fine. He can come. But he sits on your lap, Mallory. The whole drive. And if he pees in my car, you’re buying me new seats.”

Mallory grinned triumphantly and climbed in with Sarge tucked against her. “Deal.”

Cece turned to the porch, where Lennon sat in the window, watching the chaos unfold like he was too evolved for it. She pointed at him. “How do you deal with them?” she sighed. “I should steal you.”

Lennon blinked, unimpressed, and flicked his tail.

Ella bolted for the passenger side. “Shotgun!”

Cece groaned. “You get carsick if we go over twenty-five.”

“I’ll risk it for the gossip,” Ella shot back, already buckling in.

Mallory and Jan slid into the back, Sarge sprawled across both of their laps like an overgrown infant. His head stuck out the window as they pulled out of the driveway, wind flapping his ears, pure joy radiating from him.

Cece sighed dramatically, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching to turn up the radio. “If he drools on my window, I’m suing.”

Jan smirked, chin propped on her hand. “Who are you gonna hire, yourself?”

Cece shot her a glare in the rearview mirror, but her mouth twitched.

As they drove through the quiet early-morning streets of Laredo, the houses started to look familiar again, each one a little snapshot of who they used to be. Ella leaned her head out the window, grinning at the sight of a gas station they used to hang out at after school. Mallory pointed out the corner where she and Cece had gotten in their first argument during elementary school.

It was all muscle memory, laughing too loud, teasing each other too hard, remembering without meaning to.

When Cece finally turned onto the long, familiar street that led to Wilson and Brando’s house, the same one they’d all grown up in, the one that always smelled like coffee and safety, the car went quiet.

Even Sarge seemed to sense it, letting out a small huff before resting his chin on Mallory’s arm.

Cece glanced at them all through the mirror. “Alright,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of nerves and excitement. “This is it.”

Ella smirked, leaning forward. “Operation Christmas Engagement?”

Cece nodded solemnly. “Operation Christmas Engagement.”

Mallory just shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. “God help us.”

And with that, Cece parked at the curb, the four of them, plus one very proud puppy, sitting in the car outside the Copeland-Webber house like they were about to perform a heist instead of crash an anniversary breakfast.

Cece rolled her eyes, taking her keyring out of her purse. “This is ridiculous. Four grown women sneaking up on two men like we’re in a sitcom. Just let me-” she unlocked the door with all the confidence of someone who owned everywhere she walked, “WILSON MATTHEW WEBBER!”

Inside, both Brando and Wilson jolted so hard they nearly dropped their forks. Pancakes, coffee, morning paper, the whole picture of domestic peace, shattered instantly.

Before either of them could react, there was a blur of gold fur tearing through the living room.

Cece screamed. “Oh my God! I’m being attacked!”

Brando burst into laughter, already standing as the golden lab puppy bounded at Cece’s legs, tongue out, tail wagging. “That’s no way to greet your dog niece, Cece,” he said, scooping the dog into his arms.

Cece’s jaw dropped. “You- you people have a dog, too?”

Wilson grinned, standing beside Brando. “Meet Sunny.”

Cece blinked. “Sunny.”

Brando nodded proudly. “Yup. Like sunshine. Because she’s perfect.”

Mallory leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Aww, of course you two have a dog with a name like Sunny. That’s the most Wilson-and-Brando thing I’ve ever heard.”

Cece, flustered, gestured at Sarge in Mallory’s arms. “Oh, for crying out loud, do all of you have dogs now?”

Mallory lifted Sarge a little higher, the puppy squirming in her arms. “No,” she said with a little laugh, “but I’m thinking about it, now.”

Brando’s grin spread slow and knowing, his tone teasing as ever. “These two are siblings.”

Cece froze mid-eye roll. “Excuse me?”

Brando nodded toward the two wiggling puppies, Sarge’s paws flailing from Mallory’s arms while Sunny barked from Wilson’s side. “Same litter,” Brando said proudly. “Born within an hour of each other.”

Cece blinked, looked at Sunny, then Sarge. “You’re telling me these two are related? As in, actual dog siblings?”

Wilson grinned, clearly entertained. “We got them from the same place Jan and Ella got Sarge.”

Cece’s eyes widened, voice pitching up an octave. “The streets?!”

Brando jumped in quickly, waving his hands. “No! No, Cece, Arlington. We bought them two weeks ago!”

Cece exhaled in exaggerated relief, clutching her chest. “Oh. Oh, good. For a second, I thought-”

Then it hit her.

Her head snapped toward Ella. “Wait. Two weeks ago? Ella, that’s when you called me saying you needed money for Jan’s car!”

Ella hesitated, guilt flickering across her face. “Well,” she started carefully, “we did need some of it for Jan’s car…”

Cece crossed her arms. “Ella.”

Ella pressed on. “For the gas. To drive to Arlington. With Wil and Bran. So we could get the dogs.”

 

Cece’s jaw dropped. “So what you’re saying is, you scammed me.”

Ella held up her hands defensively. “Not scammed! Just… creatively redirected funds!”

Cece blinked. “That’s literally the definition of a scam.”

Ella shrugged. “You would’ve said no if I told you it was for a dog!”

“I absolutely would’ve said no,” Cece shot back, voice sharp. “Because I just paid for new flooring in,” she whipped her head toward Wilson and Brando, “Both of your houses!”

Wilson raised his hand sheepishly. “To be fair, the floors look great.”

Brando added, grinning, “Best money you ever spent.”

Cece turned back toward Mallory, who now stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room holding both dogs, one under each arm like a wiggling set of dumbbells.

Mallory tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Where’s my new flooring?”

Cece smirked instantly. “I figured Dr. Keller could handle that.”

Mallory scoffed, rolling her eyes but smiling. “Cute.”

Ella snorted into her hand. “God, you two are insufferable.”

“Excuse me,” Cece said primly, flicking invisible lint from her blazer sleeve. “Some of us are simply financially responsible.”

Ella gave her a look. “You just bought your cat a Christmas stocking with his name embroidered on it.”

Cece pointed accusingly. “That’s called love, Eleanor.”

Mallory, still holding the dogs, sighed dramatically. “Can we focus? They’re getting heavy.”

Sunny barked, and Sarge immediately barked back, tails wagging in sync. The room filled with laughter, the kind that slipped out too easy between old friends who’d known each other too long.

Cece groaned but smiled despite herself. “You know what, I hate all of you.”

Wilson crouched to scratch both dogs behind their ears. “No, you don’t.”

Cece laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “Maybe not right now.”

But then she saw it.

Her laughter cut off mid-breath. Her eyes zeroed in on Wilson’s hand, the one resting against Sunny’s golden fur. A glint. Small. Silver. Subtle enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not her. Never her.

Her smile dropped. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh my God.”

Brando looked up from the counter, mid–sip of coffee. “What?”

Cece blinked, still staring. “I do hate you, actually,” she said slowly, pointing a trembling finger at Wilson. “You’re the whole reason I’m here.”

Wilson froze, halfway through petting Sunny. “What, what do you mean?”

Cece’s head whipped toward Brando. “Or really, it’s you!”

Brando nearly choked. “Me?!”

Ella sat forward, already sensing blood in the water. “Oh my God.” She gasped theatrically, pointing at Wilson’s hand. “Is that the-”

“An engagement ring,” Cece snapped, voice rising with each word, “in your little Christmas card?!”

Mallory, still holding Sarge, looked between them, blinking rapidly. “It’s real!?”

Jan was grinning, wine glass halfway to her lips. “Oh, this is definitely happening.”

Wilson’s face went pale as the realization hit. His hand still resting in plain sight. Slowly, very slowly, he stood, tucking both hands behind his back like a kid caught stealing cookies.

“What ring?” he squeaked, his voice cracking at the end.

Cece gasped, mock-offended. “Oh, so now we’re lying to each other? After everything I’ve done for you people?”

Brando held his hands up, backing toward the counter like a man facing a firing squad. “Okay, Cece, listen to me-”

“Oh, we’re listening,” Ella cut in, eyes glittering. “In fact, we’re all ears. Care to explain the shiny piece of jewelry in your Christmas card photo?”

Brando’s mouth opened and closed like he was searching for words that didn’t exist.

Jan leaned over to Ella, whispering, “I knew it. I knew they were hiding something.”

Cece crossed her arms, waiting. “Well?”

Brando swallowed hard. “Uh…” He glanced at Wilson, who looked seconds from bolting. “Want some pancakes?”

“Pancakes?!” Cece yelled. “That’s your defense?!”

Ella groaned dramatically. “Oh, God, he’s panicking.”

Wilson’s voice came out rushed, nervous, high-pitched. “We weren’t hiding anything! We just, uh, didn’t think it was, you know, announcement-worthy yet!”

Mallory blinked. “Getting engaged isn’t announcement-worthy?”

Cece’s jaw dropped. “Engaged.”

Brando winced. “Oh, come on, Cee, don’t make it sound bad.”

“It’s not bad!” Cece shouted. “It’s just, ugh, you two! You- You-” she waved her hands, searching for the words, “secretly domestic lovebirds! You send a Christmas card with a ring cameo like it’s some cryptic little puzzle and think no one’s gonna notice?!”

Ella smirked. “To be fair, I noticed immediately.”

Jan nodded. “You squinted at it for a solid ten minutes before screaming.”

“Detective work!” Cece snapped.

Brando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were gonna tell you guys-”

“When?” Cece demanded. “When I opened next year’s Christmas card and you were holding a baby?!”

“Technically,” Wilson muttered under his breath, “we were gonna tell everyone on New Year’s.”

Cece gasped again, dramatic as ever. “Oh, so I’m just the last to know?! After all these years of paying for your floors and dog food and-”

“Hey!” Brando interjected, trying to defuse the storm. “You didn’t pay for the dog food!”

Cece narrowed her eyes. “Oh, but I will now, since apparently I’m the family accountant!”

Ella laughed so hard she had to grab Jan for balance. “God, I missed this.”

Mallory set both dogs down, watching as Sunny and Sarge curled up on the rug together like they couldn’t care less that their owners were in the middle of a meltdown.

Brando sighed, resigned. “Okay, yes, fine. We’re engaged.”

The room went silent.

Even Cece froze.

Ella blinked. “Wait really?”

Brando nodded.

Wilson looked down, cheeks flushed, smiling softly. “Really.”

Cece’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Oh my God.”

Mallory grinned, all warmth. “Congratulations.”

Cece blinked, processing. Then her lip wobbled, and she groaned, “Ugh, I can’t even stay mad, damn it!”

Wilson laughed, pulling her into a hug. “You never could.”

Cece hugged him back with an exasperated noise. “I hate that you’re right.”

Behind them, Brando leaned against the counter, finally letting out a breath. “So… pancakes?”

Ella groaned. “Now I’m mad.”

Cece pulled away from Wilson, wiping her eyes. “Fine. But I want syrup and a wedding invite, in writing.”

Wilson chuckled. “Deal.”

And just like that, the kitchen filled again, with laughter, with teasing, with the hum of “Sunny” barking happily in the background, proof that even chaos like this could still feel a little bit like home.

The afternoon sun filtered in through the kitchen windows, casting that golden kind of light that made everything feel a little too warm and sentimental. The smell of cinnamon and cocoa still lingered—Ella had decided the only way to celebrate a surprise engagement was with homemade hot chocolate and leftover pancakes.

By the time Carla and Michelle arrived, the whole house was buzzing.

“Oh my God!” Carla gasped as she stepped through the door, coat half-off, eyes darting straight for Cece and Mallory on the couch. “My girls!” She dropped her bag and immediately pulled Cece into a hug so tight Cece nearly dropped her mug. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you two were coming into town?!”

Cece laughed, muffled against her shoulder. “Because it was supposed to be a surprise!”

Michelle followed behind her, smiling wide, curls a little frizzier from the cold. “A surprise for who? Because I swear everyone in this house knew except for Cece.”

Carla grinned. “Oh, don’t get her started again.”

Jess appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “If it isn’t my favorite troublemakers,” she said, kissing Cece on the cheek. “

Brando gave her a hug before interlacing his fingers with Wilson's.

Carla turned back just in time to catch that small, quiet gesture, the fingers laced together, the small grin they shared like they were still seventeen again. She sighed dramatically. “God, look at them.”

“Don’t start crying again,” Michelle teased.

Carla ignored her, dabbing at her eyes anyway. “A real gentleman, you know? Came to the house, sat me down, and asked for my boy’s hand. Can you believe that?”

Brando flushed bright red as everyone turned to look at him. “I, uh, yeah.” He laughed nervously. “Didn’t seem right not to.”

Wilson’s thumb brushed his knuckles, a soft, steadying gesture that said everything without words.

Michelle sniffed, mock-pouting. “He called me the night before he did it, you know. Said he was nervous.”

Carla smiled. “And you cried.”

Michelle shot her a glare, but her grin betrayed her. “I did not.”

Brando raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely did.”

The group laughed.

Cece, sitting cross-legged on the couch beside Mallory, stirred her hot chocolate like it had offended her. “Okay, well, one of you could’ve told me.”

Michelle turned to her, shrugging. “We made a promise.”

Cece’s mouth fell open. “To who?”

“Both of them,” Michelle said simply, sipping her cocoa. “Said we couldn’t breathe a word until they were ready.”

Cece’s jaw dropped. “Unbelievable.”

Carla, still beaming, turned to Mallory next. “Speaking of engagements,” she said, all too casually, “let’s see that ring, Mallory Anne.”

Mallory looked like she wanted the couch to swallow her whole. “Oh, um…” She hesitated, then slowly lifted her left hand. The diamond caught the light, glinting gold against the warm kitchen glow.

Cece immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in her mug.

Carla blinked at it, her head tilting slightly. “Oh… gold.”

Jess pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

“Yeah,” Mallory said, forcing a laugh. “That’s… a choice, huh?”

Carla nodded. “It sure is.”

Michelle jumped in, ever the peacemaker. “Oh, stop. Anything would look beautiful on you, Mal.”

Carla agreed instantly. “She’s right. You could wear a candy ring from a vending machine and still pull it off.”

Mallory smiled politely, murmuring a thank you.

And then Brando, who clearly hadn’t read the emotional temperature of the room, grinned and said, “Hey, I had Mallory first, remember?”

The table went dead silent.

Cece nearly choked on her drink.

Mallory groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Brando.”

Wilson smacked his arm. “Babe!”

Brando blinked, panicked. “I meant, like, as a friend! Like, I- like before Simon! Not- we dated once upon a time! That’s all I’m saying!”

Carla and Michelle were wheezing. Jess was outright laughing. Ella was choking on whipped cream.

Cece just muttered under her breath, “Yeah, you better hope Simon never hears that.”

Mallory finally looked up, glaring at him but smiling despite herself. “You’re lucky you’re handsome.”

Wilson grinned at her, teasing. “That’s what I said.”

“Not helping,” Brando hissed, but Wilson was already laughing.

The conversation melted back into laughter and chaos, Jess topping everyone’s cocoa, Michelle passing out cookies she’d brought from the car, Carla pulling Cece into another hug she didn’t ask for but secretly loved.

And for a moment, the whole kitchen was glowing, warm, loud, soft around the edges.

Cece looked across the table at Mallory, who was laughing at something Carla said, her eyes bright, her hair falling forward just the same way it always had.

Cece looked away again, heart too full, pretending to sip from her now-empty mug.

The air smelled like cinnamon, and home, and everything she’d ever missed all at once.

Carla clapped her hands together, practically vibrating with holiday energy. “Alright, everyone, outside! You know what time it is!”

Wilson groaned, already knowing. “Oh no.”

Brando laughed, nudging him toward the back door. “You mean the annual Christmas card that never actually gets mailed?”

Cece followed behind them, laughing into her mug. “You mean the one that ends up in Carla’s scrapbook every year?”

Carla waved them off, already setting the camera up on the tripod by the big oak tree, the one that had been in every single “family picture” since 1985. “It’s about memories, not the mail!”

Michelle joined her, shaking her head affectionately. “She says that every year.”

“I mean it every year!” Carla said, pointing at her best friend with mock seriousness.

The yard was buzzing with that easy, chaotic warmth that only existed with them. Sunny and Sarge chased each other across the grass, Kate, now ten and practically the self-appointed “dog wrangler”, laughing as she tried to get them to sit still. “Sunny! Sarge! Please! We need one good photo!”

Ella came out with Jan, both wrapped in scarves and laughter, and immediately swooped in to scoop up Sarge. “Got him!” she yelled like she’d just captured a fugitive.

Wilson took Sunny’s leash and crouched next to Brando, who grinned at him like this was all his favorite kind of madness.

Michelle stood beside Carla, the two of them side by side, arms around each other. Kate tucked herself between them, grinning proudly like she’d just won a prize for Most Loved Child in Texas.

“Alright!” Carla called out. “Couples! Positions!”

Jan threw her hands up. “What are we, prom dates?”

“Exactly!” Carla chirped, adjusting the tripod.

Cece rolled her eyes but smiled, walking to stand beside Mallory. “And where do we fit in, Mrs. Director?”

Carla grinned. “You’re the wildcard duo, like every year. Right in the middle. Power stance.”

Mallory laughed. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Just be you,” Carla said with a wink.

They took their spot, shoulder to shoulder. Cece straightened her blazer, Mallory brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. The winter air nipped just enough to turn their cheeks pink.

As Carla fussed with the camera settings, Mallory suddenly looked down at her hand, then quietly slipped her engagement ring off.

Cece noticed immediately, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?” she whispered, voice low enough not to carry.

Mallory hesitated, spinning the ring in her fingers. “I don’t want it to look tacky in the pictures. It’s shiny, it’ll glare.”

Cece raised a brow. “You wear contacts that glare more than that ring.”

Mallory smiled, small and unsure. “Besides, Simon’s not here, so… it doesn’t matter.”

Cece looked at her for a long moment. There was a time she would’ve argued harder, would’ve called her out for hiding something so obvious, but now her voice came out quieter than she expected.

“You should keep it on,” she said finally. “It’s something to be proud of.”

Mallory glanced down at the ring in her fingers, then back up at Cece. For a second, the world seemed to shrink to just that small space between them, the warmth of Mallory’s breath in the December air, the faint smell of cocoa and dog fur hanging off their coats, the noise of everyone else fading into the background.

Mallory’s lips curved slightly. Not in mockery, not in that practiced smile she gave Simon at fancy dinners, but in something smaller, sadder. More real.

“I hate gold,” she said simply.

Cece blinked.

Mallory was smiling, just barely, her eyes catching Cece’s for a heartbeat before she turned toward the camera again, slipping the ring quietly into her coat pocket.

Cece didn’t say anything this time.

Carla’s voice broke through the stillness, bright and commanding. “Alright, everybody! Say cheese!”

The group stirred, laughter and chatter snapping back to life like someone had turned up the volume on a familiar song. Jess right beside Michelle, who just had to straighten Carla’s scarf, muttering something about her hair. Kate in the middle of them. Jan wrapped an arm around Ella’s shoulders as she wrangled Sarge into position, the dog’s tail wagging furiously. Brando leaned his head against Wilson’s, the two of them whispering something that made Sunny bark.

And there, in the middle, Cece stood beside Mallory, shoulders barely touching, their reflections faint in the frosted window behind the tripod.

Mallory tilted her chin up toward the camera, that soft, practiced smile returning just in time for the click. The flash caught the shine in her hair, the hint of sadness in her eyes, the smallest, most beautiful defiance in the way she chose not to wear the ring.

Cece didn’t look straight ahead. She turned slightly toward Mallory instead, watching the corners of her smile lift.

Then, at the last possible second, Cece looked forward, smiling just enough for it to count, just enough for Carla to clap and say, “Perfect!”

“Scrapbook worthy,” Michelle added with a grin.

Carla laughed. “The scrapbook that never ends.”

Cece’s lips twitched. She could already picture it: this frozen little moment joining the dozens before it, tucked somewhere between Their high school graduation and Wilson’s first Christmas.

A still frame where everything looked happy. Where no one could see what lingered just outside the shot, half-truths, old flames, unsent words, and gold rings tucked quietly away.

Mallory looked over her shoulder then, catching Cece’s gaze one more time.

“Perfect,” she mouthed, teasing.

Cece smiled faintly. “Yeah,” she whispered back. “Perfect.”

And when the second flash went off, both of them were still smiling, just for the camera, and maybe, just a little, for each other.

Cece’s pager buzzed once, twice, insistent against her hip.

She glanced down at the glowing numbers, her brow furrowing.

“Everything okay?” Ella asked, adjusting her scarf as she tried to keep Sarge from diving face-first into the mud again.

Cece nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, yeah, just work. I’ll be right back.”

 

Wilson called after her as she stepped toward the house. “Hey, no business calls on family day!”

She lifted a hand in mock surrender. “I’m just calling them to yell at them for calling me!”

The house was warm when she slipped back inside, quieter than the yard full of laughter and chaos outside. The faint hum of the heater filled the silence as she crossed to the phone hanging by the kitchen wall and dialed her office.

It rang twice before a familiar voice answered, bright and chipper despite the hour. “Navarro & Co., this is Tessa at the front desk!”

“Tess, hey,” Cece said, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she glanced out the window. “Can you put me through to Matt? He paged me.”

There was a pause, the sound of clicking keys. “You got it, Cee. He’s just finishing up on another line, hold, please!”

The soft instrumental hold music filled the air, far too calm for her racing thoughts.

Then, finally,

“Cece! Hey, sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”

“Matt, it’s fine,” she said, though her tone betrayed mild amusement. “You paged me. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, well, depends how you look at it.” She could hear the rustle of papers through the receiver. “So remember when you told me to let you know if any more babies ended up at the adoption agency my wife works for?”

Cece blinked, straightening. “Yeah…”

“Well,” he said, a bit of nervous laughter spilling into his words, “there was just a girl dropped off there. Like, an actual baby. My wife said she can’t be older than one. Maybe ten months tops.”

Cece’s heart skipped. “A baby?”

“Yeah.” Matt exhaled heavily. “She came in this morning. No name, no note, nothing. Just a blanket and stuffed lion.’ My wife’s keeping her comfortable until they can move her to a foster placement Monday.”

Cece pressed a hand to her chest. “God.” She paused, voice softening. “Can you even be telling me this?”

Matt laughed nervously. “Definitely not. But I know you, Cece. You said to call if something came up, and you sounded like you meant it.”

Cece nodded to herself, even though he couldn’t see her. “I did.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“So…” he asked carefully, “you know someone who wants a baby or something?”

Cece turned toward the kitchen window. Outside, the laughter carried through the glass, muffled but bright.

She saw Wilson and Brando in the yard, both kneeling as Sunny bounded between them. Brando reached out, scooping Wilson up over his shoulder playfully, and everyone around them burst into laughter, Ella with her hand over her mouth, Carla pretending to scold them, Mallory’s smile soft and fond, Jan shaking her head.

It was ridiculous, it was loud, it was home.

Cece’s throat went tight.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, still watching them. “I know the perfect people.”

Matt’s tone brightened. “You sure? I can tell my wife to flag the file before it gets moved through the system.”

Cece smiled faintly, voice steady now. “Do it. I’ll take care of the rest.”

They said their goodbyes, and she hung up the phone, hand lingering on the receiver for a moment longer than needed.

Her reflection stared back at her in the windowpane, tired, maybe, but sure. She reached for her coat draped over the back of a chair and slipped it on, pushing open the screen door.

Outside, the air was cool and golden with the late afternoon sun.

“Everything good?” Brando called from the yard, Sunny tucked under one arm like a toddler.

Cece smiled. “Better than good.”

Ella tilted her head. “What’d work want this time? Another million-dollar lawsuit?”

Cece laughed softly, walking down the steps to them. “Something like that.”

Mallory raised a brow. “You look like you just solved world peace.”

Cece glanced around at all of them, her found family, the people who’d built something solid out of so much brokenness. She exhaled, eyes soft.

“Maybe not world peace,” she said, “but something that’s gonna make this Christmas… really special.”

“Yeah?” Wilson asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” Cece said simply, slipping her hands into her coat pockets as she looked at the two men in front of her, their smiles, their home, the life they’d built.

And under her breath, she added, almost to herself,

“I think I just found someone who’s gonna change everything.”

Sunny barked once, tail wagging.

And Cece, for once, didn’t feel like she was lying when she said it.

Chapter Text

INTRODUCING THE NEWEST MEMBERS OF THE COLLECTIVE!!! (from 89-06)

 

 

naomi reyes (portrayed by rachel zegler) joined the texas art collective in 1989 at 19, quickly establishing herself as one of the group’s most expressive young painters. raised in kingsville, texas, reyes developed an early passion for portraiture, drawing influence from family photographs, border-town life, and the emotional storytelling traditions of south texas. her work, known for its vivid color palettes and raw vulnerability, often explores themes of identity, memory, and inheritance.

since joining the collective, reyes has become known for her bold brushwork and ability to capture human expression with striking authenticity. her pieces have been featured in several texas showcases and independent galleries, earning her recognition as an emerging voice in contemporary southwestern art. in addition to her painting, reyes frequently collaborates with collective members on mixed-media installations, where her intuitive approach to color and texture adds emotional depth to group projects.

now 36, she’s a veteran member of the collective, reyes continues to exhibit across the state while serving as a mentor to newer artists, bringing a dynamic and deeply personal sensibility to the collective’s evolving body of work.

 

 

 

miles elkin (portrayed by nico hiraga) joined the texas art collective in 1994 at 22, bringing with him a kinetic, street-influenced style shaped by his upbringing in corpus christi, texas. originally a skateboarder with a habit of spray-painting the sides of abandoned buildings, elkin transitioned into mixed-media work during community college, blending graphic design, collage, and graffiti elements into bold visual narratives.

his pieces, known for their sharp edges, layered textures, and vibrant, almost chaotic energy, quickly caught the attention of the collective’s founders. elkin’s work often explores themes of youth culture, movement, and rebellion, using unconventional materials like cardboard, newsprint, and found street objects. since joining, he has become the collective’s most experimental voice, frequently collaborating on large-scale installations and interactive pop-up exhibits.

now at 34, he is recognized for his restless creativity, elkin continues to show across texas and the west coast, contributing a modern, urban edge to the collective’s ever-expanding artistic identity.

 

 

dani patel (portrayed by maitreyi ramakrishnan) joined the texas art collective in 1997 at 24, bringing a vivid, emotionally charged style shaped by her upbringing in sugar land, texas. patel’s work blends bold color palettes with delicate linework, often incorporating south asian motifs, archival family imagery, and narrative symbolism that reflects themes of heritage, identity, and girlhood.

her paintings and textile-based pieces gained early attention for their striking use of pattern and story-driven composition, catching the eye of the collective during a university of houston senior exhibition. since joining, patel has become known for her ability to merge cultural tradition with contemporary experimentation, creating work that feels both intimate and expansive.

now 33, patel’s installations and large-scale canvases have been showcased throughout houston’s museum district and at traveling showcases across the southwest, cementing her as one of the collective’s most visually distinctive and emotionally resonant artists.

 

 

river mchale (portrayed by fin argus) joined the collective in 2001 at 20, becoming one of the first members since Gen Carter recruited after the group expanded beyond texas. originally from portland, oregon, mchale grew up surrounded by northwest DIY culture, which heavily shapes his work, moody lighting, experimental mixed media, and a blend of analog photography and sound installations that push the edges of traditional narrative.

self-taught and notoriously restless, mchale’s early pieces, grainy self-portraits layered with recorded audio notes, caught the collective’s attention during a traveling pop-up show in seattle. his work explores themes of shifting identity, found family, and the electric strangeness of adolescence, often blurring the line between visual art and immersive experience.

at just 25, mchale has become known for transforming small, ordinary spaces into dreamlike environments, earning recognition for his innovative cross-genre approach and becoming one of the collective’s most experimental voices.

 

 

lila serrona (portrayed by quintessa swindell) joined the collective in 2006 at 21, becoming one of the first international artists added after the group expanded beyond texas. born in galway, ireland, serrona grew up surrounded by street musicians, maritime folklore, and rain-soaked color, elements that spill into their textured, dreamlike mixed-media work.

their art blends ink, charcoal, and layered collage with recurring motifs of water, memory, and displacement. serrona moved to the U.S. at 18 to attend an arts program in chicago, where a visiting curator connected them to the collective’s submission process.

outgoing, charismatic, and impossible to ignore, serrona thrives in big groups and jumps into conversations like they’ve been part of the family for years. they bring a spark the collective didn’t know it was missing, bold ideas, fearless experimentation, and a habit of saying exactly what they mean.

 

 

june harrison (portrayed by lola tung) joined the collective in 2006 at 21, becoming one of the newest and brightest additions during its modern expansion. originally from pasadena, california, harrison grew up surrounded by west-coast art museums, film students, and sun-drenched neighborhood galleries that shaped her soft, cinematic visual style.

her work focuses on intimate portraiture and muted, nostalgic color palettes, pieces that feel like they were pulled from forgotten home videos or a dream you half-remember. harrison was discovered after her short-run gallery debut in los angeles drew unexpected buzz, leading to an invitation from wilson webber himself to visit the collective for a trial residency.

thoughtful, intuitive, and quietly observant, harrison quickly became known for the emotional clarity of her portraits and her ability to capture small, honest moments in their rawest form.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

The Southern Spoon Café was the kind of place where you couldn’t hear yourself think, perfect for a group as big and unhinged as the Collective plus the honorary members who’d flown in just to support Wilson.

 

Cece and Mallory had arrived that morning, still jet-lagged but buzzing. Lydia, Gen, Marsha, Delilah, Preston, Miles, Dani, River, June, and Lila were crowded around two tables pushed together, drinks sweating on the wood, menus scattered everywhere.

 

And right in the middle sat Wilson Webber, curly hair a little too long,  jacket sleeves pushed up, sketchbook tucked by his thigh. He looked happy. Nervous. Hyper-focused. Distracted.

 

Mostly distracted.

 

Because somewhere in Texas, Brando Copeland-Webber was probably making Rose waffles or teaching her how to fix something that didn’t actually need fixing.

 

And Wilson missed him.

 

So much it made his throat tight.

 

But he hid it well. He always had.

 

Cece Navarro, however, was not hiding anything.

 

She was in full lawyer-storytelling mode.

 

“So then I look him dead in the eyes,” she said, stabbing her fork toward the ceiling, “and I say, ‘Sir, with all due respect, which is none, you cannot cite precedent you don’t even understand.’”

 

Mallory covered her smile with her napkin. “You left out the part where he cried, Cee.”

 

“Because that part was embarrassing,” Cece argued. “For him. Not me.”

 

Across from them, River let out a loud laugh. “Damn. Remind me to never accidentally get sued by a dentist’s daughter.”

 

“That’s assuming you’d survive the dental bill,” Dani added, sipping her sweet tea.

 

Lila nearly choked on their Coke. “Jesus. She’s terrifying.”

 

“Thank you,” Cece said sweetly.

 

June Harrison watched all of them with wide eyes, equal parts awe and horror. “This is genuinely the coolest lunch I’ve ever been to and also the most stressful.”

 

Gen patted her shoulder. “That’s normal.”

 

Preston raised his glass. “To stress.”

 

Delilah clinked hers with it. “To chaos.”

 

Miles elbowed Wilson lightly. “You’re quiet. Sketching?”

 

“No,” Wilson said, too quick. He closed the sketchbook halfway under the placemat.

 

“Missing your husband,” Lydia said without even glancing up from her tequila sunrise.

 

Wilson blinked. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“You didn’t have to,” Marsha teased. “You’re active very ‘wistful widow’ energy..”

 

He groaned, hiding his face. “Can y’all bully someone else? Dani looks very bully-able today.”

 

“Hey,” Dani objected.

 

Cece pointed her straw at him. “I’m allowed to bully you. You’re my oldest friend.”

 

Mallory squeezed Cece’s knee under the table, giving her a look that said: Be nice.

 

Cece softened instantly.

 

Across the table, River leaned on their elbows. “So. Big expo. Big panel. Nervous?”

 

“A little,” Wilson admitted, pushing around his fries. “Bran always helps me practice the night before. He, uh… does the fake Q&A thing.”

 

Lila grinned. “Bet he asks the dumbest questions.”

 

“You don’t even know,” Wilson murmured, smiling into his plate. “Last time he asked me if paint ever gets jealous of other paint.”

 

Everyone groaned.

 

Everyone.

 

Even Cece.

 

“That man is an idiot,” Mallory said fondly.

 

“Yeah,” Cece agreed. “But he’s our idiot.”

 

Wilson’s ears turned red. “Okay, can we please talk about someone else?”

 

Lydia snapped her fingers. “Yes. We need to decide on the running order for tonight’s warm-up show.”

 

“Oh right,” Marsha said. “The newbie showcase.”

 

Gen nodded toward the younger side of the table. “June, Lila, River, you three are up first. Dani, you’re assisting.”

 

Miles leaned back. “I’m moral support. And hydration support. And comedic relief.”

 

Cece whispered to Mallory, “He’s the comedy?”

 

Mallory snickered.

 

Plates began arriving, fries, burgers, giant salads, quesadillas, and whatever monstrosity River pointed at without reading the description.

 

Wilson looked around the table, his found family, all of them laughing, eating, leaning over each other’s plates, arguing, teasing, telling stories.

 

He didn’t know it, but this was the last completely normal moment he’d have before the universe tapped him on the shoulder.

 

Because somewhere in a Nashville sorting center, a priority envelope with his name on it, written in Brando’s handwriting from twenty-four years ago, was about to land in the “ready for delivery” bin.

 

And it was going to change him.

 

Lydia had just finished telling Naomi to stop feeding the restaurant’s stray cat when June scooted her chair closer, chin on her hand, beaming like she had a secret she was absolutely about to weaponize.

 

“Lyyyyyydiaaa,” she drawled, kicking her heel against the chair leg. “Tell me the story again. The one about your first time meeting everyone from Laredo.”

 

The table groaned collectively.

 

“Oh my God, June,” Preston muttered, dropping his fork. “She tells this story like twice a month.”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” June said sweetly. Then she grinned at Lydia again. “Please? The way you tell it is funny.”

 

Lydia smirked, leaning back like she was settling into a couch instead of a chair. “Alright. But only because you’re new and easily entertained. Everyone else can tune out.”

 

Dani actually clapped. Miles handed her his iced tea like this was storytime at summer camp. River leaned in. Lila kicked their boot onto the seat across from them, interested.

 

Cece rolled her eyes but she was already smiling. Mallory rested her chin on her palm, lazy-soft, because she loved this story and pretended she didn’t. Wilson looked up from his fries. Gen mouthed “here we go.” Marsha just stirred her coffee like she’d aged twenty years since 1986.

 

Lydia took a dramatic inhale.

 

“So. Picture this. 1986. I’m twenty-two. My hair is flawless-”

 

“It wasn’t,” Marsha said without even glancing up.

 

“And I’m minding my own business in Texas,” Lydia continued loudly, “when my little cousin drags me to this tiny community gallery that smells like old wood and sadness.”

 

“That’s accurate,” Mallory whispered.

 

“And I walk in,” Lydia went on, “and the first thing I see is this out of place group of kids from Laredo-”

 

Cece perked up immediately. “We were not out of place!”

 

“You literally knocked into a display case,” Lydia said.

 

“That case was in my way.”

 

Gen nodded. “She still does that.”

 

“And then,” Lydia continued, pointing her straw at Cece, “this girl, this tiny little lawyer, starts arguing with the gallery owner about ethics. ETHICS. In an art room. Covered in like three thousand flyers.”

 

Cece grinned, smug. “He was being shady! And he tried to charge that family twice.”

 

“He was also seventy-five years old and hard of hearing,” Marsha deadpanned.

 

Lydia ignored her. “So I’m standing there thinking, wow, okay, I guess the debate team has arrived, and then,” she pointed toward Wilson, “I see this kid in the corner. And he’s holding a portfolio like it’s a bomb. Sweating. Literally sweating.”

 

Wilson’s entire soul left his body. “It was hot! They didn’t have AC!”

 

“It was March,” Lydia said.

 

“And you didn’t help,” Wilson shot back.

 

“No,” Lydia said, completely unapologetic. “Because all I could think was, ‘Why does this boy look like he’s about to cry over a watercolor of a pecan tree?’”

 

Cece muttered, “He still does that.”

 

Wilson threw a napkin at her.

 

“Anyway,” Lydia said, waving her hand like she was shooing spirits, “I walk over, right? And I look at his stuff. And I’m like… hm. Hm. Who the hell is this? Because he’s drawing like someone twice his age with four heartbreaks and a mortgage.”

 

Mallory snorted into her drink. Marsha hid a smile behind her coffee.

 

“So,” Lydia said, “I say something helpful, something encouraging, obviously-”

 

“You said, and I quote,” Gen recited, “‘your lines look like someone who overthinks but doesn’t know how to let it ruin him yet.’”

 

Everyone turned.

 

June gasped, delighted. “Lydiaaaa.”

 

“And then,” Lydia said, leaning in, lowering her voice, “I realize this whole group is some kind of found-family circus act. I’ve got Lawyer Barbie, Shy Watercolor Boy, Off-Duty Therapist”, she pointed at Mallory, “Clingy over protective boyfriend, Ella Sinclair snapping Polaroids like she’s the paparazzi.”

 

Mallory smiled at the table. “God, that camera…”

 

“And in the middle of all that chaos,” Lydia said, softer now, “I thought… damn. These kids love each other.”

 

The table went quiet.

 

Cece’s smile softened.

 

Mallory’s shoulders relaxed.

 

Wilson’s jaw trembled for half a second.

 

“And I knew,” Lydia said, shrugging like it wasn’t sentimental at all, “that if one of them ever wanted in… we’d be lucky to have them.”

 

June grinned so wide her eyes crinkled. “I love this story.”

 

Miles wiped an imaginary tear. “I’m emotionally changed.”

 

Lila handed June a fry. “Tell her to tell it again later.”

 

June nodded enthusiastically. “At dinner.”

 

Lydia checked her watch, eyes widening. “Speaking of dinner, if we don’t leave now, we’re going to miss the panel entirely. And then I’ll be too pissed off to eat.” 

 

A collective groan rose around the table.

 

Preston dropped his head onto his folded arms. “I just sat down.”

 

Delilah nudged him. “And you’ll sit again. In a chair. Onstage. In front of several hundred people.”

 

Marsha finished the last sip of her iced tea. “Comforting, as always.”

 

Across the table, June was suddenly quiet. She had been vibrant and chatty moments before, but now her fingers twisted the paper napkin in her lap. Lila, beside her, wasn’t much better, she kept smoothing her shirt, then her skirt, then her shirt again, as if either could change in the next few minutes.

 

Wilson noticed immediately.

 

He always did.

 

He pushed back his chair and stood, stretching casually, as if the tension hadn’t shifted at all.

 

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

 

Everyone rose around him, gathering bags and receipts, but June lingered near her seat, chewing on her thumbnail. When she finally stepped toward the door, she nearly collided with Wilson.

 

“Hey,” he said quietly, steadying her shoulder with a gentle hand. “You’re alright.”

 

June swallowed. “I know. I just… this is a lot. The lights, the people. I’ve been to panels, but I’ve never been on one. Not like this. Not with all of you.”

 

From behind them, Lila pretended to examine a poster on the wall, but their foot tapped nervously against the tile.

 

Wilson softened. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t ready.”

 

June shook her head. “But it’s different for you. You’ve been doing this for twenty years.”

 

A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t terrifying the first time.”

 

She looked up at him.

 

“When did it stop being scary?”

 

He thought for a moment. The sounds of the others heading for the exit drifted from the front of the restaurant, chairs scraping, Lydia corralling everyone like a patient older sister.

 

“It never fully stops,” Wilson said. “But it gets easier when you remember you’re not doing it alone.”

 

June nodded once, eyes shining with something like relief.

 

Wilson reached out and straightened the strap of her bag. “And if you freeze up, just look for me. I’ll be right there.”

 

Lila joined them then, arms folded loosely as they tried for a casual tone. “Do I get the same pep talk, or is that reserved?”

 

Wilson glanced at them, amused. “Do you need one?”

 

Lila hesitated, long enough to answer the question.

 

He nudged their shoulder. “Then yes. You’re going to be fine. You belong here.”

 

Lila looked away, but a small smile tugged at their mouth.

 

Miles called from the door, “Are we going or what? Lydia’s threatening to leave us.”

 

Lydia added, “Not threatening. Promising.”

 

“Come on,” Wilson said, guiding June and Lila toward the exit. “Let’s go make a good first impression.”

 

June exhaled, steady. Lila rolled their shoulders back. And the three of them stepped out into the Tennessee heat together, one veteran, two newcomers, all heading toward the same bright, overwhelming stage.

 

They spilled out onto Broadway like a mismatched parade, artists, lawyers, therapists, Texans, newcomers, blending into the neon and heat and the sound of a pedal steel drifting from a bar doorway.

 

Cece was the first to latch onto the music.

 

She tilted her head, pinched fingers snapping along to the beat. “Oh, this is good,” she said, swaying like she couldn’t help it. “ Carrie Underwood is good.”

 

Mallory laughed. “Of course you like this.”

 

“I’m a woman of taste,” Cece insisted.

 

River looked around at the boots, the hats, the rhinestone shirts on tourists who absolutely did not own horses. “Should we be getting cowboy boots or something?” he asked. “You know. To blend in.”

 

Miles snorted. “Aren’t, like, all of you already from Texas? Besides me, Lila, Gen, and June? You people already have cowboy boots, don’t you?”

 

Cece scoffed so dramatically she nearly dropped her purse. “I would never.”

 

Wilson laughed quietly beside her, hands in his pockets. “Your mom’s photos on her mantle say different.”

 

Cece froze mid-step. “I was two,” she said, offended. “And they had glitter stars on them. They were forced on me.”

 

Lila, perched lightly between Delilah and Marsha, grinned. “We should get some. I want something obnoxious. Like gold.”

 

“Absolutely not,” June said, though she smiled, linking her arm with Lila’s. “You’d never take them off.”

 

“Oh, I absolutely wouldn’t.”

 

Gen slid between them, walking backward to face the group. “You know, we could go hit a bar later. Like we did back in ’03.”

 

Lydia groaned instantly, covering her face with both hands. “Don’t say Nashville ‘03 ever again. I’m still recovering.”

 

June grinned. “What happened in 2003?”

 

Delilah nudged Wilson. “You tell it.”

 

He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

 

But Lydia was already pointing a finger at him. “Wilson Webber, you remember what happened when Ella flew in halfway through the trip.”

 

Cece wheezed before she could stop herself. “Oh no-”

 

Miles perked up. “Storytime?”

 

Lydia continued, ignoring Wilson’s warning stare. “She showed up at midnight, in a denim skirt and cowboy hat, said she was ready to ‘experience culture.’”

 

River laughed. “That sounds right.”

 

“She got us kicked out of four bars that night,” Lydia said, holding up four fingers.

 

“Four,” Delilah emphasized, proud. “The last one because she tried to-”

 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wilson cut in, glaring at her.

 

Janice wasn’t there, but Cece mimicked her perfectly, lowering her voice into Jan’s stern, patient tone: “‘Ella Jade Sinclair, if you don’t march yourself back to that hotel this instant, I’m flying you home to Laredo myself.’”

 

Mallory doubled over laughing. “God, I miss them.”

 

Lila tilted her head. “Where are they, anyway? You all talk about them like they’re mythical creatures.”

 

Cece barked out a laugh. “Oh, the happy couple is in Aruba. Doing a whole conference for people who broke up and got back together.”

 

She waved her hand dramatically. “What was that keynote Ella made called?”

 

Mallory tapped her chin, pretending to think. “Hmm… ‘To Leave or Not to Leave.’”

 

Miles nearly choked on his sweet tea.

 

Before anyone could recover, the bar beside them switched tracks, soft twang floating into the street, the unmistakable opening guitar of The Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces.”

 

Mallory stopped walking, a grin blooming across her face as she turned to Wilson. “Oh, Will. You love them.”

 

Wilson’s eyes softened in that very specific way they only did whenever someone pulled a memory straight out of the box he kept labeled too sentimental to open casually.

 

Mallory continued, nudging him lightly. “Remember when we took Kate to see them back in 2000? College Station?”

 

Cece gasped. “Oh my god, yes.”

 

Mallory pointed at Wilson. “You and Brando danced to this song in the damn lawn.”

 

“That was Brando’s idea,” Wilson said quickly, but the tips of his ears were already turning pink.

 

Cece snorted. “You didn’t exactly fight him on it.”

 

“And meanwhile,” Mallory went on, warming to the memory, “your mom and Cece were crawling behind a row of folding chairs trying to sneak up to the front for, who was it again?”

 

Cece sighed like it was yesterday. “Martie. Obviously. I needed that autograph.”

 

Miles blinked. “You went undercover?”

 

“We had a strategy,” Cece said simply.

 

Lydia smothered a laugh. “I remember this story. You two got caught immediately.”

 

“In the first thirty seconds,” Mallory confirmed. “Security guard asked if Carla needed medical attention because she was crouched so low.”

 

Delilah leaned into Dani, shaking her head. “This whole group is a sitcom.”

 

Then Wilson, quiet, nostalgic, looked up at the bar window where the song played, and for a moment he wasn’t the veteran artist, wasn’t the panelist, wasn’t the mentor.

 

He was barefoot in the Houston grass, Brando Copeland spinning him under lights that looked like stars.

 

He blinked it away, smiling faintly.

 

“Kate still talks about that concert,” he said. “She told Rose it was the first time she ever saw people be completely themselves.”

 

Cece bumped his shoulder. “Well, the Copeland-Webber boys have that effect.”

 

And the group pushed forward again, Broadway buzzing around them, “Wide Open Spaces” drifting behind them, stitched into the memory like a secret no one had to spell out.

 

They finally reached the Ryman’s brick steps, the late-afternoon sun catching on the stained-glass windows like something out of a postcard. The line wrapped around the block, fans, students, tourists, people who had no idea who they were but wanted to see something in Nashville.

 

Cece stretched her neck to peer up at the marquee, hand shading her eyes. “Well, this is dramatic.”

 

Mallory nudged her. “You love dramatic.”

 

Cece waved her hand. “I tolerate dramatic.”

 

Marsha, flipping through the clipboard that might as well have been welded to her hand, didn’t even look up. “Front row seats are secured. I am absolutely not fighting a crowd of songwriting majors for leg room.”

 

Lydia snorted. “You’re not fighting anybody. You’re sitting with the tourists.”

 

Cece clutched her chest. “Please. I’ll be with the donors.”

 

She straightened her sweater. “I, Mallory, and Marsha will be front row, cheering or heckling, depending on performance.”

 

Mallory turned to Wilson just as Lydia started shooing them toward the entrance. She squeezed his hand, warm and familiar, still the same Mallory she’d been since they were teenagers.

 

“Love you, Picasso,” she said softly.

 

Wilson smiled. “Love you too, Navarro & Co.”

 

Mallory rolled her eyes but her grin gave her away.

 

The three women headed toward the main entrance, Marsha already adjusting her press badge, Cece mumbling something about “If they ask for donations again, I’m pretending to be asleep,” and Mallory calling back, “Do not let June pass out.”

 

Inside the line, DanI elbowed June gently. “You okay? Breathing? Conscious?”

 

June nodded, though her shoulders were still tight, hands fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “I’m fine. It’s just… the Ryman. And the crowd. And the part where I have to speak.”

 

River leaned toward Lila. “I felt like that at my first showcase too. Then I realized nobody was listening.”

 

Lila shrugged. “I already assumed that. Very freeing.”

 

Just then, Lydia was talking to a security guard outside the side entrance. “Yes, panelists. We’re with the Collective.”

 

The guard, expression flat but polite, held the door. “We got you. Follow me.”

 

As they stepped inside the cool, dim hallway backstage, the noise from the crowd softened behind them. Dusty stage lights glowed overhead. Posters from decades of performances lined the walls. The hum of pre-show nerves vibrated in the air.

 

June slowed, folding into herself again.

 

Wilson noticed immediately.

 

He fell into step beside her, lowering his voice. “Hey.”

 

She looked up, eyes wide.

 

“You’ll be fine.”

 

June exhaled shakily. “I just keep thinking about saying something stupid.”

 

“You probably will,” Wilson said gently. “We all do. That’s the beauty of panels. People tend to focus on the older artists anyway. Lydia will go on a tangent about the 90s, Preston will talk about saving a failing gallery, Gen will rant about marketing, Delilah will cry about creativity-”

 

“Hey,” Delilah muttered behind them.

 

“And,” Wilson continued, “you’ll chime in with something that surprises everyone. Because that’s what you do.”

 

June blinked, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe.”

 

“Definitely.”

 

Lila nodded solemnly from behind her. “I’ll faint first, so the attention is not on you.”

 

June laughed, shoulders loosening.

 

Wilson gestured toward the stairs leading up to the wings of the stage.

 

And together, June steadier, Lila amused, Gen already adjusting her notes, the Collective stepped into the heart of the Ryman, ready to tell the story of who they’d been and who they were still becoming.

 

The house lights dimmed, the crowd settling in with the soft rustle of programs and shifting seats. Backstage, the Collective stood in a loose line, the order they’d been given scrawled on the whiteboard beside the curtain.

 

Wilson glanced down at June, who was twisting her bracelet.

 

“Breathe,” he whispered.

 

She nodded, once, quick, but her foot kept tapping.

 

Then the announcer stepped up to the mic.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Collective, co-founded by Lydia Palmer and Genevieve Carter!”

 

A wave of applause rolled through the Ryman.

 

Lydia strode out first, chin high, hands in her pockets, her usual unbothered stride.

 

Gen followed with a soft smile, giving a gracious nod to the audience as they took their seats.

 

“And now, joining them, Preston Hale!”

 

Preston jogged out, grin wide, waving like he was greeting old friends.

 

“Delilah Tran!”

 

Delilah did a tiny bow before sitting, already emotional.

 

“Wilson Copeland-Webber!”

 

Wilson walked out to warm applause, cameras flashing. He caught Cece’s eye in the front row, she lifted her wine-free hot chocolate like a toast. He shook his head, fighting a smile.

 

“Naomi Reyes!”

 

Naomi entered with a quiet confidence, offering a small wave.

 

“Miles Elkin!”

 

Miles did a peace sign. Of course.

 

“Dani Patel!”

 

Dani strode out, poised, tapping her pen against her notebook.

 

“River McHale!”

 

River flashed a grin so charming a girl in row three audibly swooned.

 

“Lila Serrona!”

 

Lila popped out like a firework, waving both hands and blowing a kiss into the crowd.

 

“And June Harrison!”

 

June’s breath hitched as she stepped out, but Wilson murmured “Come on,” and she did, lifting her hand in a shy wave as the applause swelled.

 

The announcer took a breath, reading the last line off his card, 

 

“And the Collective is under the management of Marsha Palmer.”

 

Marsha, sitting front row beside Cece and Mallory, lifted her clipboard like a chalice. A few chuckles rippled through the crowd.

 

“And…uh… represented by Cecelia Navarro of Navarro and Co.”

 

He sounded like he wasn’t sure why he was saying it, but Cece did not hesitate.

 

She lifted her hand in a full princess wave, slow wrist, perfect posture, smirking at the crowd like she’d been waiting all year for this moment.

 

Lydia, sitting onstage, dropped her head into her hand with the most tired groan imaginable.

 

Wilson bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

 

Gen leaned into her mic and, without missing a beat, said warmly, 

 

“She’s a good lawyer, ladies and gentlemen.”

 

Cece beamed, mouthing, thank you, sweetheart, like the stage lights were actually for her.

 

The audience laughed, the tension broke, and the panel began, June breathing easier beside Wilson, the Collective settling in, Nashville humming around them like something big was about to start.

 

The moderator scanned the audience, pointing toward a man halfway back.

 

“Yes, blue shirt, second row of the balcony. Go ahead.”

 

He cleared his throat. “This is for Genevieve, could you talk about the Collective showcase in New York back in September of ’86? People still talk about that one.”

 

Gen laughed immediately, the sound warm and a little self-deprecating.

 

“Oh, that one was a mess and a miracle. I loved it. We sold a lot of work that night. And-” she tipped her head toward Wilson, “this one had just turned 21 about… what, a month earlier?”

 

Wilson nodded. “Thirty days. Exactly. I counted.”

 

Gen grinned. “He was very proud of that.”

 

Wilson leaned toward his mic. “It was a great night. But I know a certain lawyer who still refuses to step foot in SoHo.”

 

From the front row, Cece lifted her hot chocolate like a toast and called, loud enough for the mics to catch, 

 

“Blame your cousin for that one!”

 

Lydia snorted. Marsha and Gen exchanged looks before raising their water bottles in a unanimous salute. Delilah followed suit.

 

The crowd laughed, even though none of them had any context whatsoever.

 

Wilson said, “One day we’ll tell that story,” and Lydia muttered, “No we won’t,” into her mic.

 

Another hand shot up.

 

“Yes, ma’am in the red scarf,” the moderator said.

 

She smiled brightly. “Wilson, your recent piece featured in the Museum of American Art in Chicago… how does that feel? What was the inspiration?”

 

Wilson blinked, a little sheepish. “It still doesn’t feel real. I’m grateful. The piece was about growing up between places but never outside of yourself. I think a lot of people understand that feeling now. And getting to see it hanging there…”

 

He shook his head softly. “It makes every risk worth it.”

 

Beside him, Dani gave his shoulder a gentle nudge of agreement.

 

The moderator glanced at his card.

 

“Alright, time for the last question.”

 

A young woman in the front row lifted her hand.

 

“This is for June, what was the process of joining the Collective like for you? And… who’s been your biggest mentor so far?”

 

June straightened quickly, surprised she’d been picked.

 

“Oh,um… well, I joined this year, I’m 21, so I’m definitely the newest. Wilson actually reached out to me over email.”

 

She added, “But the group had their eye on me way before that.”

 

Wilson nodded. “We absolutely did.”

 

Dani chimed in, amused, “She just had to go to UCLA first and get some ‘college experience.’ We waited.”

 

June laughed softly. “I guess I did.”

 

“And mentors?” the woman prompted.

 

June looked down the long row of artists she admired.

 

“Honestly? All of them. Lydia for how she leads, Gen for how she listens, Del for how she lets emotion shape her work, Preston for his determination, Dani for her precision, Miles for experimenting without fear, Naomi for how deeply she creates from her own life, River for… whatever River is.”

 

River saluted dramatically.

 

“Charm and pigment,” he said.

 

The audience laughed.

 

“But…” June continued, eyes softening toward Wilson, “if I had to pick one? Wilson. He has literally offered me and Lila his and his husband’s guest home more times than I can count. Even when I already have a hotel in Texas during showcases.”

 

The crowd murmured warmly.

 

“And his husband can cook a really good meal,” June added, grinning.

 

From the front row, Mallory lifted her hot chocolate like a solemn oath.

 

“Amen to that!”

 

Everyone, even Lydia, laughed as the lights warmed across the stage, the Collective gathered together in a single, easy moment of shared history.

 

The panel felt less like an event and more like a family reunion.

 

The moment they stepped offstage and into the wings, the noise of the auditorium softened into a warm hum. Cece, Mallory, and Marsha were already waiting there, arms open, voices loud, smiles wide.

 

“Del, your explanation of that watercolor piece…” Cece started, pulling Delilah into a hug. “I swear, every time you talk about color theory I feel like I need to go back to school.”

 

Delilah laughed, cheeks flushed from the stage lights. “Thank you, Counselor Navarro.”

 

Mallory hooked her arm around Naomi next. “And Naomi, your speech on free expression? Stunning. I almost cried.”

 

Naomi beamed. “Almost? Rude.”

 

Wilson didn’t join in the teasing right away, he went straight to June, arms open.

 

She practically collided with him, hugging tightly.

 

“I told you,” he murmured, swaying her gently. “I told you you’d do fine.”

 

June pulled back, still a little starstruck. “I don’t know about fine-”

 

“You remind me of myself when I was younger,” Wilson cut in, smiling. “Honestly. I was around your age when I joined. Maybe a year older.”

 

Mallory nodded. “Yeah. You were 20. We all drove up to Austin for that gallery debut, remember?”

 

Wilson laughed softly. “I was terrified. So see? You’ve already got one up on me.”

 

June shook her head. “You keep saying I’m like your kid. Don’t you literally have a daughter?”

 

He placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “I do. And she’s perfect. But why can’t I have a work daughter too?”

 

Lydia slung an arm around him, squeezing. “This isn’t work,” she corrected gently. “You know that. This is family.”

 

Gen nodded from behind her. “Some of us were at your wedding, remember?”

 

Lydia, Gen, Preston, Delilah, Marsha, and even Naomi, smiled back at him.

 

Marsha wiped her eye like she wasn’t supposed to cry at a backstage reunion.

 

Delilah pointed at Mallory and Cece. “And we also watched those two”, she wagged her finger, “finally stop all the back and forth and kiss.”

 

Mallory groaned immediately. “You have no idea. No. Idea.”

 

Cece hid her face behind her hand. “It was a moment. Let it rest.”

 

River, who had been waiting impatiently for a pause, threw his hands up.

 

“Okay, okay, enough about love and destiny and all that,” he announced. “Can we please go back to the hotel, change, and hit Broadway already? I need a drink. Preferably one in a boot-shaped glass.”

 

Miles snorted. “You mean you want to collect another boot-shaped glass.”

 

“I’m building a set,” River said, like it was obvious.

 

The group burst into collective laughter, a loud, lopsided chorus filling the backstage hall.

 

Wilson held the door open for everyone, June still beside him, Lila linking her arm through June’s, the older artists gathering behind them like they’d been doing it for decades.

 

Family. Exactly like Lydia said.

 

The lobby doors slid shut behind them, the clatter of voices and boots and laughter echoing through the marble entryway as everyone spilled toward the elevators. Wilson was in the middle of teasing River about his boot-glass collection when the woman at the front desk called out brightly, 

 

“Mr. Copeland-Webber!”

 

The group paused. Wilson blinked, pointing to himself.

 

“Yes, sorry, yeah, that’s me,” he said, giving the others a quick gesture. “Go upstairs. I’ll meet you all back in the lobby in thirty.”

 

Cece saluted him dramatically. Mallory mouthed don’t take too long. June gave him a thumbs-up. And then they were all swept into the elevators, doors closing with a soft metallic sigh.

 

Wilson turned back to the desk.

 

The woman was already holding out a large envelope, cream-colored, stiff, with a bold red-and-blue PRIORITY OVERNIGHT sticker across the top. His name and hotel printed neatly in black ink.

 

“We received this for you earlier this afternoon,” she said. “It was marked urgent.”

 

“Oh, thank you,” he said, taking it carefully. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

 

He wasn’t. Brando hadn’t mentioned mailing anything. Brando hadn’t hinted at anything. And Wilson had definitely not forgotten to pack anything, they’d spent half the morning together making sure he remembered socks, chargers, vitamins, extra glasses.

 

He stepped toward the elevators, eyes dropping to the envelope again.

 

From: Laredo, Texas

 

To: Nashville, Tennessee

 

His handwriting? No. Brando’s.

 

Wilson swallowed.

 

Brando never used priority overnight. He barely used regular mail.

 

A quiet, strange feeling pricked at the base of Wilson’s spine, something between curiosity and dread and déjà vu he couldn’t name.

 

He pressed the elevator button, envelope in hand.

 

And all he could think was, 

What on earth did Brando need to send me this badly?

 

The envelope in his hand felt like something different entirely.

 

Heavy. Strange. Out of place.

 

He closed the hotel room door behind him, the click echoing in the quiet. For a moment, he stood there, fingers brushing over the priority stamp, the overnight sticker. The looping handwriting of the return address.

 

From Laredo, Texas.

 

From home.

 

From Brando.

 

He set his portfolio bag on the chair, the envelope on the bed. His hands shook, just slightly. Brando called when he needed something. Brando never mailed things. Not overnight. Not urgently.

 

He picked it up again, thumb brushing over the edge. And then he saw it, 

 

The small sticky note attached to the front.

 

‘You really are the only exceptien. PS. Listen to that song.’

 

Wilson let out a small, bewildered laugh. “Oh, Bran… what did you do?”

 

He grabbed his phone, opened iTunes, typed in the title, and downloaded it. The song began softly in the quiet room, guitar warm, voice tender, nostalgic. He’d heard Rose humming it in the car last month, head leaning out the window, hair blowing in the wind.

 

But as the first verse flowed through the speakers, something in his chest tightened, a strange, fragile ache.

 

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

 

And opened the envelope.

 

Inside was another envelope. Old. Yellowed at the edges. His heart stuttered as he ran a finger over the handwriting.

 

 

WILSON MATTHEW WEBBER

July 27, 1982.

 

Wilson stared. The air thinned. His hands began to shake harder now, the old paper trembling in his lap. He smoothed the crease with his thumb, breath caught in his throat.

He opened it.

The paper crackled softly, like something waking up after years of silence.

He began to read.

 

 

Dear Wilson Matthew Webber,

 

Wilson’s throat closed.

 

No one called him by his full name. Not even back then. Except teachers. And Carla or Cece when they were mad at him.

 

He swallowed and kept reading.

 

I don’t really know why I’m writing this. You’ll be gone by the time I work up the guts to send it, and maybe that’s for the best. Yesterday feels like something I dreamed. I keep thinking if I close my eyes hard enough, it’ll play again the same way, the lake, the jump, the song, your laugh. Everything before I messed it up.

 

The room wavered. His vision blurred. He blinked hard, jaw locking.

 

I kissed you. And then I lied to you about what it meant.

 

Wilson’s breath hitched.

 

He remembered that night.

 

He remembered every detail of it, the water cooling on his skin, the cicadas buzzing, Brando’s eyes darting everywhere but him, that impossible, electric moment under the car light. 

 

He remembered thinking he’d imagined all of it when Brando didn’t show the next morning.

 

He kept reading.

 

I told you it was nothing, like it was some stupid experiment. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. And I wanted to tell you this morning. I swear I did. I wanted to show up and say I was sorry and that I meant it. Every bit of it.

 

Wilson pressed his fist against his mouth. His ribs felt too tight, like something inside him was expanding, filling up space that had been empty for years.

 

But my dad saw us.

 

Wilson froze.

 

His eyes traced the sentence again.

 

Again.

 

He’d never read anything so quiet and devastating.

 

Brando had never spoken about his father. Never. In twenty-four years, Wilson could count on one hand the number of times the man had even been mentioned. A ghost. A shadow.

 

His pulse thudded as he read on.

 

He saw us, and he said if I ever went near you again, he’d make sure we both regretted it. You know what he’s like, Will. You’ve seen it. He’s loud and mean and he thinks love is weakness. I thought I could handle him, but last night I believed him. I don’t think he’d just hurt me. I think he’d hurt you too.

 

Wilson shut his eyes.

 

The room seemed to tilt.

 

Because suddenly, every unanswered question from that summer found its answer.

 

Every unanswered call.

 

Every flicker of fear in Brando’s eyes when anything from that year came up.

 

Every fight they’d had in adulthood, Wilson asking why, Brando apologizing but never explaining.

 

It hadn’t been because Brando didn’t care.

 

It had been because he did.

 

He forced his eyes open and kept reading.

 

I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for anymore. For the kiss, for the lie, for being a coward. Cece’s right to hate me. Ella probably is too. But even Cece Navarro couldn’t hate me as much as I hate myself right now.

 

Wilson let out something between a laugh and a sob.

 

God, they had been kids.

 

Tell Carla I said thank you for letting me steal her son every summer. Tell her I tried to be good to him. Tell her I’ll make it right someday.

 

He covered his eyes, fingers trembling hard now. His breath shook in his chest.

 

You deserve better than me. You always have.

But if someday you can forgive me,

if you can even think of me without getting sick,

I hope you’ll remember the lake.

 

His heart twisted.

 

Remember the lake.

 

He had.

 

He always had.

 

Remember the way you laughed when I sang Elton John. I wanted to tell you so badly that you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen in that moment. Because you were. You still are.

 

Wilson’s breath left him in a broken exhale.

 

He pressed his hand to his mouth to keep from crying out.

 

I don’t know if I’ll ever get to say I love you again.

But I do.

Love,

Brando Edward Copeland

 

 

 

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the hotel air conditioning and the quiet, trembling sound of Wilson trying to breathe through the ache pressing against his ribcage.

 

He stared at the letter, eyes burning. The edges blurred again and again. He blinked rapidly but it didn’t stop the tears.

 

He set the page down only because his hands wouldn’t hold it steady anymore.

 

He covered his face with both hands and let the sob escape, soft, sharp, years overdue.

 

Because the truth hit him like a tidal wave.

 

A whole decade and a half of misunderstanding collapsing in on itself.

 

Brando hadn’t abandoned him.

 

He’d been terrified.

 

He’d been protecting him.

 

He’d been so young.

 

And he’d loved him.

 

Even then.

 

Wilson wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, chest still heaving. He reached for the letter again, smoothing the crease, letting his fingers rest on the signature.

 

“Bran…” he whispered, voice cracking. “You should’ve told me.”

 

The song in the background swelled into the last chorus, that soft ache of a voice singing you are the only exception over and over until the words didn’t feel like lyrics anymore, they felt like the truth.

 

Wilson leaned back against the headboard, letter pressed to his chest, hands still shaking.

 

For a long time, he just breathed.

 

Slowly.

 

Quietly.

 

Trying to stitch himself back together.

 

And then, finally, just barely, he smiled.

 

Not because it didn’t hurt.

 

But because he understood now.

 

Because Brando had been a boy in love and afraid.

 

Because they had still found their way back.

 

Because fate had a way of mailing the letters that never got sent.

 

He held the paper tighter.

 

“God, Bran,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I loved you, too. Even then.”

 

The hotel room felt softer somehow, warmer, like the past had finally settled into place instead of lingering like a bruise.

 

He pressed his forehead to his knees, the letter beneath his fingers.

 

And for the first time in twenty-four years, July 1982 stopped hurting.

 

It finally made sense.

 

Wilson wiped the last streak of tears from his cheek, even though more kept threatening to fall. He stared down at the letter again, folded neatly in his lap. His hands still shook, just a little.

 

He reached for his phone.

 

His thumb hovered over Brando’s name in his contacts. He didn’t think. He just pressed call.

 

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

 

Then the voicemail kicked in.

 

Brando’s voice, warm, a little breathless, the same greeting he’d had for a year because he kept refusing to re-record it, filled the room.

 

“Hey, this is Brando. If it’s you, Will…I love you, I’m probably in the garage. If it’s anyone else, I’m probably still in the garage. Leave a message.”

 

Wilson let out a wet laugh. Of course he was in the garage. Probably fixing something that didn’t need fixing, Shania Twain blaring louder than necessary.

 

The voicemail beeped.

 

But Wilson couldn’t speak. Not yet. His throat closed around every word he wanted to say.

 

He hung up.

 

For a moment, he just breathed. Then he opened a new text.

 

He stared at the blinking cursor for longer than he meant to.

 

Then he typed.

 

Wilson: Bran I got the mail. I read it. I’m okay. Just wanted you to know that. Also, you really picked the perfect song for this moment. I don’t know how you always know, but you do. I love you. And I’m coming home soon.

 

He hesitated.

 

Then added, 

 

PS. You spelled “exception” wrong, but I’m choosing to ignore that.

 

He hit send before he could overthink it.

 

He set the phone gently on the nightstand, wiped his face one more time, and stood. He needed to wash up, meet everyone downstairs, pretend he hadn’t just had the emotional unraveling of his adult life in a Nashville hotel.

 

He’d only taken two steps toward the bathroom when, 

 

A soft knock at the door.

 

He froze. “Yeah?”

 

“It’s me,” Mallory called softly.

 

He opened the door.

 

Mallory stood there with her purse over her shoulder, hair half curled, half frizzy from rushing, and a familiar exasperated look on her face.

 

“Do you-” She stopped. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. Why are you crying?”

 

Wilson swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

 

“Oh, that’s exactly what people who are not fine say,” she murmured.

 

Then the music from his phone drifted into the hallway, that soft, earnest chorus, you are the only exception, playing again from the beginning.

 

Mallory’s eyes flicked from Wilson… to the letter resting on the bed… to his red cheeks… back to Wilson.

 

And her whole face softened.

 

“Oh,” she whispered. “You opened it.”

 

He nodded.

 

She didn’t ask what it said. She didn’t need to. They’d all known, Cece, Ella, Jan, her, for decades that something had lodged itself between those two boys in 1982. Something no apology ever fully explained.

 

And now she knew Wilson finally understood the truth.

 

She stepped forward and set a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You know,” she said quietly, “I remember that summer. All of it. That was before Brando would even look at me. And I remember thinking you two were the kind of boys who’d find your way back to each other no matter what tried to pull you apart.” She smiled, warm and a little sad. “Looks like I wasn’t wrong.”

 

Wilson felt emotion swell again, but gently this time.

 

Mallory squeezed his shoulder once, then spotted the small bottle of hand sanitizer on the dresser.

 

“Can I borrow that?” she asked casually, grabbing it before he answered. “River touched every doorknob on Broadway, and I refuse to get sick before Christmas.”

 

She headed for the door, then paused in the doorway.

 

“Oh,” she said softly, turning back to him. “And Will? I’m glad you finally know. It was a hard truth, but it was never an ugly one. Not for you. Not for him.”

 

She smiled, that same small, intuitive, steady smile she’d had since they were teenagers.

 

“I’ll see you in the lobby.”

 

She slipped out, closing the door gently behind her.

 

Wilson stood there for a moment, breathing through the last ache.

 

Then he changed clothes, splashed cold water on his face, and grabbed his coat.

 

He checked his phone before leaving the room.

 

A new message from Brando waited there.

 

His chest tightened as he opened it.

 

Brando: I’m outside washing your bike and listening to Shania, so I missed your call. Don’t panic, I didn’t ruin the paint this time. I’m glad you’re okay. I was scared to send it, but I’m more scared of you never knowing. I love you more than anything, Will. Have fun tonight with everyone. And don’t let Cece buy a real cowboy hat.

PS. That’s how expectien is spelled.

What is that red line under the word? 

 

Wilson laughed, really laughed this time, wiping his eyes again with the heel of his palm.

 

He typed a reply, but he didn’t send it yet.

 

He wanted to sit with the moment just a little longer.

 

He tucked the letter carefully into his sketchbook, grabbed his room key, and headed downstairs.

 

Everything felt lighter now.

 

Clearer.

 

Whole.

 

Like he’d finally been allowed to see the first page of a story he’d been living in his entire life.

 

 

Chapter Text

September 1972

Laredo, Texas

 

 

 

The house was still quiet in that way Saturday mornings sometimes are, like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for someone to give the day permission to start.

 

Carla Webber stood at the stove in her robe and slippers, hair gathered into a messy twist that had started falling apart somewhere around her second cup of coffee. The radio on the counter played low, some Carole King song drifting through the kitchen like sunlight, and she hummed along without really thinking.

 

Behind her, Matt Webber sat at the kitchen table, tie undone around his neck, coffee cooling in front of him. He was in a good mood today, or at least a passable one. The kind that made the house feel not tense, but not exactly relaxed either. Balanced on a beam. Neutral.

 

He skimmed the newspaper, glancing toward the stairs every so often.

 

“Surprised he’s not up yet,” Matt muttered, thumb tracing the edge of the morning headlines.

 

Carla cracked an egg into the skillet. “He was up late drawing again. I told him lights out at eight, but you know how he gets.”

 

That earned the slightest smile from Matt, small but real.

 

“The kid’s got talent,” he said. “I’ll give him that.”

 

Carla turned, spatula in hand, eyebrow lifted. “You gave him that, actually.”

 

Matt huffed a laugh. “Guess so.”

 

It was a rare kind of moment, easy, soft, almost tender. The kind they used to have more often, before the overtime and the travel and the missed dinners. Before the weight settled in their home like Texas heat, constant and exhausting.

 

She set a plate down in front of him.

 

“Eat,” she said gently.

 

He did. For once, he didn’t complain about being rushed, or that the eggs weren’t seasoned enough, or that his coffee was too strong. He just ate.

 

Carla exhaled slowly, let the moment exist without poking at it.

 

She glanced at the clock on the stove.

 

8:20 a.m.

 

Right on schedule.

 

Which meant Matt would be grabbing his suitcase in the next ten minutes, keys in hand, ready to head “down to Austin for work.”

 

Work. Sure.

 

She knew better. She’d known better for a long time. The late nights, the “meetings,” the trips that didn’t line up with his actual schedule, she saw every crack in the story. But she let it sit. For Wilson’s sake. For the sake of the morning. For her own heart that hadn’t realized it was breaking yet.

 

She wiped her palms on her robe and put on a soft smile.

 

“I’m gonna go get him up,” she said lightly. “He’ll want to tell you bye.”

 

Matt nodded, folding his newspaper. “Good idea. I got something for him.”

 

Of course he did.

 

Guilt always came wrapped in shiny paper.

 

Carla didn’t comment. Just gave a small nod and headed toward the stairs, her slippers whispering across the floor.

 

She pushed the door open gently.

 

The curtains were cracked just enough for a thin slice of golden morning light to sneak across the floor. His little room was exactly him, sweet, imaginative, a little chaotic in the corners.

 

A small wooden toy boat sat perched on his dresser, next to a hand-painted sign that read CAPTAIN WILSON in wobbly six-year-old handwriting. His favorite stuffed seal, Mr. Salty, lay facedown on the carpet like he’d washed up on shore. A mobile of paper stars and tiny sailboats hung above the bed, twirling lazily in the draft from the cracked window.

 

His drawings were taped everywhere, crayon oceans, sunbursts, frogs wearing pirate hats, a portrait of Carla that looked more like a potato with eyelashes. She loved every single one.

 

And in the middle of the bed, tangled in blue sheets, lay her whole world.

 

Her baby.

 

Her boy.

 

Wilson was curled on his side, face smushed into the pillow, curls a wild halo around his head. One fist was tucked under his chin, breathing soft and even, the way he had since he was a toddler.

 

Carla’s heart squeezed.

 

She crouched beside him, brushing the curls off his forehead with her fingertips, slow, gentle strokes.

 

“Wake up, Captain Wilson,” she whispered.

 

He stirred immediately and blinked his big brown eyes open, dazed and warm with sleep. And then, instinctively, he reached out, little arms looping around her neck as he pressed his cheek to her shoulder.

 

“Hi, Mama,” he mumbled, voice muffled and soft.

 

Carla melted completely, wrapping him up in her arms and pressing a kiss into his curls.

 

“Good morning, baby.”

 

He smiled sleepily against her shoulder, legs kicking free of the blankets, already waking up in bursts. She helped him sit up, smoothing his hair back, thumb brushing the soft roundness of his cheek.

 

“You wanna go say bye to Daddy before he leaves?” she asked softly.

 

Wilson nodded, still blinking slow, trusting her completely, because she was his safe place, and mornings like this felt like their own small universe.

 

She held out her hand.

 

He took it immediately.

 

And together, they headed downstairs, his tiny footsteps padding beside hers, unaware of the things she swallowed to keep his world soft for just a little longer.

 

Wilson clattered down the last few steps, still half-dressed, socks mismatched, hair sticking up in sleep-soft curls, and the second he spotted Matt standing by the front door, he bolted.

 

“Daddy!”

 

Matt barely had time to set his briefcase down before Wilson launched into him. He caught him easily, lifting him up with a grunt that softened into a smile.

 

“There’s my boy,” he murmured, squeezing him tight.

 

Carla watched from the archway, arms folded loosely, taking in the scene, the bright-eyed excitement on her son’s face, the practiced warmth on her husband’s. Matt smelled like aftershave and travel anxiety. He always did before a “trip.”

 

Beside his feet sat a glossy gift bag.

 

Matt knelt down, setting Wilson gently on his feet. “Got something for you, Captain.”

 

Wilson’s eyes widened as he grabbed the bag with both hands, practically vibrating with excitement. He tore the tissue paper out in a frenzy before freezing in awe.

 

A ship in a bottle.

 

The ship in a bottle.

 

The exact one from the shop window on Main Street, the one Wilson pressed his nose against for fifteen whole minutes, naming imaginary sailors and inventing storms. The one Carla said they’d wait until Christmas for.

 

Carla’s gaze snapped to Matt.

 

That was supposed to be their gift. Something special. Something they’d get together.

 

Matt met her eyes, shrugged lightly, and Carla felt the familiar twist of resentment curl beneath her ribs. But then she looked at Wilson, her son beaming so brightly he could’ve lit the whole living room, and she let it go.

 

For now.

 

“Daddy! Daddy, look!” Wilson held it up proudly. “It’s the same one! The same one from the store!”

 

“I know,” Matt said, ruffling his hair. “Thought you deserved it.”

 

Carla forced a small smile. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart.”

 

Wilson hugged the bottle carefully to his chest before looking up at Matt, expression shifting, the way it always did when good things had shadows.

 

“Do you have to leave?”

 

Matt hesitated just long enough for Carla to notice.

 

“Yeah, buddy,” he finally said, crouching down again. “But only for a few days. I’ll be home next week. In no time.”

 

Wilson nodded, though his shoulders drooped. He stepped back to Carla automatically, leaning lightly into her leg.

 

Matt stood, grabbed his briefcase. “Take care of him,” he said out of habit, intonation warm, but distant.

 

Carla’s jaw tightened. “I always do.”

 

He leaned forward, going for her mouth like he used to. She turned just slightly, so his kiss landed on her cheek instead. A soft flicker of surprise crossed his face, but he covered it quickly.

 

“Bye,” he said, one last look at Wilson.

 

“Bye, Daddy,” Wilson whispered, hugging the bottle tighter.

 

And then Matt stepped out into the morning sun, closing the door behind him.

 

Carla exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

 

Wilson glanced up at her. She brushed his curls back, offering a smile that reached just far enough.

 

“Come on, sailor,” she said softly. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

 

Carla heard crayons tapping, tapping, tapping against the coffee table before the little voice followed.

 

“Mama, look.”

 

She glanced over the top of her paperback, and there he was, Wilson sprawled on his stomach across the carpet, his tongue poking out as he outlined something in bright blue. His curls bounced every time he leaned forward for a new color.

 

He held up the page proudly.

 

It was him and Carla, stick-figure but unmistakable, him with a round head of curls, her with triangle hair and a big smile. Off to the side were three more little stick figures: Cece, Ella, and Brando. They were all holding hands.

 

Matt wasn’t anywhere on the page.

 

Carla tried not to stare at the space where he should’ve been. Tried not to wonder if a six-year-old could feel the absences adults refused to name.

 

“That’s beautiful, baby,” she said softly. “I love the colors.”

 

Wilson beamed and immediately started digging for a green crayon. “This one’s the park! Me an’ Mama are on the swings and Cece is trying to race Ella but she falls every time because she wears the wrong shoes, she says they’re her fashion shoes-”

 

Carla snorted, covering her mouth. “That sounds right.”

 

“And Brando is climbing the big tree, but he only goes halfway ‘cause Mrs. Michelle says he’s gonna break his arm if he goes any higher, but he doesn’t listen, but he does listen if I tell him, ‘cause he says I have good ideas.”

 

Carla’s heart softened at that. The quiet kind of soften that ached.

 

She turned another page of her book she wasn’t really reading, watching him color from the corner of her eye. He never stopped talking, an endless stream of imagination and sunshine, and she loved every bit of it.

 

Then he said something that made her still.

 

“…and this one’s just me an’ Mama again, ‘cause you’re my best friend.”

 

Carla’s gaze lifted from the page. He wasn’t looking at her, just coloring, like he hadn’t just punched a soft spot full-force.

 

She swallowed.

 

“Baby,” she said gently, closing her book on her thumb. “What do you want to do today? Anything you want.”

 

Wilson shrugged, still coloring the grass. “I’m okay with just staying here and coloring, Mama. With you.”

 

Oh.

 

No six-year-old should sound that resigned. Not when the sun was bright and the air warm and the world was supposed to feel big.

 

Carla set her book aside and slid off the couch, lowering herself onto the carpet beside him. She tucked a curl behind his ear.

 

“We can color later,” she said softly. “But how about we go to the park? Let you run around a little. Maybe get ice cream afterward?”

 

He blinked up at her, hopeful but uncertain. “Ice cream?”

 

She nodded. “Ice cream.”

 

“And… maybe…” He bit his lip. “Library?”

 

Her smile bloomed warm. “Oh, we are definitely going to the library. We’ve read Frog and Toad Are Friends and Sing Down the Moon about a hundred times. I think it’s time we find something new.”

 

Wilson laughed, his whole body joining in, and dropped his crayon to scramble into her lap.

 

“Let’s go now, Mama!”

 

“Right now?” she teased. “But what about your artwork?”

 

“I’ll finish it later!” he insisted, tugging her hand. “The park is calling us!”

 

Carla let him pull her to her feet, feeling that familiar swell of love, fierce and protective and endless. She grabbed his tiny shoes, helped him into them, and they headed for the door.

 

Matt was gone.

 

But the world wasn’t empty.

 

Not for her.

 

And never for her son.

 

“Alright, Captain,” she said, locking up behind them. “Lead the way.”

 

Carla and Wilson rounded the corner into the park, and immediately Wilson lit up like someone had plugged him into the sun.

 

“Jess! Cece! Ella!”

 

He took off in a dead sprint, backpack bouncing, curls flying. Carla didn’t even try to stop him. She just smiled and followed at a normal human pace.

 

Jess Navarro stood behind the swings, pushing both girls, Cece with her big glasses slipping down her nose and Ella with her hair already wild despite not even being awake for two hours. Cece pumped her legs like she was training for the Olympics; Ella dragged her toes in the dirt, singing something off-key to herself.

 

Wilson hopped right onto the third swing before Jess even noticed.

 

“Push me too! Please! Extra high! Higher than Cece!”

 

Jess burst out laughing. “Oh my lord, let me catch my breath, you kids are gonna send me straight to physical therapy.”

 

Carla walked up beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. “I see you got stuck with Ella duty.”

 

Jess groaned dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Dave called me at nine o’clock last night. Nine, Carla. Asked if he could drop her off right then because they were-” She made a vague swirling motion with her hand. “Going somewhere.”

 

“Where were they this time?” Carla asked, leaning toward the swings.

 

Ella didn’t miss a beat. “Amsterdam!”

 

Jess glanced over. “Yesterday she said Denver.”

 

Carla shrugged. “It changes every time you ask her.”

 

Ella pumped her legs once, one single valiant effort, then gave up halfway through and let the momentum die. “I slept on Cece’s floor,” she announced proudly.

 

Cece sat taller, scandalized. “I just woked up and she was right there, Carla! Like a ghost!”

 

Carla covered her mouth to hide the laugh. “Well, at least she didn’t eat the cereal this time.”

 

Jess shook her head but she was smiling. “I swear, between the three of them I don’t need cable. This is my entertainment.”

 

Wilson swung his legs wildly, nearly kicking the bark chips beneath him. “Mama look! I’m going to the moon!”

 

“You absolutely are not,” Carla said, stepping slightly to the side to avoid a sneaker to the shin. “But you look like you’re having fun.”

 

Cece piped up loudly, dramatic as ever, “Wilson’s trying to beat me but I’m the swinging.”

 

“No you’re not!” Wilson argued, clinging tightly to the chains. “You don’t even know the rules!”

 

“The rules?” Ella blinked. “There are swing rules?”

 

Cece nodded like this was common knowledge. “Obviously.”

 

Jess leaned toward Carla. “She’s been like this all morning.”

 

“I’m shocked,” Carla replied dryly.

 

And for a moment everything felt soft and easy.

 

Carla exhaled, letting herself just be there.

 

They were mid-conversation, something about a parent meeting that neither of them actually wanted to attend, when Wilson suddenly gasped, loud enough to cut Jess off mid-sentence.

 

“BRANDO!”

 

He practically launched himself off the swing mid-arc, landing in a wobble before tearing across the grass. Carla blinked, then followed his line of sight.

 

Sure enough, Michelle Copeland was crossing the park with her purse slung over one shoulder, Brando at her side, shirt slightly crooked from wrestling his way into it, face freshly scrubbed but still somehow messy.

 

Carla cupped her hands around her mouth. “’Bout time you got here, Michelle!”

 

Michelle lifted a hand, already laughing. “We had delays.”

 

Wilson reached Brando first, flinging his whole body into a hug. Ella barreled in right behind him, nearly knocking all three of them over.

 

Brando squeaked but hugged them back like a champ.

 

Behind them, Cece adjusted her glasses dramatically, eyes narrowing in mock inspection.

 

“Huh,” she said. “You took a bath.”

 

Michelle snorted as she stopped beside the moms. “It was a struggle, but I sure did make him.”

 

Brando threw his hands up proudly. “Momma let me bring my race car and my bulldozer in the bathtub this time!”

 

Cece gasped. “That’s cheating! My mom only lets me bring the rubber duck.”

 

“You chew on the duck,” Jess reminded her.

 

Cece pushed her glasses up. “It strengthens the enamel.”

 

Jess side-eyed Carla. “See what I’m dealing with?”

 

Michelle leaned against the swing set, catching her breath. “Anyone else having trouble with bath time lately, or is that just me?”

 

Jess lifted a hand immediately. “Cece thinks she needs one every single day. Says it’s ‘routine.’ I swear she came out of the womb ready for a planner.”

 

Cece nodded proudly. “Structure is important.”

 

Carla grinned. “Wilson loves bath time. Plays with all those little boats in there. I swear he’s gonna turn my tub into the Gulf of Mexico.”

 

Michelle laughed. “At least he doesn’t protest.”

 

All three women glanced at Ella, shirt dirty, knees dirty, face dirty, hair a nest, somehow already holding a leaf she’d adopted as her “pet.”

 

Carla sighed. “I’ll make sure she gets a bath next time she’s at my house. She’s worse than Brando, I swear. Last time she bit my ankle.”

 

Ella, overhearing absolutely nothing, was in the grass digging for worms.

 

Jess wiped a tear from laughing. “Just put her in the pool when you do it. She won’t fight it. She thinks it’s a vacation.”

 

Michelle cackled. “That tracks.”

 

The three kids ran circles around Brando now, Wilson babbling about the ship in a bottle his dad gave him that morning, Cece lecturing Brando about shampoo, Ella showing him a worm and asking if it was a baby snake.

 

The moms just looked at the chaos, soft smiles on all their faces.

 

The kids eventually settled into the sandbox, “settled” meaning Wilson was constructing a very serious harbor system, Brando was burying a toy bulldozer, and Ella was eating sand when she thought no one was watching. Cece stood between them like a tiny foreman, glasses pushed up, hands on her hips, instructing everyone like her life depended on it.

 

Carla, Jess, and Michelle took the beat of quiet to sit on the low wooden border of the sandbox, nursing paper cups of park lemonade.

 

Jess sighed contentedly. “God, they’re cute. Exhausting, but cute.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” Michelle hummed, following the kids with her eyes. “A lot easier than the grown men we married, that’s for sure.”

 

Jess laughed, shaking her head. “Not me, honey. George is a saint.”

 

Carla groaned. “We know. Everyone in Laredo knows. I think the mayor declared it a holiday the day you married him.”

 

Jess beamed, unbothered. “He made me pancakes at two in the morning last week because I said I wanted syrup. And he drove to the store because we were out.”

 

Carla tossed a napkin at her. “Showoff.”

 

Michelle huffed a laugh. “I’m happy for you, Jess, really. Just don’t brag too hard until you see what it’s like being married to a drinker who thinks ESPN is a personality.”

 

Carla and Jess groaned at the same time.

 

Jess squeezed Michelle’s arm. “Chris giving you trouble again?”

 

Michelle shrugged, trying to play it off, but the tension sat in her shoulders. “He’s been pushing Brando. Hard. Says he wants him in baseball, or football, or both. Says a boy shouldn’t be playing with dolls or toy kitchens. As if it matters.” She shook her head, looking toward Brando, who was currently drawing a smiley face in the sand with a stick. “He’s six. Six.”

 

Carla frowned. “He’s lucky Brando lets him call himself ‘Dad.’”

 

Jess nodded. “Chris always had that streak in high school. Thought he was God’s gift.”

 

Michelle rolled her eyes. “And like an idiot, I married him anyway.”

 

Jess grinned. “To be fair, you also thought that perm was a good idea senior year.”

 

“That was your idea,” Michelle shot back.

 

Jess gasped. “And you listened to me? Oh, babe, that one’s on you.”

 

They all burst out laughing.

 

Carla swirled her lemonade. “At least yours spends time at home. Mine’s-” she hesitated, then sighed, “mine’s already in Austin.”

 

Michelle and Jess exchanged a knowing look.

 

Jess’s voice softened. “He say how long this ‘work trip’ is?”

 

“A week,” Carla murmured. “Which means two. Probably more.” She tried to smile, but her eyes stayed sad. “But Wilson doesn’t need to know that.”

 

Michelle’s jaw tightened. “I swear if I see Matt in town with someone who isn’t you-”

 

Carla cut her off gently. “I know, Mich. I know.” She stared down at her shoes. “I’m not blind. I just can’t blow up his world yet. Not until I figure out what to do.”

 

The three sat quietly for a moment, watching Wilson laugh at something Ella said, pure joy on his tiny face.

 

Jess nudged Carla’s knee. “Hey. For what it’s worth, I warned both of you back in high school. Remember that? ‘Don’t date those boys,’ I said. ‘They’re trouble.’”

 

Michelle rolled her eyes. “You also said George was boring.”

 

Jess grinned smugly. “And look how that turned out.”

 

Carla laughed under her breath. “I remember you saying Chris looked like he’d peak at seventeen.”

 

Michelle snorted. “She was right.”

 

Jess pointed triumphantly. “And Matt? I said he was gonna be one of those good-looking, smooth-talking types who thinks he can get away with everything.”

 

Carla groaned into her hands. “God, don’t remind me.”

 

“But,” Jess said gently, “you also made Wilson. So I guess the universe balanced itself out.”

 

The moms fell quiet again, warm in the sun, listening to the kids laugh and argue and laugh again.

 

Michelle leaned back on her hands. “Well. At least we’ve got each other.”

 

Jess clinked her lemonade cup against hers. “Always.”

 

Carla smiled softly, eyes on her boy. “Always.”

 

And the three women, tired, hopeful, learning how to survive their husbands and raise their tiny tornadoes, sat shoulder to shoulder as the morning stretched into something golden.

 

The sandbox had officially become its own little universe, half construction site, half library, half whatever world existed only in their collective brains.

 

Brando had dumped out every toy he owned from Michelle’s tote bag. Two race cars, a bulldozer, a handful of mismatched plastic dinosaurs, and something that looked like it used to be a spaceship but was now just a cracked dome with crayons stuffed inside.

 

“Sharing is caring,” he announced proudly, shoving a tiny blue car toward Wilson. “My mom says that.”

 

“You said that before you took Ella’s juice box,” Cece reminded him, legs crossed, glasses sliding down her nose.

 

“That was yesterday,” Brando said, dismissing it with a wave.

 

Cece had gotten into Wilson’s little red backpack and was now reading Frog and Toad Are Friends out loud, back straight, voice steady like she was auditioning to be a teacher. Ella scooted closer, chin in her hands, listening like Cece hung the moon.

 

“And then Frog ran over to Toad’s house,” Cece read, enunciating perfectly. “Knock, knock, knock.”

 

Ella knocked on the air three times, completely invested.

 

Brando, half-buried in the sand next to his bulldozer, perked up. “Hey, Wilson!”

 

Wilson looked over from his boat-harbor sand masterpiece. “What?”

 

Brando pointed at the book. “Me and you are kinda like Frog and Toad.”

 

Wilson considered it, rubbing the sand off his palms. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “’Cause we’re friends.”

 

“Best friends,” Brando corrected confidently.

 

Cece whipped her head up from the book, scandalized. “Hey! What does that make me and Ella?”

 

Ella blinked at her and shrugged. “I’m not a frog.”

 

“That’s not the point,” Cece huffed. “We should be something too.”

 

Brando paused, really thinking, brow furrowed, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

 

“Hmmm…”

 

The other three waited, the anticipation somehow enormous for a sandbox at 9:45 a.m.

 

Finally, Brando nodded, satisfied with his grand conclusion.

 

“I think Ella is a…” he squinted at her outfit, her wild curls, her sandy elbows, “…a raccoon.”

 

Ella lit up. “Yeah!”

 

“And Cece,” he continued, proudly pointing at her, “you’re a butterfly.”

 

Cece’s entire face softened. “Brando.”

 

She placed a hand dramatically over her heart. “Thank you.”

 

Brando beamed.

 

“I think you make a great Toad,” Cece added warmly.

 

Brando’s smile stuttered. “Like… the toad-toad? Or the friend-toad?”

 

“The friend-toad,” Cece clarified.

 

Brando nodded, satisfied enough.

 

Wilson scooted closer, tapping Cece’s foot lightly. “What am I then?”

 

“Oh, you’re Frog,” she said immediately. “Obviously. You actually read.”

 

Ella pointed her stick at him. “And you like green crayons.”

 

Wilson smiled so big his little dimples came out. “Okay. I’m Frog.”

 

“And I’m a raccoon,” Ella declared proudly, digging her hands into the sand like she was about to burrow underground.

 

“Hey!” Brando shouted. “Raccoons don’t live in sand!”

 

“They do now,” Ella said, already half-buried.

 

Cece sighed but closed her book, leaning back on her palms with a tiny smile.

 

And the four of them kept playing as if the whole world was nothing more than warm sand, loud giggles, shared toys, and a morning where nothing bad could ever touch them.

 

Carla and Jess were mid-conversation, something about George teaching Cece how to properly floss a stuffed animal during her dentist-phase last month, when a familiar voice cut through the warm Saturday air.

 

“Cecelia!”

 

Cece’s head snapped up so fast her glasses nearly flew off. Then she launched herself out of the sandbox like she’d been fired out of a cannon.

 

“Daddy!”

 

George Navarro, tall, sun-warm, sleeves rolled up,handsome without even trying, barely had time to open his arms before Cece collided with him. Ella was right behind her, sprinting full speed with sand on her cheeks like war paint.

 

George took one look at her and shook his head, laughing. “I made you and Cecelia a whole breakfast this morning, and you’re eating sand? Come on, Sinclair.”

 

Ella grinned proudly. “It’s good!”

 

Cece held up her hand without looking, a gesture she’d done since she could walk.

 

“Daddy hold her, too.”

 

George didn’t miss a beat. He scooped Ella up onto his other hip, Cece clinging to one arm, Ella to the other, both girls instantly melting against him.

 

Jess watched, smiling softly. “She’s practically his second kid.”

 

Carla nodded. “He spoils them both rotten.”

 

Brando had abandoned the bulldozer mid-project the second he heard George’s voice. “Mr. Navarro! Mr. Navarro! I took a bath this morning!” he announced, chest puffed out like a proud soldier.

 

George gasped dramatically. “A bath? No kidding. I thought that was just a rumor.”

 

Brando giggled so hard he fell into George’s leg.

 

Then Wilson, quiet, thoughtful Wilson, stood up slowly, brushing sand off his shorts. His curls bounced as he jogged to grab his backpack.

 

“I have something!” he said, breathless, running back with the ship-in-a-bottle as if carrying treasure. “My dad got it for me.”

 

George crouched, balancing the two girls on either hip like it was natural, like breathing.

 

He examined the bottle carefully, awe in his voice, not fake, not exaggerated, just sincere.

 

“Wow,” he said softly. “That’s a beautiful one, Wilson. Your dad must’ve known how much you wanted it.”

 

Carla’s throat tightened a little. George never bad-mouthed Matt. Not once. Not even on the days she’d cried to Michelle and Jess about his “business trips.” Not even when Matt forgot parent teacher meetings or showed up late to t-ball.

 

George had always protected Wilson’s heart. Always.

 

“That’s gonna look perfect on your shelf,” George said, handing the bottle back with such care it felt ceremonial. “And hey, next time I come over, you show me the whole fleet again. Deal?”

 

Wilson nodded eagerly. “Yeah! I will!”

 

Then, because George always did this, he ruffled Brando’s hair and tapped his chin gently.

 

“And you,” he said, “I bet you’ve got racing stories to tell me.”

 

Brando’s face lit up like fireworks. “I made my car go down the hill really fast yesterday and it flipped and I caught it and then it crashed but then I fixed it!”

 

“Of course you did,” George laughed. “You’re a genius.”

 

The moms exchanged a glance, one that held ten years of history.

 

There had always been something special about George. The way he loved. The way he fathered, his own daughter, sure, but also everyone else’s by accident. The way every child at the park ran to him the second he arrived. The way he made every kid feel seen.

 

Later, long after this moment, long after the kids grew up and the families scattered and re-braided themselves, long after grief reshaped them, this would be one of the memories that replayed the loudest.

 

George in the spring sun.

 

A little girl on each arm.

 

Two little boys orbiting him like he was the safest place in the world.

 

He  smiled at the kids and said, “Alright, who wants to build the biggest sandcastle Laredo’s ever seen?”

 

Four hands shot up instantly.

 

And George, steady, warm, irreplaceable, set them down gently in the sand and rolled up his sleeves.

 

He lingered with the kids for another minute, long enough to help Brando pat down the base of the crooked sandcastle and listen to Wilson explain, very seriously, that they needed a moat “for safety reasons.”

 

Then he dusted off his jeans, brushed sand off Cece’s hair, and stood.

 

“Alright, architects,” he said, stepping back. “Keep building. I’ll be right over there. Don’t let the dragons in.”

 

Cece saluted him. Ella pretended to roar like a dragon. Brando flexed like he was preparing to fight one. Wilson finished the moat like the fate of Laredo depended on it.

 

Satisfied no one was eating sand, George headed toward the swings.

 

Jess was perched on one, gently swaying, denim skirt brushing the ground. Carla and Michelle stood beside her, chatting. He dropped into the swing next to Jess, the chains creaking a little, and took her free hand in his, easy, familiar, like breathing.

 

“And how are you lovely ladies today?” he said, leaning back with a small grin.

 

Jess rolled her eyes affectionately. “Trying to get Ella in her shoes this morning was a chore but, we made it.”

 

Michelle laughed. “Ella’s practically feral. I don’t know how you do it, Jess.”

 

“Grace,” Jess deadpanned. “And denial.”

 

Carla smirked. “And coffee.”

 

They all laughed.

 

After a moment, George’s expression shifted, just slightly, but enough for the women who had known him since braces and bad haircuts to see it. He glanced toward the sandbox, confirming the kids were deep in their little world, and his smile thinned.

 

“So…” he said quietly. “Chris still pushing Brando like he’s training him for the Olympics?”

 

Michelle’s jaw tightened. “He made him run drills last night at seven-thirty after dinner. He’s six.”

 

Carla winced. “Jesus.”

 

Jess shook her head. “He’s going to ruin that boy’s joy.”

 

George rubbed his thumb over Jess’s knuckles, then met Carla’s eyes. “And Matt? He still pretending those ‘trips’ are business?”

 

Carla’s throat bobbed, but she nodded once, tight. “Yeah. He left this morning.”

 

George didn’t hide the way his jaw flexed at that. He never liked Matt’s disappearing acts, the vague answers, the late nights. He never said anything outright, not in front of Will, never, not once, but here, with Jess and Michelle and Carla, he didn’t bother masking it.

 

“I hate it for you,” he said softly. “And him.” His gaze drifted back to the sandcastle, where Wilson’s little shoulders hunched with focus. “He deserves better.”

 

Carla swallowed. “I know.”

 

Michelle put a hand on her arm, gentle but steady. Jess nodded in quiet agreement.

 

George finally exhaled, pushing the swing forward a little. “That’s why I came down here,” he said, voice lighter again. “I figured Jess might need a break before she runs herself into the ground. And I wanted to see the kids.”

 

Jess laughed, nudging him. “You came to take over the second you had a moment, you mean.”

 

He shrugged. “What can I say? They’re good company.”

 

Jess sighed dramatically. “Well, since my relief is here,” she stood, brushing crumbs off her skirt.“I actually do need to head to the office. I’ve got a couple cleanings today. People don’t stop eating sugar just because it’s Saturday.”

 

Michelle smirked. “You should open your own practice.”

 

Carla chimed in immediately. “Seriously. Jess, you’d kill it.”

 

Jess waved them off with the same tired smile she always used when they ganged up on her. “In time. In time.”

 

She leaned down and kissed George, soft, familiar, before heading toward the sandbox.

 

“Alright, munchkins,” she said, crouching down. “I have to go to work. Cece, be good. Ella, try to be good. Boys, no wrestling.”

 

Cece hugged her tightly. Ella kissed her cheek with a smudge of sand. Wilson promised to save the castle for her. Brando bragged that he was already being good, actually.

 

Jess laughed, straightened, and waved back at the moms and George before heading toward the parking lot.

 

When she was gone, George settled his feet in the dirt, swinging just enough to keep the chains from getting stiff. He looked out at the kids, his daughter, her best friends, the boys he loved like his own, and something warm eased into his expression.

 

George dug the toes of his shoes into the dirt, letting the swing coast back and forth in a lazy arc as he watched the four little heads bent over their castle plans. There was sand in everyone’s hair, a bucket half-buried like treasure, and the sun slipping lower through the pecan trees.

 

Michelle crossed her arms, following his line of sight. “They’re good kids.”

 

George smiled softly. “The best.”

 

Carla brushed her palms on her jeans. “Jess is lucky you came when you did. She was about to start charging Ella rent.”

 

Michelle snorted. “She should. That girl’s practically living at their place.”

 

George laughed, shaking his head. “She keeps us all on our toes, that’s for sure.”

 

The moms traded a look, the one only lifelong friends shared, half fondness, half exhaustion, and before the conversation could drift into husbands again, the quiet thump-thump-thump of little feet came barreling across the playground.

 

Cece arrived first, rubbing her eyes dramatically.

 

“I’m sleepy,” she announced like she was breaking urgent news.

 

Ella followed, chin lifted proudly. “And I’m hungry.”

 

George laughed under his breath. “Well… sounds like my cue, doesn’t it?”

 

Michelle raised her brows playfully. “You taking our boys too?”

 

George shrugged easily, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “If you want me to.”

 

Carla shook her head, smiling as she pushed her hair behind her ear. “Wilson and I are having an adventure day. Just us two. So I’ll keep him this time.”

 

Michelle nodded. “Brando’s going to his grandma’s later anyway. But really, George, we appreciate you being so willing.”

 

He waved her off, crouching to the kids’ level. “Are you kidding me? I love these guys.”

 

He turned to Brando first, tapping his shoulder. “How about I practice catch with you sometime this week, huh?”

 

Brando slumped immediately, arms going limp at his sides. “That’s all me and Dad do,” he grumbled. “I hate baseball. I wanna play something else.”

 

George blinked, thinking. “Well we can figure something out. How do you feel about-”

 

Before he finished, Cece perked up, suddenly wide awake.

 

“You guys can all come over,” she declared, “and Daddy will have a tea party with us!”

 

Brando and Wilson lit up instantly, bouncing in place.

 

“Yes! Yes!” Brando shouted.

 

“I call the sparkly cup!” Wilson added.

 

George put a hand on his chest, feigning deep honor. “A tea party at the castle? Well… I can’t say no to that. My two knights-“

 

Wilson frowned thoughtfully. “I’m a captain, not a knight.”

 

George nodded solemnly. “Of course. And where are you sailing in from today, Captain?”

 

Wilson hesitated, unable to think of anything fast enough, but Ella stepped in, chin high.

 

“Egypt,” she declared.

 

Wilson immediately brightened. “Yeah! Egypt.”

 

George laughed. “Well then,” he gestured to Cece, who preened, “I expect to see you at the palace soon.”

 

He stood, shifting Cece into one arm and Ella into the other as if they weighed nothing.

 

Michelle and Carla waved as he started toward the sidewalk.

 

“Call if you need anything!” Michelle called.

 

George looked back with a grin. “Only thing I need is a pot of tea.”

 

Brando waved both hands above his head. Wilson mirrored him, curls bouncing.

 

Cece rested her head on George’s shoulder, already nodding off. Ella pointed ahead like she was leading a parade.

 

Carla sighed, warm and quiet, then looked down at her son.

 

“Alright, bub. You ready to go get some lunch and then head to the library?”

 

Wilson nodded immediately, already running over to the sandbox to retrieve his backpack. 

 

Before Carla could even take his hand, Brando tugged at her sleeve.

 

“Can I come too?”

 

Carla blinked, then glanced at Michelle.

 

“We could go to that diner a few blocks over,” she suggested lightly. “Split a milkshake and complain some more?”

 

Michelle grinned, brushing the sand off her jeans. “Only for lunch, though.” She crouched to Brando’s height. “We’ve gotta get you to Grandma’s after. I have class tonight and Daddy has work, okay?”

 

Brando nodded hard enough his curls bounced, flashing a gap-toothed smile. “Deal, Momma.”

 

He stuck his hand out, filthy and sticky with sand and crushed graham cracker bits. Michelle stared at it, then sighed with exaggerated tragedy before taking it solemnly in her own.

 

“Deal,” she said.

 

Just then, Wilson returned from gathering his things, proud of himself for not dropping anything on the walk back. Brando bounced once on his heels.

 

“Me and Momma are coming to lunch!” he announced.

 

Wilson’s whole face lit up, eyes going wide and bright. He immediately turned to Carla for confirmation, she nodded, and then he threw both arms around Brando in a tight squeeze.

 

Brando squeaked at the force but hugged him back just as tightly, grinning.

 

The moms exchanged a look, soft, affectionate, a little amused.

 

Two six-year-olds, covered in sand, absolutely inseparable.

 

Michelle brushed Brando’s shoulder. “Alright, boys. Let’s go before Cece realizes she’s missing a milkshake and marches back here to complain.”

 

Wilson giggled. Brando gasped dramatically, “Oh no, she’ll be so mad.”

 

Carla grabbed Wilson’s free hand. Michelle took Brando’s. And together they headed down the sun-warmed path toward town. 

 

A perfect little afternoon just beginning.

 

The booth was small enough that Wilson and Brando practically had to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, but they would’ve anyway. They slid into the vinyl seat like it was their official spot, legs swinging in perfect six-year-old rhythm under the table.

 

Across from them, Carla and Michelle settled in with that comfortable ease of two women who’d been through decades of life together, graduation, marriages, babies, heartbreak, late-night phone calls. Now they split menus, split glances, split the weight of raising their boys.

 

The waitress brought the food, and the ritual began immediately.

 

Brando poked Wilson’s cheeseburger with one finger.

 

“You don’t like pickles, right?”

 

Wilson didn’t even have to think. “Nope.”

 

He actually did like pickles. But he also liked the way Brando’s whole face lit up when he got extra ones.

 

Brando happily plucked the two slices off Wilson’s bun and stacked them onto his own plate.

 

“Thanks, Will.”

 

Wilson shrugged, trying to look casual even with pink cheeks.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Then he reached over and took the tomato off Brando’s burger.

 

Brando didn’t blink. “Yeah, I don’t like those.”

 

He totally did. But tomatoes were Wilson’s favorite part of a burger and everyone at the table knew it.

 

Carla watched them trade food with a soft smile while pretending not to watch at all. Michelle watched openly, at full mom-level intensity, eyes warm.

 

“So,” Carla said, spearing a chicken tender off Michelle’s plate before Michelle could grab it, “what did you two get up to in first grade yesterday?”

 

Wilson straightened like he’d been asked to present a thesis.

 

“We learned about the water cycle. And Cece cried because she thought the rain cloud looked like a horse.”

 

Brando nodded solemnly. “It did look like a horse.”

 

“No it didn’t,” Wilson said.

 

“Yes it did,” Brando replied automatically, because if Cece cried, he was on her side by default, even if she drove him crazy 80% of the time.

 

Carla laughed. “Where was Ella during all this?”

 

Wilson thought. “Eating the erasers.”

 

Michelle snorted, nearly choking on her fry. “Good lord.”

 

Brando munched happily on his double-pickle burger. “She only ate one. Maybe two.”

 

“How reassuring,” Carla deadpanned.

 

Michelle swirled the strawberry milkshake they were sharing, one spoon, two straws, something they’d been doing since they were sixteen, and nudged it toward Carla. “I told you I should’ve ordered a salad.”

 

Carla rolled her eyes. “You always say that. Then you ask for half my fries.”

 

Michelle gasped like she had been personally wronged. “I do not.”

 

“Michelle,” Carla said, pointed.

 

Michelle grinned sheepishly. “Okay, only sometimes.”

 

“Sometimes?” Carla repeated.

 

Across the table, Wilson watched them with that quiet fascination he always had when adults teased each other. Brando, meanwhile, dipped a fry into his ketchup and whispered loudly, 

 

“They fight more than me and Cece.”

 

“Yeah, but they are best friends like you guys, too.” Wilson whispered back.

 

Brando nodded thoughtfully, like that made perfect sense.

 

When both boys slowed down halfway through their fries, Carla leaned over the table.

 

“Okay, gentlemen… if you finish the rest, you’ll get to split a root beer float.”

 

Both boys froze, locking eyes like this was the biggest moment of their week.

 

Wilson whispered, “We can do that.”

 

Brando whispered back, “Yeah. Together.”

 

And with the seriousness of two soldiers preparing for battle, they picked up their fries again and attacked the plate.

 

Michelle covered her mouth to hide a laugh. Carla didn’t bother hiding hers.

 

The diner hummed around them, ice clinking in glasses, soft country music from the jukebox, the clatter of dishes in the back. But at their booth, there was only warmth. Only familiarity.

 

Michelle watched the boys with a soft smile, four little feet kicking under the table, two heads leaned together over the shared root beer float, their giggles rising and falling like it was the most important drink they’d ever had in their lives. Neither one had noticed how long the women had gone quiet.

 

Finally, Michelle looked over at Carla, eyes sharpening with that gentle, nosy concern she’d earned the right to have.

 

“So… you know her name yet?”

 

Carla didn’t answer right away. She took a breath first, one of those long, steadying ones that mothers take when they’re trying not to let something hurt out loud.

 

“…Kathleen.”

 

Michelle blinked. “I thought you said it was his assistant.”

 

Carla gave a hollow little laugh. “I thought it was too. Turns out I was wrong. Though Barb was wearing the perfume I smelled on his shirt that day, so maybe I wasn’t that wrong.”

 

Michelle’s eyebrows rose. “Isn’t Kathleen younger than us?”

 

Carla deadpanned. “Exactly.”

 

Michelle groaned dramatically. “Carla. Honey. You deserve so much better than this. You’re about to be a full-time nurse in May, you work your butt off, you take care of that sweet baby-”

 

Carla lifted her hand to quiet her gently.

 

“I know I do. And so does he,” Her eyes drifted to Wilson, who was letting Brando take the last sip of the float because ‘brando likes it more.’ “But what can I do, Michelle? I’m not making enough yet to cover everything on my own. And even if I was I don’t want him to go through that before he can even understand why his mom and dad don’t live in the same house anymore.”

 

 

 

Michelle exhaled slowly, soft, tired, understanding in a way only another woman living her own half-life could.

 

“Yeah. I get it. Believe me.” She pushed her thumb across a scratch on the tabletop. “Chris works Brando so hard, but somehow I’m still the bad guy. And still,” she glanced at her son, who was now letting Wilson have the maraschino cherry. "He calls Chris his hero.”

 

Carla laid her hand over Michelle’s. A warm, steady squeeze.

 

“In due time,” she said softly. “He’ll know the real hero is you.”

 

Michelle leaned her head on Carla’s shoulder, letting herself rest for just a moment. “We should just move in together,” she mumbled. “Raise them ourselves. Problem solved.”

 

Carla let out a genuine laugh at that, one that pushed a curl off her forehead.

 

“We will one day, when these boys are out of our hair.”

 

Michelle snorted. “Oh babe, that’s never happening.”

 

Carla looked at Wilson and Brando again, two kids so wrapped up in each other and their tiny world that they didn’t even notice the weight hanging in the booth behind them.

 

She smiled. Soft. Sure.

 

“…Good.”

 

And for a moment the ache of everything else faded, replaced by the warm glow of the only two constants that mattered. 

 

As Wilson and Carla said their goodbyes to Brando and Michelle outside the diner, Wilson slipped his small hand into hers, swinging their arms as they started down the sidewalk toward the library. Carla reached over and wiped a streak of whipped cream from one of his curls, laughing softly when it only made the curl springier.

 

He looked up at her with that easy, wide smile that always undid her. “It’s our special day, Mama!”

 

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “It is, bub.”

 

He took two steps before stopping, turning to her with both arms lifted. “Can you carry me?”

 

Carla shook her head fondly, already bending down. “Of course I can.” She hoisted him onto her hip, backpack and all, and kept walking, her son’s arms tightening comfortably around her neck.

 

As they walked into the library, the cool air and the familiar hush wrapped around them like a blanket. The older woman behind the counter looked up from stamping a stack of returns, her whole face brightening.

 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite duo. Hi, Carla. Hi, Wilson.”

 

She always said it like she truly meant it, like seeing them was the best part of her morning.

 

Wilson beamed, wriggling in Carla’s arms until she set him down. “Hi, Mrs. Perez!”

 

He practically jogged the last few steps to the counter, digging into his backpack with urgent purpose. One by one, he placed the books on the counter like they were rare artifacts.

 

“I read ’em all! Well… Mama helped.”

 

Mrs. Perez grinned, tapping the top book with her stamp. “And brought back in pristine condition, as always. Thank you, Skipper.”

 

Wilson puffed up a little at the nickname. Mrs. Perez had started calling him that after he checked out three different picture books about boats in a single afternoon. The name stuck.

 

She turned her attention to Carla, softening. “And how are you, sweetie?”

 

Carla exhaled, the kind you only let yourself do in safe places. “Hanging in there. Almost done with that last nursing class… i’m graduating fully in May.”

 

Mrs. Perez’s smile spread warm and proud. “Oh, honey. I knew you’d do it.”

 

Carla nodded, swallowing the emotion that swelled in her chest. She wasn’t used to being celebrated. Not yet. But this, this small moment in a quiet library with someone who remembered her from childhood, felt like the kind of thing she’d keep tucked away forever.

 

Mrs. Perez practically lit up, pressing a hand to her chest.

 

“I’ll be in that crowd cheering you and Michelle on! Front row, loud as can be. They might have to escort me out afterward,” she joked.

 

Carla laughed, embarrassed and touched all at once.

 

Then Mrs. Perez leaned over the counter to look at Wilson, her glasses slipping a little down her nose.

 

“Did you know I taught your mama and Brando’s mama when they were in first grade?”

 

Wilson froze like someone had yanked the emergency brake on his entire brain.

 

His mouth fell open.

 

His backpack slid halfway off his shoulder.

 

“You… you knew Mama in first grade?” he whispered, like this was a plot twist he hadn’t seen coming in the story of his own life.

 

Mrs. Perez laughed so hard her stamp clattered onto the desk.

 

“Oh yes, baby. I knew her very well. And you’re a spitting image of her.”

 

Wilson blinked up at Carla, who raised her eyebrows like, well, she’s not wrong.

 

Before he could process that life-altering information further, Mrs. Perez tapped the last book into the return bin.

 

“Speaking of first grade, you have my granddaughter in your class, I think. Janice?”

 

That snapped him right back to earth.

 

“Oh yeah, I know Jan!” he said proudly. “She went to Mama’s daycare for a little while, too!”

 

“Mm-hmm, she sure did. And she still talks about those little paper-bag puppets you all made.”

 

Mrs. Perez shook her head fondly. “Alright, baby. Go learn something new in there for me.”

 

“I will!” Wilson chirped.

 

He grabbed Carla’s hand, small, warm, and still slightly sticky from root beer float foam, and tugged her toward the children’s section like he was leading an expedition.

 

The children’s section was its own little universe.

 

Bright carpets covered in alphabet letters.

 

Low shelves stuffed with picture books.

 

A cardboard castle that had seen better days.

 

A giant stuffed dragon slumped in the corner like he’d given up guarding treasure years ago.

 

Wilson made a beeline for the returns cart like it was a treasure chest. “Oooh, Mama! They got new ones!”

 

He pulled a book out so fast the cart rattled.

 

A huge picture book, one of those oversized ones that took two hands to hold, about whales.

 

“Mama look! Look!”

 

He held it up like he’d discovered the first book ever written. “Do you think whales talk to each other underwater?”

 

Carla crouched next to him. “I bet they do. Probably the way you and Brando talk a mile a minute, huh?”

 

He plopped onto the carpet, legs crossed, flipping the pages so fast he didn’t actually take in any information. But that wasn’t the point.

 

He pointed at a picture.

 

“That one’s you. And that one’s me. We’re buddies.”

 

Carla blinked. “You made us whales?” “Yeah! This one is Mama Whale and this one is the baby whale. Except I’m not a baby, I’m six. That’s so big, Mama.”

 

He held up six fingers to prove it.

 

Carla pulled him close by the back of his shirt, kissing the top of his curls. “I know, honey. You’re very big.”

 

Wilson leaned into her for exactly five seconds, his limit before he remembered he had things to do.

 

“Okay, Mama.” He stood and brushed off his shorts. “I’m gonna go pick out five books. No, six. Since I’m six.”

 

“Five,” she said instinctively.

 

He paused.

 

Thought about it.

 

“Five is good too.”

 

He drifted down the aisle, humming to himself, touching every spine like he was greeting old friends.

 

Carla followed at a distance, watching him carefully, quietly, the way only mothers who know their child is growing up too fast ever do.

 

Every so often he turned to hold up a book.

 

“THIS ONE!”

 

Or

 

“Look, Mama, a frog!”

 

Or

 

“Mama? Can I get one with pirates and whales?”

 

And every time, Carla nodded, letting him choose, letting him talk, letting him be six and curious and safe.

 

Carla sat beside him, her knee touching his, the way it always had.

 

He looked up at her out of nowhere and said, “Mama? This is the best day ever.”

 

She swallowed, hard.

 

“Yeah, bub,” she whispered. “It really is.”

 

And with his head bent over his books and her hand resting gently on his back, the quiet library felt like the center of the whole world.

 

Carla sat cross-legged on the edge of Wilson’s small bed, the paint of his bedroom walls glowing faintly under the warm lamp. His curls were still damp from his bath, he’d insisted on bringing all the boats in with him tonight, which meant she’d spent ten minutes fishing them out of bubbles while he explained tidal waves “scientifically.”

 

Now he was clean, warm, pajama-soft, and curled beneath his quilt with Mr. Salty wedged tightly under one arm like the stuffed animal was a security clearance requirement.

 

Carla held the new library book open with one hand.

 

Frog and Toad Together.

 

She smiled down at it, at the little frog illustrations, the familiar rhythm of the story, the way Wilson’s eyes had lit up when he pulled it off the shelf.

 

He’d said, “Brando said we’re Frog and Toad. Cece I’m Frog because I’m a good reader.”

 

That had earned him a forehead kiss on the spot.

 

Now, though, as she neared the last page, she could see his fight to stay awake losing very, very quickly.

 

His head had begun to tilt… then tilt more… then loll straight onto the pillow.

 

“…and Toad looked at his garden.” Carla read softly, voice lowering to a whisper.

 

“‘Your garden is beautiful,’ said Frog.”

 

She turned the page.

 

“‘Yes,’ said Toad, ‘but it was very hard work.’”

 

She closed the book quietly.

 

“That’s the end, bub,” she murmured.

 

No response.

 

Just a tiny, soft snore.

 

She looked down and saw that he had knocked out completely, mouth parted just a little, curls still damp and pushed off his forehead, his small fingers curled in the fabric of Mr. Salty’s tail.

 

Carla smiled, her whole chest warming.

 

She lowered the book onto the nightstand and leaned forward, brushing a thumb across his cheek, his skin still faintly warm from the bath, the soap, the day spent in the sun.

 

“I love you so, so much,” she whispered.

 

He didn’t stir.

 

Just breathed. Soft and even.

 

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. One to his temple. Another to the curls brushing his forehead.

 

Then she reached over to the small table beside his bed and flipped on the night light. It glowed into life, little sailboats drifting across the wall, turning lazily in a slow, comforting pattern that always made Wilson giggle when he was awake.

 

“Goodnight, Captain Wilson,” she said softly.

 

She stood, lingering for a moment in the doorway, watching her son, so small and so brave and so good, then she pulled the door half-closed and let the quiet house settle around them.

 

A safe night.

 

A full day.

 

Just the two of them.

 

His night light glowing like a tiny lighthouse, watching over everything.

 

Carla padded softly down the stairs, the house dim except for the little lamp she always left on in the kitchen. She exhaled, savoring the quiet, no clattering toys, no tiny voice asking her for “one more story,” no pretending she wasn’t exhausted. Just stillness. Just a moment where she didn’t have to be anything but herself.

 

She slid into the seat at the table and pulled the stack of bills toward her. Electric. Water. Rent. She shuffled them into her usual pile until something slipped free, fluttering to the floor.

 

She bent to pick it up, and froze.

 

A receipt.

 

A very nice receipt.

 

From a steakhouse in Dallas.

 

A very nice steakhouse.

 

Carla looked at the date. The week of their anniversary.

 

The week Matt had insisted he needed to leave three days early for a “work emergency.”

 

A short, humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

 

“Of course,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

 

He had never taken her anywhere like that. Not once in all their years together. Their anniversary dinner last year had been Whataburger in the parking lot because he’d “forgotten to make reservations.”

 

She glanced at the bottom of the receipt and let out another bitter little laugh.

 

“He didn’t even tip,” she muttered. “An expensive dinner and you still couldn’t tip, you son of a-”

 

She cut herself off with a sharp inhale, pinching the bridge of her nose as her eyes stung. But she refused to let herself cry, not tonight. Not after the day she’d had with Wilson. Not after hearing his tiny voice say, “It’s our special day, Mama.”

 

She tossed the receipt into the trash, letting the lid clang closed a little louder than necessary.

 

The radio on the counter hummed softly, Carly Simon’s voice drifting through:

 

You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you…

 

Carla snorted. “If the shoe fits.”

 

She moved into the living room, automatically picking up the toys scattered across the rug, plastic boats, a crayon, a lone sock for reasons unknown. As she bent to scoop up a racecar, something on the coffee table caught her eye.

 

A drawing.

 

She picked it up carefully, like it was fragile.

 

It was a sailboat, of course. With two stick figures, one shorter with curls like scribbles, one taller with a triangle dress she assumed was her, and behind them, three lopsided triangles.

The pyramids. Egypt. Because Ella Sinclair, had declared earlier that’s where he’d be sailing in from. 

 

At the top, in Wilson’s messy little handwriting, with the S backwards and the N crooked, it read, 

 

“Wilson and Mama’s Big Adventure.”

 

Carla’s chest tightened in the gentlest, most painful way. She pressed the picture to her heart for a moment, eyes closed.

 

It wasn’t a steakhouse in Dallas.

 

It wasn’t diamonds or flowers or fancy trips.

 

It was her son imagining whole worlds with just the two of them.

 

It was everything Matt never understood.

 

She walked to the mantle and scanned the frames, Wilson’s first day of kindergarten, a picture of her and Michelle in their nursing scrubs from last semester… and then, 

 

Her wedding picture.

 

She didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even swallow.

 

She pulled the frame down, flipped it over, slid out the back, and removed the glossy photograph of her and Matt on their wedding day, her smile wide, his unsure.

 

She folded the picture once.

 

Twice.

 

Three times.

 

Then ripped it straight down the middle.

 

Carly Simon hit the chorus again.

 

I bet you think this song is about you, don’t you?

 

Carla smiled as she slid Wilson’s masterpiece into the frame instead. She set it back on the mantle, straightened it gently with both hands, and stepped back.

 

Her boy.

 

Her life.

 

Her adventure.

 

She looked down at her bare hand, where her ring had been earlier, slipped off absentmindedly before dinner because she’d been kneading dough. She picked it up from the coffee table, held it between her fingers, and without another thought, tore it from her life the way she had the photo.

 

She dropped it into the trash with the receipt.

 

A clean break.

 

Carla dusted her hands off and exhaled slowly, peacefully, as she looked back at the drawing glowing in the lamplight.

 

“You and me, Captain,” she whispered. “Just you and me.”

 

And for the first time in a long time, she felt light.