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.