Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Quinn points at everything at once.
“There’s my school! And the ice cream shop! And Mama, look!” Lucy leans in closer to see what she’s pointing at, her shoulder brushing mine. That tiny contact hits like a live wire. I go still. She doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do I.
And there, suspended over the whole damn town with a kid between us and a paper wristband cutting into my skin, I have the clearest, stupidest thought of my life.
I could do this.
Not the festival.
Not just the day.
This. Them. The thought lands so hard I almost feel the world shift under me. Lucy turns her head slightly and catches me looking at her. For one suspended second, everything else fades. Then Quinn bounces with another excited shout and the moment breaks. Maybe that’s for the best.
Maybe not.
The day slides on in a blur after that. Corn dogs. Fried Oreos. Quinn petting goats at the petting zoo after all, because apparently goat policy is flexible under festival law. A local band playing covers near sunset. Lucy buying a jar of homemade peach preserves from a vendor who calls her sweetheart and me son like she’s known us forever.
Everywhere we go, people look.
Some because I’m me. Some because I’m with Lucy and her kid. I should mind that. I don’t. By the time the sky starts bruising purple and the string lights over the square come on, Quinn’s running on fumes.
She falls asleep ten minutes into the drive home, frog clutched to her chest, face paint smeared at one edge.
Lucy turns in her seat to check on her, then settles back with a soft sigh. “She had fun.”
“Yeah.”
Another quiet sigh. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For all of it.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Didn’t do much.”
She laughs softly. “You bought a booster seat.”
“That was practical.”
“You waited in line for face paint and you let Quinn get a pink glitter heart painted around your eye.”
I let out a laugh. “Okay, that was painful.”
“You held a goat.”
“It smelled terrible.” I scrunch my nose.
Her laughter fills the SUV again, lower now, warm with exhaustion and something else.
Comfort.
That’s the part I can’t shake. I’m comfortable here. She’s comfortable here.
Driving them home with a sleeping kid in the back and her mother beside me should feel foreign, too soft, too close to a life I never signed up for. Instead it feels easy.
Right, in a way I never imagined anything this domestic could.
We pull into her driveway, and I kill the engine. The porch light washes gold over the yard. For a second, neither of us moves. Then Lucy turns toward me. Her hair’s a little messy from the wind. There’s a smudge of powdered sugar near her wrist from the fried Oreos. She looks tired and happy and real.
And I’m in trouble. Deep enough now that pretending otherwise feels childish.
“You okay?” she asks.
I look at her. Really look. “Yeah.”
She studies me like she’s not sure that’s the whole answer. It isn’t. But I don’t trust myself with more. I get out, unbuckle Quinn gently, and carry her sleeping into the house while Lucy opens doors and laughs quietly when Quinn mumbles something about goats in her sleep.
Inside, I settle the kid onto her bed while Lucy peels off her sandals. Then we meet in the hallway outside Quinn’s room, both of us keeping our voices low.
“She’ll sleep hard tonight,” Lucy whispers.
“Good.”
She nods. Then, after a beat, “I had a really nice time.”
Something in my chest tightens again. “Me too.” There’s more in that than there should be.
She feels it. I can tell. Her eyes hold mine a fraction longer. Then she steps back, hand tightening around the doorframe.
“Goodnight, Tucker.”
I should leave.
Instead I stand there another second, taking in the quiet house, the soft lamp glow from the living room, Lucy barefoot in the hallway with one side of her hair falling over her shoulder.
Comfortable.
That’s the word again.
Terrifying and true.
“Night, Lucy,” I say finally. Then I make myself walk out before I do something reckless like stay.
THIRTEEN
LUCY
A week goes by, and somehow Tucker becomes part of my days. Not all of them. Not in some huge obvious way. But enough that I start noticing the spaces where he isn’t. That realization should probably alarm me more than it does.
Monday, he comes into the diner for breakfast.
Tuesday, it’s lunch.
Wednesday, he’s there again just before the rush, sitting at the counter like he doesn’t own a watch and like I don’t notice he times it for my section every single time.
He never says much in front of other people. Mostly he orders, eats, watches me with those beautiful, steady eyes, and leaves too much money on the table. But sometimes he lingers.
He always makes sure he asks how Quinn is. Sometimes he waits until I’ve caught my breath between tables and says something low and dry enough to make me laugh when I’m trying very hard not to. And every single time, my stomach does something stupid.