I shrug, pretending like I don’t already know where this is going. “A couple months?”
She shakes her head. “Two years.”
I blink. “Twoyears?Damn. I guess you’ve always left that part out.”
She nods, leaning back on her heels, looking pleased with herself. “Two whole years. And by the time he did, I was already going steady with someone else.”
Of course she was.
I scoff. “And what’d Dad do?”
She grins, that mischievous glint in her eye that makes me certain whatever’s coming next is going to be good.
“Well,” she says, dusting off her knees, “he walked right up to the poor guy, looked him dead in the eye, and said, ‘Hope you haven’t gotten too attached, son. You were just keeping my girl busy till I got here.’”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Jesus.”
“Mmhm.” She nods. “Then he spent the next six months pestering me into going on a date with him.”
“Pestering you?” I lift a brow.
She grins. “You think your dad ever took no for an answer?”
I shake my head, let out a low chuckle.
Dad had been stubborn as hell. Set in his ways. A force you didn’t push back against unless you were damn sure you could hold your ground.
But if there was one thing that man loved without question—it was Mom.
He was different around her. Softer, even when he didn’t know how to show it. Still had a temper, still barked when things didn’t go his way, but with her…he was steady. Looked at her like she was the only thing that made sense. Like the rest of the world could burn, and as long as she was standing there, it didn’t matter.
And she loved him right back.
She goes quiet, eyes fixed on the ground like she’s seeing something only she can.
Then, low and almost to herself, “I wish he was here.”
I’ve barely ever seen my mom cry in my entire lifetime. She keeps her grief tucked away, locked up tight, like it’s something private. Something she won’t let the world see.
Doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I slide an arm around her shoulders and pull her in.
“Time,” she says after a beat, her gaze lifting to mine, “it’s a tricky thing, isn’t it? You always imagine there’s an endless supply until suddenly, the well runs dry.”
Her hand squeezes my arm, a firm, no-nonsense grip. “Don’t squander yours on half-measures with Lark. Fix it, before the clock runs out.”
She smiles, presses a quick kiss to my cheek, and then tosses her gloves onto the dirt.
“C’mon,” she says. “Let’s go inside. I made lemonade, just the way you like it. Tart enough to make your teeth hurt.”
And just like that, the moment’s over.
But the words, sharp and true, stay.
Chapter 3
LARK
