I roll my eyes. “Oh, yeah? What look?”
He crosses his arms, studying me like he’s piecing together evidence in a case. “The one where your eyebrows do that weird little pinch thing. And you’re biting your nails.” He nods at my hand. “You only do that when you’re nervous or sad.”
I glance down at my fingers, realizing he’s right. Damn. Sometimes having a perceptive kid was a pain in the ass.
I drop my hands to my sides and exhale. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t move right away, just watches me for a beat longer, like he’s trying to read me.
But then, finally, he walks over to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair.
As he sits, I catch myself staring at his legs—how long they are now, how they don’t dangle over the edge like they used to.
I remember when he was little, when his feet barely touched the floor in these chairs.
Now they’re too long.
Time is a thief.
I pull out the chair next to him and lower myself into it, inhaling slowly, steadying myself. My hands press against my thighs, like grounding myself to something will make this easier.
“Baby,” I start softly, watching his face, watching for the smallest shift. “I know we’ve never really… talked about your dad very much.”
His eyes drop to the table. He shrugs. “Yeah.”
I let out a quiet breath. “The truth is, I didn’t know where he was. Or if he was ever going to come back.” I pause, clearing my throat before I say the next words. “But he has. He’s come back.”
His head snaps up at that, his wide brown eyes searching mine. But he doesn’t say anything.
I keep going, because if I stop now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to startagain. “He wants to get to know you.”
Silence stretches between us. Hudson swallows, his fingers tracing patterns into the wood grain of the table.
I keep my voice even, gentle. “He wants to come over. Have dinner with us. But I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, okay? If you don’t want to, I’ll call the whole thing off, and we can order pizza and watch whatever Marvel movie you want.” I reach for his hand, running my thumb over his knuckles. “But… I think it might be good for you to get to know him.”
Hudson looks up at me then, his brows pulled together. “Why?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. “He left us.”
I exhale, squeezing his hand. “He didn’t leave you, baby. He didn’t know about you.”
Hudson’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping again. I give him a moment before I keep going.
“He was away for a long time. And I wasn’t able to contact him,” I explain, keeping my voice steady, even though my chest feels tight. “But now that he knows, he wants a fair shot.”
Hudson stays quiet, his fingers stilling on the table.
“The choice is yours,” I tell him. “But I think maybe you should try.”
He looks at me again, searching my face, like he’s trying to find the answer there. “He’s a pretty good guy?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He considers that for a moment, then asks, “What’s he like?”
I hesitate, searching for the right words. How do I explain Boone to the son who’s never met him? How do I capture all of him—the boy I knew, the man he became—in a way that makes sense?
“He’s—” I pause, pressing my lips together. “He’s strong. And stubborn. And loyal in a way that sometimes makes him reckless.” I exhale a soft laugh. “He’s the kind of person who will drive through a snowstorm if someone he cares about needs him. He’s always been that way. And he’s funny, even though he doesn’t always mean to be.”
Hudson watches me, absorbing every word.
