He helps me to my feet, brushing dirt from the back of my jeans with hands that linger a little too long. He looks good like this—hair mussed, lips swollen from kissing me, shirt wrinkled, a softness in his eyes that he never lets anyone else see.
It hits me all over again how loved I am.
The drive back feels dreamlike. I don’t say much. Neither does he. His hand rests on my thigh, and every so often his thumb sweeps in a slow arc that makes warmth bloom beneath my ribs.
When he pulls up outside my house, the porch light glows amber against the front steps. He kills the engine but doesn’t move at first. He just looks at me with that warm, undone expression that always makes my stomach swoop.
He leans across the console and kisses me for a long, unhurried moment. It’s the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except that I remember this night, that I remember us.
His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing the edge of my hairline, and I press closer, trying to make the moment stretch.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss against the corner of my mouth. “Early.”
“Okay.” My voice is breathy. Embarrassing. But he smiles, like he likes that he does this to me.
When I climb down from the truck, my legs feel unsteady—not from what we did, but from how deeply I feel him everywhere inside me. I’m still smiling when I push open the front door.
The smile vanishes when I see my father sitting in the kitchen.
At first I’m confused. The clock on the microwave glows 1:14 a.m., and Dad never stays up this late.
He’s hunched over the table, elbows braced on either side of something he’s holding. A half-full glass sits beside him, and the sharp scent of vodka clings to the air.
I’ve never seen him drink like this. I’ve never seen him look so… undone.
“Dad?” My voice slips out, thin and unsure. “Why’re you still up?”
He lifts his head, and the expression on his face does something awful to my stomach. His eyes are glassy, red around the edges, like he’s been crying.
I didn’t even know he could. My father is the kind of man who holds the world together with patience and grit. He’s the one people call when animals are sick or fences collapse or storms come through.
He isn’t the one who breaks.
“I—” He swallows and looks down at the picture again. “It’s your mother.”
Something cold wraps itself around my spine. “What about her?”
He turns the photo so I can see it. My breath catches.
It’s a picture I’ve never seen before.
My mother is in a hospital gown, hair sticking to her forehead, exhaustion in her face, but a bright smile blooming through it.
Dad looks younger, softer around the edges, holding me in his arms with a look so full of awe it makes my throat close.
It hits me that this is the day I was born.
My chest tightens. “Dad… what happened?”
He takes a long breath that trembles on the way out. “She’s gone.”
“I know that,” I say gently. “She left when I was a kid?—”
“No.” His voice cracks, and the word slices through the kitchen. “She’s gone, honey. She’s… she passed.”
The room tilts under me.
No. That can’t be right. That doesn’t make sense. My mother has been gone for years. Gone in the way people leave, not in the way people disappear forever.
