The drive back to our house is silent, but not uncomfortably so. He asks me about the clubhouse, whether Victoria is feeling well, and whether Marley has settled in properly, and I answer him easily, giving him the small bright things because that’s what he is asking for.
When I pull into the driveway, he leans over and kisses my forehead the same way he has since I was a child.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he says.
“I love you too, Dad.”
I watch him go inside, and I sit in the car for a moment longer than I need to, my hands resting on the steering wheel.
‘In order.’
I take a breath, then another, until the tightness in my chest loosens enough to function, and then I get out of the car.
Will is on the porch when I arrive, leaning back against the rail post the way he always settles into whatever space he occupies, like he belongs exactly where he is. He has a bottle of water dangling from two fingers, and when he hears the car door close, his eyes come up to find me without any of the searching that some people do, the quick scan to assess whether something is off. Somehow, he already knows, and it’s both the most comforting and the most terrifying thing about him.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I drop down onto the porch steps beside him, and for a while neither of us says anything at all, which is one of the things I love most about being near Will. He has never filled silence for the sake of filling it. He lets it exist between us like a third presence, comfortable and undemanding. After a day of holding myself together in lawyer’s offices and cars, the absence of expectation is something I could nearly weep with gratitude for.
The street ahead sits mostly still, the neighborhood wrapped in that strange March version of Las Vegas before tourist season hits full force. The whole city feels different this time of year—slower and less fake.
“First time I ever rode a bike,” Will says eventually, his voice low and unhurried, “I stole Deek’s.” I turn to look at him, and the corner of his mouth is already lifting. “Thirteen years old, I thought I was absolutely invincible. Didn’t tell anyone, didn’t ask, just took it out of the garage at five in the morning before Dad was awake.” He pauses, taking a drink of his water. “Made it approximately four blocks.”
I have no idea where he is going with this, so I decide to ask. “What happened?”
“Fence post at the end of Calloway Street. Didn’t account for the fact that Deek had adjusted the brakes, and I had no idea.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like a man who has made peace with his thirteen-year-old self’s spectacularly bad judgment. “Bent the front wheel. Snapped a section of the post clean off.”
I feel the laugh building in my chest before it escapes, the first real one I’ve had all day. “What did Bear do?”
“Made me fix it myself.” Will’s expression is fond in that way it gets when he talks about his father, exasperated and full of love in equal measure. “Every bolt, every part… took three weekends, because I had to source some of the pieceson my paper route money, which Dad thought was entirely appropriate.”
“And Deek?” I ask because I know Deek, and I know there is absolutely no version of this story in which Deek was not deeply involved.
“Narrated the whole thing.” Will’s voice carries that perfectly dry amusement. “Sat in a lawn chair every Saturday morning with a beer he’d stolen from the kitchen and was hiding from Dad, then provided running commentary. Used a voice like he was announcing a sports event. The neighbors came out on week two.”
I let out a proper laugh, and Will is watching me laugh with an expression I don’t let myself examine too closely. It’s the look he saves for moments like this when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
Gradually, the laughter settles. Somewhere nearby, someone’s television flickers through a window, a low blue pulse of light.
I smile, understanding his weird tangent storyline. It was simply to make me laugh. So, I lean my head against Will’s shoulder in thanks. His shoulder rests beside mine, solid heat through leather, his breathing slow and controlled.
The silence settles into something deliberate, and we watch the street together.
I’m not sure how long we sit here. Time does strange things when I’m with him, stretches and compresses in ways I’ve stopped worrying about. At some point, I become acutely aware that my pulse has changed to something more awake, and I know what it is because I know this feeling. I’ve known it for two years, carried it around in every room he’s walked into, every time his voice found me through a crowd, and my whole body reacted before my brain could catch up.
I tilt my head without fully deciding to, and the air between us tightens, charged in that low, electric way storms build out in the desert.
He notices.
Of course, he notices.
His eyes dip to my mouth, then rise again, darker now, whatever hesitation was there replaced by something more final.
Like he’s giving me one last chance to pull back.
I don’t.
The space closes slowly, the last inches disappearing in increments small enough to feel deliberate. Close enough now that I see the faint scar at the edge of Will’s jaw, the roughness of stubble along his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath.
