I arch an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
He grins. “She told me about how you took on a second job to buy her that concert ticket. And the time you woke up at three in the morning to pick her up from summer camp because she was homesick. Or when you spent all night helping her build that volcano for the seventh-grade science fair. She really looks up to you.”
My throat stings, but I choke it down.
He continues, “You’re a good man, Mason. And for what it’s worth, I don’t just want to fix things with Maddie. I want to make things right with you, too.”
I nod slowly. “If you get full custody after Mom… after she’s gone, I still want to visit Maddie sometimes. You’d have to be okay with that.”
Stephen doesn’t hesitate. “I’d be more than okay with that. In fact, I’d like for us to schedule regular dinners. You, me, Maddie… and if you want, you can bring your boyfriend along.”
My shoulders stiffen. Heat creeps into my face before I can stop it. “We’re… not together anymore.”
His expression softens. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Maddie really liked him. She lit up when she talked about the two of you.”
I swallow hard, forcing the words out. “I made a mistake with Hunter, but I’m gonna try to fix it.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “Then I hope you do. Good luck, Mason.”
We stand in the fading afternoon light, shifting awkwardly until I finally extend a hand. He hesitates, then shakes it, his gray eyes locking with mine.
“I promise I won’t screw this up again,” Stephen says. “I know I have a long way to go to regain your trust, but I’ll work toward it every day.”
I nod, my chest tight. Doubt courses through me, but for Maddie’s sake, I hope he proves me wrong.
“Take care, Stephen. I’ll be in touch.”
I climb into my truck and start the engine. The sky hangs low with clouds, the road ahead slick with rain. As I pull out of the lot, my direction is set on Shelby Harbor.
***
A few hours later, I find myself sitting in a lecture hall at Lakeview University, clutching a bouquet of red roses I picked up from a gas station. The place is packed, students spilling into every row, professors crowded along the perimeter.
It feels strange being back on campus. Two years ago, these buildings were home. Now, I feel like an intruder, a ghost haunting a life that used to be mine.
Hunter doesn’t know I’m here. He blocked my number, which doesn’t surprise me. I know I deserve it. Still, my chest stung when I tried calling him and got sent straight to his voicemail.
I keep my head down and find a seat in the very back. The last thing I want is for him to see me and throw him off right before his presentation. This is his moment. He’s worked all summer for it.
From where I’m sitting, I can spot him at the front of the room, setting up his laptop on the podium. His dark hair catches the overhead lights, his posture straight but tense.
He’s cleaned up nicely—a stark contrast to the thrifted clothes I saw him in all summer. He’s wearing a floral print button-up shirt and a pair of black pants, wrinkle-free, snug on his body like they’re painted on his skin. He looks captivatingly beautiful.
God, I’ve missed him.
The sound of shuffling papers and quiet chatter fills the air. My palms are slick, and my leg bounces restlessly. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. Maybe back when I was waiting on my college acceptance letter when I was seventeen. Or when Mom first told me she was sick.
I sink lower in my seat, praying Hunter doesn’t look up and see me—not yet.
He speaks quietly to a tall, gray-haired woman at the podium. I recognize her from a photo on his Pixstagram—his graduate advisor, Dr. Susan Maxwell, a professor of botany.
She raises a microphone to her lips and clears her throat. The chatter in the room quiets down.
“Good evening, students and faculty,” she begins. “I’m Dr. Maxwell. It’s my pleasure to introduce one of my students, Hunter Davis. He’s here to share the results of his summer research. Please join me in giving him a warm round of applause.”
The room erupts in cheers as Hunter moves behind the podium with a small microphone clipped to his shirt collar. Behind him, the projector flickers to life with his title slide.
“Um, hi,” Hunter says, giving a small, awkward wave. “Thank you for the introduction, Dr. Maxwell. And thank you all for being here tonight. This summer, I had the opportunity to research one of my favorite plants—the Pitcher’s Thistle—and I’m excited to share what I’ve learned.”
