“And,” Mom adds, quieter, “because he’s been through real loss. He knows what it looks like when someone is just trying to stay afloat.”
I breathe in, shaky.
Mom twists half my hair back and pins it so the rest falls in soft waves. Simple. Pretty. Like I’m going to dinner in Buckhorn, not stepping into a courtroom.
When she’s done, she comes around and tilts my chin up with two fingers.
“There,” she says. “That’s my girl.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t feel like her.”
Mom’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then you go anyway. You show up anyway. That’s how you find her.”
I swallow. “What if he wants to talk about… everything?”
“That’s the point of dinner,” Mom says dryly.
A weak smile pulls at my mouth.
Then my phone buzzes, even face down, like it’s trying to remind me that the world outside this house exists.
My whole body flinches.
Mom’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”
I do.
“You are safe here,” she says, low and certain. “And you are allowed to have one good evening. Even if the internet is being cruel. Even if your father is being your father. Even if your past is loud.”
My eyes burn again. I nod, because I can’t speak without cracking.
“Now,” she says, standing, brisk again, “go get your coat. And breathe.”
I grab my coat from the chair, tug it on, and immediately feel the walls closing in.
It’s like my brain realizes I’m about to leave the bubble.
My heart speeds up. My palms go cold.
“I need air,” I blurt.
Mom points toward the door. “Porch. Go.”
I head down the hall and out the front door, and the cold hits my face like a reset button.
The porch light glows warm. The street is quiet. Peaceful in that Buckhorn way. Like even the silence knows your name.
I inhale.
My breath fogs in front of me, and I can almost convince my nervous system to stop screaming.
Then my mind betrays me, as always.
Dallas’s hands. Dallas’s voice. Dallas’s mouth.
The memory of him, of us, hits like heat under my ribs, sharp and disorienting.
I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the driveway, willing time to move faster.
