Page 43 of Coming Home

I heard the heavy thud of his duffel bag hitting the slate floor, the familiar slide of his boots, and then Ralph was standing in the archway of the living room.

The sheer physical reality of him after a week apart hit my lungs like a blow.

He was deeply tanned from the outdoor shoots along the Seine, his blond hair noticeably lighter from the European sun, wearing a simple, tailored charcoal shirt that clung to the heavy spread of his shoulders. Which was, frankly, unfair. No man had a right to look like that stepping off a nine-hour flight.

I sat up far too quickly, setting my book down with a hollow smack that made it obvious I hadn't turned a single page, and blurted out:

"I made dinner."

The words were too eager. I sounded like a golden retriever waiting for a treat. I immediately cleared my throat to implement an aggressive course-correction. "I mean... it's nothing fancy. Just chicken and rice. You don't have to eat it if you're not hungry."

Ralph's gaze drifted from the carefully set table over to me. His expression softened, moving through a flicker of surprise and amusement before anchoring into something gentle, almost cautious.

"Ems," he said. "I already ate. I stopped by your parents' place on the drive up from the airport. Theo needed me to sign some updated media releases, and your mom had this massive spread laid out on the counter, and..."

The air left my lungs in a quiet, deflating rush. It was a tiny, stupid sting, like a pinprick to a balloon, but it made my stomach drop anyway.

"Oh," I said, forcing a bright, easy smile that felt brittle. "Oh, that's totally fine! That's great. I'm really glad you got to see them and eat real food."

I stood up, moving toward the dining table because my hands desperately required an active task. I needed to clear the plates, to hide the evidence of my domestic ambition before he could see my face rearranging itself around a disappointment I had no right to feel.

I had managed to construct exactly one edible meal in my entire adult life, and the person I'd built it for had already eaten dinner with my mother. That it hurt at all was proof I was swimming in waters far too deep for my current stroke.

As I reached out to grab the pristine dinner plate, a large, warm hand clamped gently around my wrist. His touch was steadying. Ralph took the plate from my fingers, set it back down on the place mat, and smoothly pulled out the heavy chair. He lowered his frame into the seat, picked up the fork, and looked up at me.

"You don't have to do that," I whispered.

"I know I don't." He slid the fork through the chicken, took a substantial bite, and chewed deliberately, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Is it an absolute disaster?"

"It's a monumental, historic upgrade from the culinary atrocities of our youth."

"I was an experimental artist back then."

"The local fire department categorized it as a public hazard," he said, a genuine grin breaking across his face. He took another large bite, clearly enjoying it. "This is incredible, Emma. The chicken is perfect."

I fought the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth and lost spectacularly.

He ate.

I walked to the sofa.

"H-how are they?" The words strangled out.

My fingers twisted together.

He delivered the details with immense care, his blue eyes watching my reactions. My father was doing well, and retirement was good for him. My mother had redecorated the sunroom—the third time in twenty-four months—because she processed her maternal anxiety through furniture arrangement. Abbie had started junior taekwondo and was already thoroughly intimidating her adult instructor.

"Your mom talked about you," Ralph added quietly,

"A lot. And Theo... he didn't say much out loud, but I caught him checking his phone a dozen times while we were at the island."

I stared down at the plush rug, a suffocating silence settling over the room. My father's sixty-fifth birthday was approaching in less than two weeks.

How many milestones had I willingly missed? How many family dinners had I skipped because I couldn't bear the weight of their perception?

By the time Ralph finished speaking, the kitchen had grown dim, the single ambient light above the professional stove casting long, soft shadows across the marble. The house felt deeply settled, protected from the coastal wind outside, and the pressure in my chest kept building. I was so tired. Tired of carrying it alone, of the three years I'd spent telling everyone I was fine when I wasn't, and I could feel all of it pushing up my throat before I'd decided to say a word.