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At seventeen, I’d left with nothing but a backpack and a promise to myself never to be trapped again. And yet, here I was. Back in the same town, the same school, the same parking lot where Lane had once held my face in his hands and told me I was everything. My chest ached at the memory.

Had Jace shoved someone to the ground? I knew my son. I knew the quiet things he carried—the way he swallowed everything whole until it burned. We’d talk, and I’d get the truth. This wasn’t like Jace. There had to be more to the story.

I’d fix it because that’s what I did. I held everything and everyone together for Grandpa, for Jace, and for the fragile life I’d built from the wreckage of choices that couldn’t be undone. I slid into my car, gripped the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead.

Inside that small office, Lane had looked at me as though he was trying to reconcile the girl he’d loved with the woman sitting across from him. I didn’t know which hurt more—the judgment in his voice or the concern he tried to hide when I left.

At six o’clock tomorrow night, Jace would step onto the football field under Lane’s watchful eyes.

And I’d have to trust my first heartbreak with my heart.

My lungs burned. I turned the key in the ignition, because there wasn’t another option. Jace and I would talk. Then I’d figure out how to survive football season.

Twelve

Cali

Jace stood in the side yard as the farmhouse came into view. I shut off the engine, but I didn’t open the door. Through the windshield, I watched my son stand beside Grandpa’s miniature farm, football tucked beneath his arm, shoulders carrying more weight than any fourteen-year-old should. Fourteen and already taller than me. Shoulders widening. Jaw sharpening. But moments like this still brought back the little boy who used to fall asleep on the couch with one hand fisted in my shirt, holding on like letting go meant I might disappear.

I stepped out of the car. Grandpa—Jimmy—sat cross-legged in the dirt, carefully repositioning a toy cow.

“Hey.”

Jace glanced up as he tossed the football lightly in the air and caught it again.

“How was practice?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

“Fine.” The football thudded into his palm again.

Grandpa looked up and squinted at me. “You’re late.”

“I know.” I stepped closer. “I had a meeting.”

Jace’s toss faltered for half a second before he caught it again. “With who?” he asked, aiming for casualness and missing by a mile.

Before answering, I crouched beside Grandpa and pressed a kiss to the top of his wild silver hair. “Hey, Jimmy. Did you win the farm war?”

He grinned. “Always.”

Jace snorted. I stood and brushed dirt off my jeans. “Inside,” I said gently to Jace. “When you’re ready.”

His shoulders tensed.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we need to talk,” I said as he met my eyes.

The football stopped moving. Grandpa hummed to himself, pushing the tiny tractor in slow circles. Jace and I held each other’s gaze for a long second. He nodded once and headed for the back door without another word.

The kitchen seemed smaller in the evening light, shadows trickling through the windows. Jace leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. I stayed standing across from him.

“I met with your coach today,” I said. He scrubbed the back of his thumb across his forehead.

“Oh.”

“Do you want to tell me about Monday?” I asked.

He stared at the floor and toed the cracked linoleum tile near the fridge. His foot nudged at the edge of it like he could peel the whole week up and throw it away.