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“You get to decide who you are,” I reassured, the sound of fried eggs crackling in the pan the only noise.

Then, almost reluctantly he agreed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I asked.

“I’ll apologize,” he muttered.

I pulled him into a hug before he could change his mind. He resisted for exactly one second before his arms wrapped around me. Not because he didn’t want the hug. Because he was fourteen. He was almost too tall. My cheek rested against his collarbone instead of his hair.

“You don’t have to fight my battles,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said into my shoulder.

“But I’m glad you’d want to.” My sweet boy.

He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah.”

I gave him a quick squeeze before Grandpa’s voice drifted in from outside.

“Best friends! The cows are escaping!” he bellowed.

Jace pulled back first, wiping at his eyes as if he’d just gotten something in them.

“Guess we should go save the herd,” he said with a laugh, knowing Grandpa was most likely talking about plastic figurines.

“Guess so.”

He paused at the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. “Cal?”

“Yeah?”

“If Coach ever talks about you like that guy did . . . I’m gonna want to punch his lights out.”

I smiled despite myself. The same protective instinct ran deep in our bones, and we’d do whatever it took to take care of each other.

“Don’t.”

“No promises,” he quipped before disappearing into the fading light.

I stayed in the kitchen for a moment longer, palms flat against the counter, tears welling in my eyes before I finished dinner. Lane had said Jace played as if he were bracing for impact. Maybe he wasn’t only bracing for the game; maybe he was bracing for the world to come after the only stable thing he’d ever known. Me.

And maybe I had spent years doing the same thing—waiting for everything I loved to disappear.

Outside, Jace’s laughter rang out, mingling with Grandpa’s. The embers weren’t dead. Not in this town. Not in my chest. But maybe—just maybe—we didn’t have to let them burn us alive.

Maybe that was the thing about family. It wasn’t about where you came from. It was about who stayed.

And I was staying.

Thirteen

Cali

Friday night football in Kennedy arrived wrapped in amber light. Stadium lights clicked on one by one with a low electrical hum; the bleachers trembled as bodies shifted, aluminum rattling beneath boots and restless legs. The smell of popcorn and concession-stand nachos drifted thick and salty through the air, tangled with cut grass, sweat, and anticipation.

Grandpa sat beside me, three rows up from the railing, in his pressed flannel shirt and overalls, as if this was church instead of football. He’d insisted on arriving forty minutes early, just like always. Some habits remained, even when other things didn’t. He tapped his cane against the bleachers like he was making sure they’d hold. A hospital bracelet still circled his wrist beneath the cuff of his flannel. He’d waved me off when I’d offered to cut it off. The tests wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Until then, there wasn’t a thing to do but wait.

“Gotta see the boy’s first touchdown.”