Page 28

“You’re not supposed to shove people,” I returned lightly because this was us. His mouth twitched. The whistle blew again to catch the players’ attention. The game resumed.

I climbed back into the stands, legs suddenly heavy. Grandpa reached for my hand and patted it.

“Is he gonna be alright?” he asked.

“I think so. More than anything, it just really knocked the air out of him, but it’s always good to play it safe.”

Below, the players lined up again. This time when the ball snapped, Jace didn’t look like he was bracing. He seemed focused and present, treating the injury of a teammate as a reason to win. The next play came fast—a sweep to the right. Jace blocked clean and hard, driving his defender back without losing control. No wild shove. No flare of temper. Just strength.

Lane commanded the sideline, eyes sharp, jaw set, taking a note from time to time on the clipboard he carried in his hand.

At the end of the third quarter, Jace caught another pass. He ran, and this time, no one caught him. He made a touchdown in a blur of blue and orange; the stadium erupted around us. The sound was deafening. Grandpa shouted something unintelligible and pounded his cane against the bleachers like a drum.

Jace turned toward the stands after the play, scanning. He didn’t wave, but a smile split his face as teammates pounded his helmet and shoulder, congratulating him on making the touchdown. He just held my gaze, solid and certain, like he knew exactly who he was out there. My boy had found somewhere he belonged.

And I realized something as the crowd roared and the lights burned bright overhead—maybe he wasn’t bracing for impact anymore. Maybe he was learning how to stand in it. The tears came before I could stop them.

Fourteen

Lane

The Massey estate sat on the north end of Kennedy as if it had been planted there by decree instead of built with human hands. Stately white columns stretched two stories high, catching the last of the evening light. The cobblestone driveway curved in a slow, deliberate arc past trimmed hedges and a fountain that always seemed a little ridiculous for a town like Kennedy. The whole place looked down its nose at the world around it. From the outside, it was everything people thought a family should be.

The engine cut off, but I stayed behind the wheel for another moment. The thought of walking through those doors already felt like a mistake. The more sensible choice would have been to drive my brand-new fully loaded truck. The ’52 Chevy irritated him more.

Inside, the lights gleamed. Through the front windows, I could make out the outline of a chandelier—all crystal and quiet superiority. Bryant Massey had money, and he wanted everyone to know that. To envy it. To envy him.

I checked the time on my phone. Six fifty-eight. Dinner was at seven. I’d push it as close as I could without actually being late. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could leave.

The air smelled faintly of chlorine from the pool out back and the sweet bite of some expensive interior fragrance drifting through an open window as I walked toward the door.

The front door swung open before I knocked. Bryant stood there, framed in the doorway like a portrait that had aged but never softened. A tan that was a little unnatural against stark white teeth.

“Son,” Bryant Massey said, adjusting the cuff of his pressed navy shirt over his thick gold watch band. “You’re late.”

I glanced at the grandfather clock. Seven on the dot.

“Evening.”

He stepped back, giving me only enough room to enter without brushing shoulders.

The foyer stretched wide and echoed. Marble tiles gleamed under the chandelier’s low light. A curved staircase swept upward as if it belonged in a majestic magazine of million-dollar homes instead of a small Midwestern town of hardworking and humble people.

My footsteps sounded too loud against the floor. Somewhere deeper in the house, silverware clinked softly, and a woman’s voice hummed low.

“Is that him?” a woman called.

There was a pause, and a chair faintly scraped against the floor. And then she appeared.

Julia.

Her hair was longer now, darker than the light blonde it had been at twenty-five. It fell in careful, smooth waves over one shoulder, catching the light. She seemed older than she was, polished, with pearls at her throat like she’d spent years learning how to belong in this house. Bile rose in my throat. Her smile never reached her eyes.

“Hi, Lane.” Her voice was warm. Refined. Practiced. Just like the rest of her.

I nodded once. “Julia.”

She crossed the foyer with measured steps, placing a hand on Bryant’s forearm before she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, then turned back toward the dining room.