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He cuts in gently. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Knox. You’re good at ranch work, but that doesn’t mean it feeds you. Not the way it should.”
I stare at him, taking my hands off the bird, stunned as turkey brine drips onto my boots.
Dad picks up a handful of thyme, sprinkling it over the roasting pan like we’re just talking about the weather.
“You know,” he says, voice mild, “I’ve been thinking about opening an auto shop on the property. Right on the stretch past the southern fence line.”
My head jerks up. “You what?”
He continues as if he didn’t just casually alter the course of my life. “Problem is, Miller and Jack can’t do it on their own. Jack’s great with small engines, Miller’s got the business sense, but we’d need a diesel mechanic specializing in heavy equipment. Someone we trust. Someone who already knows the land and the people.”
I blink once. Then twice. “Are you…serious?”
Dad shrugs like it’s nothing. “You saw the paper. The information is all there. Class requirements. Costs. Apprenticeship hours.” He wipes both hands clean and sets the towel aside. “If you want it, it’s yours.”
The kitchen hums around us—boiling pots, fridge buzzing, the distant murmur of pre-holiday noise—but everything inside me goes still.
“I didn’t know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t think you’d ever…”
“Consider something else for you?” he finishes for me. “Son, your life isn’t a family obligation. The ranch will survive. It’s got enough hands, enough people who want to be here. But you…” He gestures toward me with a soft pride that nearly knocks the wind from my lungs. “You light up around machines. Engines. Gears. You’re a fixer. You’ve always had that knack.”
“I just didn’t want to disappoint you,” I confess.
Dad chuckles. “You think you disappoint me by wanting your own life? Wanting something that makes sense in your bones?” He shakes his head. “No one can make this decision for you, Knox. Not me. Not Miller. Not even your girl.” He softens his tone. “Take time. Think about it, pray, if that’s your thing. But the truth is simple: The opportunity is there. And if it’s what you want…we’ll make it happen, all right?”
He pats my shoulder and goes back to stuffing herbs into the turkey as if he didn’t just open the world wider than it’s ever felt before.
I stand there, hands still dripping brine, heart pounding like a cracked engine trying to turn over for the first time in years.
Maybe for the first time since I graduated, it finally can.
Chapter Thirty-Eight Flick
Thanksgiving morning is the first morning in a long time that I wake up fully ecstatic.
Because today she’s coming. Mom is really coming, and I am going to show Knox and Lottie and Rowen and Riley and anyone else in this group who doesn’t believe me that this won’t be like last year.
This time is different, and I am making sure of it.
Last night, I curated the perfect outfit for family pictures: dark-wash jeans, a cinnamon-colored sweater, boots I borrowed from Riley (or stole from her closet, since she technically still owes me), and the cutest curly-girl-approved hairstyle. I even laid everything out on my dresser like it was the first day of school.
Rowen will be there—he already told Riley and Knox that he’s coming—and shockingly, I don’t care. Not today. He can do all his explaining and butt-kissing and maybe it will matter tomorrow, but for now, he’s the last thing I’m worried about.
Contrary to my entire fall being geared toward the two of them—today isn’t about him. It’s only about her.
Because other than Knox—that’s a given—there is one person I’m going to Thanksgiving to see. And whereas I know Rowen wants to “talk” and “figure things out,” I don’t know if I can get to that place when all I’ve been thinking about is how I’m finally, after spending this entire year begging, going to see her.
Except the second I step outside with Riley, my outfit and hair turn to absolute garbage. My curls puff and frizz, clinging to my cheeks, and my boots splash through puddles like I haven’t spent hours trying to pull this whole look off.
It’s pouring, I mean a biblical downpour. Big, monstrous drops that blow sideways, soaking everything no matter where you go. The wind howls through the neighborhood like something out of a ghost movie.
“Did you know it was going to storm?” I ask, ducking into Riley’s car as my curls instantly soak in the water and start to puff up even more.
“Nope. Didn’t even think to check,” she says, shaking out her own hair. “Guess the guys can’t do their football game outside that they force us to watch.” She turns on the sarcasm. “What a shame.”
“I was actually looking forward to that,” I mumble.
It’s warm enough that if Knox got to run around for even two minutes, I’m about 99 percent sure he’d end up shirtless. And that would’ve been…nice. Maybe he can get all wet outside and I can convince him to take it off anyway.
