Gage #2
“I know,” she says. “But it’s fun.”
My dad stands. “I’m going to put my suitcase in the guest room.”
“Don’t trip,” my mom calls.
My dad pauses. “Susan.”
“What?”
My dad pauses. “They’re fine. Same narrow treads, same dramatic creak—like they want applause for holding us up.”
My mom nods, satisfied. “Good. Then you remember the rule—one hand on the rail, one hand on your pride. Those stairs have been humbling you since 1998.”
He walks away, and my mom sits in the armchair opposite me, studying me like she’s waiting for the truth to wobble loose.
“Gage,” she says, softer now, “you know we love Reece.”
“I know.”
“And you know Linda and Patrick love you.”
“I know.”
She leans forward slightly. “So if something is going on—and you don’t have to tell me details—just know we’re not here to judge. We’re here to… be your people.”
My throat tightens.
My mom has a dramatic streak, but she also has a heart that doesn’t miss anything.
“I’m fine,” I say anyway, because apparently I’m committed to my own misery.
My mom sighs, but she doesn’t push further. She stands instead. “Okay,” she says. “Then you can help me.”
I blink. “With what?”
She points toward the kitchen. “Dinner.”
“I thought you were making dinner.”
“I am,” she says. “But you can chop things like a functional adult.”
I stand, because chopping vegetables is safer than having feelings.
In the kitchen, she hands me an onion. “Chop,” she orders.
I look at the onion. “This feels like a trap.”
“It’s dinner,” she says.
“It’s onions,” I correct.
“Same thing,” she says brightly.
I start chopping. My mom moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who has cooked in this space for years, even though she hasn’t lived here in a while.
She hums while she works, opening cabinets, knowing where she’s left them.
Then she pauses, not looking at me as she says it. “So… did you hear from Reece today?”
The knife stills.
I keep my tone neutral. “A text.”
My mom hums like she’s filing that away. “Mm.”
I go back to chopping.
“She okay?” she asks, too casual.
I exhale slowly. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
I glance at her. “Mom.”
She holds up both hands. “Okay. I’m done.”
She is not done.
She pivots immediately. “Remember when you two used to make grilled cheese here and swear you invented it?”
I blink, caught off guard. “We were eight.”
“You were convinced you were culinary geniuses,” she says, smiling.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. “We were.”
“And Reece insisted hers needed—what did she call it—‘presentation.’” My mom gestures dramatically with her hands. “She’d cut it into triangles like she was serving royalty.”
“That sounds like her,” I murmur.
My mom’s eyes soften. “She hasn’t changed.”
My throat tightens again, because she has and she hasn’t.
Reece is still Reece.
But now there are new edges. New fear. New stakes.
My mom sets something on the stove, then turns back to me, voice softer. “Whatever is going on… don’t let fear do the driving, okay?”
I freeze mid-chop.
My mom smiles like she didn’t just drop a line that hit too close to the center of my chest.
I swallow. “I’m not afraid.”
My mom lifts a brow.
I adjust. “I’m… cautious.”
She nods, satisfied. “That’s your favorite flavor.”
I exhale a quiet laugh, because it’s true.
Cautious has been my default setting for years.
It’s how I kept loving Reece from a distance that looked like friendship.
It’s how I kept my hands to myself.
It’s how I kept the line clear so she never had to wonder if I was taking advantage.
But caution doesn’t feel like virtue anymore.
It feels like delay.
My dad appears in the kitchen doorway like he’s been summoned by tension. “Need help?”
My mom turns, cheerful again. “Yes. Set the table.”
My dad nods like it’s an honor.
Then he looks at me, eyes steady. “You good?”
I nod once.
My father doesn’t believe me, but he accepts the nod anyway.
That’s one of the things I love about him.
He doesn’t demand my feelings. He just makes space for them.
A knock sounds at the front door.
My chest tightens automatically.
My mom’s face lights up. “That’ll be them!”
Reece’s parents.
The other adults who have watched our lives overlap like braided rope.
My mom hurries toward the door, practically bouncing.
I follow more slowly, my hands suddenly feeling too big for my body.
When the door opens, it’s exactly what I expected and still too much:
Linda Callahan steps in first, arms already open, smiling like she’s holding missed time on her chest.
“Susan!” she cries, and my mother launches into her like they’re magnets.
Behind her, Patrick Callahan walks in with a grin, looking around the foyer like he’s waiting for the house to say hello.
Then he spots me.
“Gage!” he says warmly. “Look at you.”
“Hi Pat,” I say.
Patrick laughs. “It’s so good to see you!”
He pulls me into a quick, firm hug that feels like a stamp of approval.
Then he steps back, eyes scanning my face in that calm, dad way that sees everything without calling it out.
“You holding up after that storm?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say automatically.
Linda appears at my side, cupping my cheek for half a second like I’m still a kid. “You’re so handsome, but you look tired.”
My mom leans in, delighted. “He lived on coffee today.”
I shoot her a look.
Linda huffs. “We’ll fix that.”
“We?” I repeat.
Linda smiles sweetly. “We.”
Of course.
Two moms. One kitchen.
My house is about to become a production.
Patrick looks around. “Reece home?”
My stomach tightens again.
Linda nods. “She’s home. Freshening up.”
Patrick’s grin grows. “Good. Good. We’re excited to see her.”
My mom claps her hands. “Yes! Like old times!”
Patrick laughs. “Well, this is going to be something.”
My dad appears behind me, carrying placemats like he’s in a domestic relay race. “Robert,” Linda says, hugging him too.
Then, within minutes, my living room is full of adults laughing, talking over each other, swapping rental car stories, complaining about airlines, and looking at the snow like it personally wronged them.
And me?
I stand slightly to the side, watching it all like I’m watching a scene from a life that used to be simpler.
Because it used to be simpler.
Before the kiss.
Before the panic.
Before the distance.
Before “Reece is on her way” felt like a countdown.
My mom suddenly disappears down the hallway and returns holding a photo album like she’s been waiting her entire life for this moment.
“Oh,” she says brightly. “I found it.”
Linda gasps. “No.”
My dad sighs. “Susan.”
Patrick’s eyes light up. “Yes.”
I stiffen. “Absolutely not.”
My mom ignores me. “Kid photos!”
I point at her. “Mom.”
She flips the album open anyway, like she’s opening a case file.
Linda immediately counters by pulling out her phone. “I have pictures too.”
Patrick beams. “Oh, we’re doing this.”
My dad shakes his head. “We’re really doing this.”
“This is war,” my mom says happily.
I rub my face with both hands. “This is a crime.”
Patrick laughs. “It’s family.”
And then the adults who raised us begin comparing photo evidence like they’re presenting exhibits to a jury.
“Oh!” my mom says, holding up a picture. “Look at this one—Gage at six, missing his front tooth, standing next to Reece in that little backyard fort you two built.”
Linda shrieks. “You mean the fort that ‘connected our houses’?”
Patrick laughs so hard he has to sit down.
My cheeks burn. “We were children.”
Linda waves her phone. “I have Reece in the same fort. She wrote ‘No boys allowed’ on the sign and then let you in anyway.”
My mother leans in, eyes gleaming. “Interesting.”
My dad looks at me like he’s trying not to smile. He fails.
Patrick points at the photo. “That’s when I knew we were doomed. Those two were a unit from day one.”
My stomach drops a fraction.
A unit.
From day one.
The way they say it sounds warm. I know it’s warm.
But right now it feels like pressure.
Because if they’ve always seen us as linked… then tonight will be impossible to fake.
My mom flips to another page. “Oh! Here. This is my favorite.”
She holds up a picture of teenage me, awkward in a tie, standing beside Reece in a dress.
Linda makes a sound. “Prom.”
Patrick leans forward. “That was the year her date was late.”
My throat tightens.
Because I remember.
I remember standing outside the gym, waiting, because Reece was trying to act like she didn’t care and I knew she did.
I remember offering my arm like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything.
But it meant something.
Linda smiles at the photo. “You walked her in.”
My mom’s eyes flick to me, sharp and knowing.
I swallow.
Patrick laughs. “I told Linda he was in trouble.”
My dad says quietly, “We all did.”
The room goes warmer. Not just because of the heat.
Because of the way they look at me like they’re seeing through time.
Like they’re seeing through me.
Then my mom claps her hands again. “Okay! Enough evidence. Dinner!”
“Thank you,” I mutter.
No one listens.
They scatter toward the kitchen like it’s a family field trip.
Linda starts helping without asking.
My mom starts giving instructions without asking.
My dad sets the table.
Patrick opens a cabinet and says, “You still have the good plates.”
“I live here,” I say.
Patrick grins. “Still.”
I move through the kitchen like I’m on autopilot, chopping, stirring, handing things over, answering questions about work and the storm and whether I’ve replaced the weather stripping yet.
All of it feels normal.
All of it is a distraction.
Because underneath, the one thing I keep thinking is:
Reece is coming.
And I want to talk to her.
Not in front of them.
Not in a kitchen full of moms.
Not with dads pretending not to watch.
I want a quiet moment.
A doorway.
A hallway.
A breath.
I want to tell her I didn’t pull back because I regretted her.
I pulled back because I was afraid of taking more than she meant to give.
I want to ask her what that kiss meant to her.
I want to know if she’s building distance because she’s scared… or because she didn’t want it.
The second possibility makes something inside me go cold.
My mom appears at my elbow. “She’s on her way,” she says cheerfully, like she’s announcing a pizza delivery.
My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
I keep my face neutral. “Okay.”
My mom squints at me again. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Sure,” she says, not believing me for a second. “Go—fix your hair or something. You look like you’ve been staring at spreadsheets emotionally.”
I blink. “That’s not a phrase.”
“It is now,” she says, waving me off.
I slip out through the back door like a teenager escaping a family function, and the cold hits my face clean and sharp. The porch light paints the snow in warm yellow. The neighborhood is quiet in that post-storm way—soft piles, muted street, everything hushed like it’s listening.
The snow outside has softened into that calm brightness that comes after storms.
It looks peaceful.
My life does not.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For one ridiculous second, I think it might be Reece.
It’s a work email.
I ignore it.
I rake a hand through my hair, which is ridiculous because my hair isn’t the problem.
My brain is the problem.
Because the only thing I can hear right now is my own heartbeat.
And under it, the sounds of the house behind me—pots clinking, voices weaving together, my mother’s laugh bouncing off the kitchen walls like she’s already hosting a holiday.
I exhale slowly.
Because now more than ever, I want to talk to her.
But now more than ever, I can’t.
Not without the entire room turning into a courtroom.
And tonight?
Tonight the witnesses are already in the kitchen, seasoning dinner like it’s a peace treaty.
A bright chime cuts through the quiet—sharp, cheerful.
The doorbell.
My chest tightens.
From inside, my mother’s voice lifts instantly, delighted and loud enough to be heard through insulation.
“Oh! That’s her!”
Dad’s footsteps follow—calm, unhurried—like he’s been walking to this door for years and doesn’t need to rush.
I stay on the porch for half a beat longer than I should, letting the cold keep my face steady.
Then I turn back toward the house.
Because whatever happens next… is walking through the front door.