Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Scout
My phone buzzes at six AM with a text about Dad's move. And for once, the familiar weight doesn't settle on my shoulders. Silas sleeps beside me, one arm thrown over my waist, his breathing deep and even. I read the message in the dim morning light.
Dad: Movers delayed until afternoon. I need help packing the kitchen and garage up.
Six months ago, I would've immediately started planning how to handle everything myself. Today feels different. I send back a new kind of response.
Me
I'll be there at 8. I’m bringing reinforcements.
Dad
Reinforcements?
Me
You'll see.
Silas stirs when I slip out of bed, his hand catching mine before I can get far. "Where're you going?"
"Dad's move got complicated. I need to head over early."
He sits up immediately, shoulders rolling as he shakes off sleep. "I'll come."
"You don't have to..."
"Scout." His voice is gentle but firm. "I'm coming."
I lean down and kiss him, morning breath and all. "Thank you."
By the time we arrive at my childhood home, cars already line the street. Juliet's SUV sits in the driveway next to Sable's hybrid. Mollie's distinctive yellow bug is parked crooked against the curb, and Hunter's truck pulls up behind us as we're getting out.
"Did you call everyone?" I ask Silas.
"I mentioned it to Hunter. Juliet probably handled the rest."
The front door stands open. Voices and laughter drift out from inside.
We walk into organized chaos that somehow feels exactly right.
Sable has commandeered the kitchen, wrapping dishes in newspaper while giving orders like a general.
Juliet and Mollie work on boxing books in the living room, and Jett and Hunter are already hauling furniture toward the door.
"About time you showed up," Jessa calls from the hallway. "We've been here for twenty minutes."
My throat tightens with emotion I wasn't expecting. "You all came."
Ivy appears with a roll of packing tape, raising an eyebrow at my surprise. "You think we'd let you do this alone?"
Dad emerges from his bedroom looking bewildered but pleased. He's wearing his lucky moving day t-shirt, the one Mom bought him twenty years ago that's more holes than fabric now.
"Scout, you didn't tell me you were bringing an army. I would have paid to have movers come. These professional athletes probably have way better stuff to do than be here."
"I said that to Silas and he acted like I was being crazy!" I hug him carefully, mindful of his bad back. "Everyone, this is my dad, Tom. Dad, this is... everyone."
The introductions happen in a blur. Dad shakes hands and makes his dry jokes while my two worlds merge without friction. Beck shows up with coffee and donuts, followed by Thorne with more boxes and terrible music that Mollie immediately vetoes.
"No oldies while we pack," she declares. "It's scientifically proven to make people slower."
"The fact that you think The Postal Service qualifies as an oldie means you’re disqualified from having an opinion," Thorne argues.
Mollie sticks her tongue out at Thorne, who cranks the music up another notch.
They bicker good naturedly while working. The sound fills the house with warmth it hasn't had in years. This place has been quiet for so long, just Dad and his memories rattling around too many empty rooms.
Silas and I work in the garage, sorting through tools and holiday decorations that haven't been touched in years.
Every box holds some piece of family history.
Mom's old camping gear sits in one corner.
My first hockey skates, tiny and rusted, are wrapped in a beach towel.
Report cards and art projects fill a box labeled Treasures in Mom's handwriting.
"You okay?" Silas asks, finding me frozen over a photo album.
"Yeah. It's just... a lot."
He doesn't try to fix my mood or rush me through it. His hand settles on my lower back, steady and present, while I flip through pages of birthday parties and Christmas mornings and family vacations to places I barely remember.
"Your mom?" he asks, looking at a photo of her laughing at something off camera. “She was beautiful.”
"Yeah. She would've liked you, I think."
"You think?"
I lean into his side. "She had a thing for grumpy men who were secretly soft. Why do you think she married Dad?"
From inside the house, someone drops something that shatters. Multiple voices shout at once, followed by laughter.
"I should check on that," I say.
"They're fine. Hunter probably just met his match trying to carry too much at once."
Sure enough, when we head inside, Hunter's standing over a broken lamp looking sheepish while Juliet lectures him about physics and grip strength.
"It was ugly anyway," Dad declares. "I never liked the thing."
Sable looks at me and I raise my brows. She just gives her head a tiny shake. Guess we’ll deal with that one later.
The work continues in shifts. People break for water and snacks, rotating through tasks with an efficiency that comes from genuine care rather than obligation.
Sable and Jessa develop an elaborate labeling system that involves color coding and subcategories.
The hockey players compete to see who can carry the most boxes at once, which ends when Beck points out they're professional athletes acting like teenage boys.
"You’re just mad cause you’re old," Jett says cheerfully, balancing four boxes. He ducks when Beck whips a towel at his head.
Around noon, Sable orders pizza for everyone. We eat sitting on the floor of the empty living room, paper plates balanced on our laps, too many bodies crowded into the space. It's chaotic and perfect and makes my chest ache with belonging.
"This is nice," Dad says quietly beside me. "Seeing you with all these people who care about you."
"They're good people."
"That Silas seems solid."
I glance across the room where Silas is helping Sable move a bookshelf, taking directions without complaint. "He is."
"Definitely different from Enzo."
The comparison doesn't sting like it used to. "Very different."
Dad pats my knee with his weathered hand. "Good. You deserve someone who sees you, sweetheart."
After lunch, the professional movers finally arrive. We shift into high gear, everyone forming an efficient chain to load the truck. Years of belongings flow from house to truck in a stream of boxes and furniture.
By four o'clock, the house stands empty. Sable looks around, taking a deep breath. Watching my sister grieve this house is unbelievably hard. I stand in the bare living room, staring at the scuffed patch of wall where the couch used to be.
“Remember when Mom swore she could fit a Christmas tree in that corner?” Sable says from behind me. I hear the smile in her voice.
I huff. “She absolutely couldn’t.”
“She blamed the ceiling,” Sable adds. “I believe the words architecturally hostile were thrown around.”
“That tree leaned like it was tired,” I say. “Every year.”
The silence stretches, familiar but not sharp anymore.
From the doorway, Silas clears his throat gently. “You need a minute?”
I consider it, then shake my head. “Maybe just… a short one. Is that okay?”
“Take all the time you need,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Sable bumps her shoulder into mine. “We’re almost done. I color-coded Dad’s things. It should be a snap when we unload.”
I smile despite myself. “Of course you did.”
The memories don’t grab me the way they used to. They sit there, warm and intact, but they don’t pull me under. I slip my hand into Silas’s and lean against him. “I think I’m ready.”
At Dad's new apartment, controlled mayhem reigns. The space is smaller but nicer, with good light and no stairs for his knees to protest. It’s part of a retirement community.
Independently of me, Silas searched for the best living citation that would meet Dad’s needs.
This is what we came up with. On moving-in day, there are people coming and going in golf carts, a note of Dad’s door about tonight’s 70s dance party in the rec center, and no less than three cute older ladies have stopped by with baked goods.
My dad is going to be a ladies man before he knows it.
Inside his apartment, everyone works to transform boxes and furniture into something resembling home.
Juliet and Ivy arrange the kitchen with ruthless efficiency. Sable sets up Dad's bedroom exactly how he likes it, down to the angle of his reading lamp, while the hockey players rebuild furniture and hang pictures. Only a few dishes break in the process, which feels like a victory.
"I need a beer," Thorne announces around six. "Who's with me?"
"You're not abandoning us now," Mollie says. "We're almost done."
"Beer would help us work faster."
She gives him the stink eye. "That's absolutely not true."
They're still arguing when Hunter returns with a couple cases of beer and a ton of empanadas.
We eat standing up or sitting on boxes, too tired to care about proper dining arrangements.
Dad holds court from his new recliner, telling embarrassing stories about my childhood that have everyone laughing at my expense.
"She used to practice her stretches everywhere," he says. "Grocery store, bank, middle of restaurants. Just drop into a split like it was normal."
"Dad, please stop."
"One time she got stuck in a backbend at Target. The fire department had to come."
"That's not even true!"
"Close enough to the truth," he says with a grin. It reminds me why Mom fell for him all those years ago.
As the sun sets, people start filtering out.
Hugs and promises to check in soon get exchanged at the door.
Jessa and Ivy leave together, debating the best route home.
Mollie drags Thorne out, still somehow bickering about music choices.
Beck heads to the gym because apparently moving furniture doesn't count as a workout.
I’m pretty sure he’s insane.
Finally it's just family. Sable braids my hair while we sit on Dad's new couch, her fingers gentle and familiar. Silas, Jett, and Hunter break down empty boxes in the kitchen, their voices a low rumble of conversation. Dad dozes in his chair, worn out from the day but smiling even in sleep.
"You did good, Scout," Sable says quietly. "Letting people help. That's growth."
"It doesn't feel like sacrifice anymore. Taking care of Si, I mean. It feels good."
She hugs me from behind. "That's exactly what it should feel like."
Hunter and Jett leave first, clapping Silas on the shoulder with some brotherly comments I don't catch. Sable follows soon after, promising to bring dinner by for Dad tomorrow.
"We should go too," I tell Silas. "Let him rest."
Dad wakes when I kiss his forehead goodbye. "Thank you, sweetheart. For everything."
"I love you, Dad."
"Love you too.” He looks at Silas. "Take care of my daughter, Silas.”
“Always.”
In the car heading home, I let the day wash over me. My body aches from lifting and carrying, but my heart feels fuller than it has in years.
"Your brothers are good people," Silas says, taking my hand over the center console.
"Our people," I correct. "They're ours now."
He squeezes my fingers. "I like the sound of that."
Back at the condo, we collapse on the couch. I curl into Silas's side, breathing in the scent of pine mixed with moving day sweat.
"Thank you," I say.
“Of course, baby.”
The word baby settles over me like a warm blanket. I’ll never get enough of Silas calling me pet names.
My phone buzzes with photos from throughout the day.
Mollie caught a shot of Dad laughing at something Hunter said.
Ivy snapped one of Silas and me working in tandem, not looking at each other but perfectly synchronized.
Sable orchestrated a group shot with everyone crowded into frame, sweaty and tired and genuinely happy.
This is what belonging looks like. Not the desperate kind where you earn your place through service, but the real kind where people choose to show up because you matter to them.
"I love our life," I tell Silas, meaning it completely.
"Me too," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple.