Chapter 16 Seth
SETH
The flight home was fifty-seven minutes of white-knuckled tension.
I’d taken the window seat out of habit, then spent the entire ascent staring at my reflection in the plexiglass instead of the clouds.
Every few minutes, my jaw would tighten—the muscles working through conversations I hadn’t had yet, arguments I was already losing in my head.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket, switched to Airplane Mode the second the flight attendant gave permission, buying me an hour where no one could reach me.
The woman beside me was reading a romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the cover. I watched her turn pages without seeing the words, envying how simple her problems probably were. She wasn’t flying toward four days of performing a version of herself that had stopped fitting years ago.
When we landed, I turned my phone off Airplane Mode and watched the notifications flood in.
Mom
Your father is picking you up. Be polite.
Emily
Mom’s stress-cooking. Fair warning.
Dad
Call me as soon as you get into the terminal. I’m in the cell phone lot, and we have to get home. No dawdling.
I shouldered my bag and joined the crush of people desperate to deplane, everyone moving too slowly, the recycled air thick enough to choke on.
I stepped through the terminal doors and scanned the pickup lane. A moment later, Dad’s silver sedan pulled up to the curb, and I could already see his expression through the windshield—the one that meant I was already disappointing him and I hadn’t even said hello yet.
I opened the back door to toss in my bag, then slid into the passenger seat.
“You’re late,” he said instead of a greeting.
“The plane landed when it landed.”
“Don’t be smart.” He pulled away from the curb without checking to see if I’d buckled my seatbelt. I had because the alternative was listening to him lecture me about that too.
The drive to the house took twenty minutes. Dad spent them critiquing my posture, my haircut, and the fact that I’d only brought a carry-on.
“Your mother wants you here for four days. You’re telling me that’s all you packed?”
“I know how to do laundry.”
“Don’t be smart,” he said again.
I stared out the window and counted exit signs.
The house looked exactly the same.
Red brick colonial in a neighborhood where everyone’s lawn looked identical, the kind of place where people measured their worth in property values and the right country club membership.
I’d grown up here, spent eighteen years trying to fit into spaces that were never quite the right shape, and I still hated the sight of it.
Mom met us at the door, pulling me into a hug before I’d fully crossed the threshold.
“You’re here. Finally.” She stepped back, hands on my shoulders, cataloging. “You look thin. Are you eating?”
“I’m eating.”
“He probably lives on pizza and beer,” Dad said, brushing past us. “College students.”
Mom’s smile tightened. “Let him settle in, Richard. He just got here.”
The house smelled like cinnamon and burned sugar—Mom had been stress-baking since before my flight took off, probably.
The kitchen counter held the evidence: three pies—apple, pumpkin, and something with a lattice top that had gone slightly lopsided—a cooling rack of snickerdoodles, and a green bean casserole already assembled and waiting for the oven.
“Emily’s coming tomorrow,” Mom said, following me toward the stairs. “She wanted to come today, but Mark had to work. You’ll see her at dinner.”
“Great.”
She caught the flatness in my voice, her expression flickering. “Seth. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“You know what I mean.”
I took my bag upstairs to my childhood bedroom, which had been converted into a guest room approximately ten minutes after I’d left for college.
The twin bed with its neutral bedding. The desk cleared of everything personal.
Even my old posters were gone, replaced by generic landscape prints that could have come from any hotel room.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone.
No messages from Tanner. Not that I’d expected any—he was at his mother’s house, probably helping with dinner, surrounded by people who actually wanted him there.
My phone buzzed before I could decide whether to text first.
Thinking about you. Hope you’re okay.
Something in my chest loosened. I typed back before I could overthink it.
Surviving. Miss you.
Miss you too. We’ll talk when you’re back?
Yeah. We will.
I stared at the messages for a long moment, then set my phone on the nightstand and made myself go back downstairs.
Dinner was exactly as uncomfortable as I’d anticipated.
The dining room table could seat eight, but it felt crowded with just the three of us—me, Mom, Dad, and all the things we weren’t saying.
Mom had made beef stroganoff with egg noodles and a Caesar salad, the kind of meal that was supposed to feel like comfort but mostly just felt like an obligation.
“So,” Dad said, cutting into his meat with surgical precision. “Your mother tells me you’re still wasting your time with that sports medicine nonsense.”
“Athletic training. And it’s not nonsense.” It was ironic that he could acknowledge that athletic training was an offshoot of sports medicine while still calling it nonsense.
“It’s not a real career.” He didn’t look up from his plate. “You could have done something respectable. Business. Law. Something with actual prospects.”
“Richard—” Mom started.
“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking, Barbara.
” Dad set down his fork, finally meeting my eyes.
“Four years of college, and what do you have to show for it? A degree in playing babysitter to athletes who’ll forget your name the second they graduate.
And you can’t even do anything with your degree when you graduate.
You have to get another one before you can do what you want to do. ”
The familiar anger rose in my chest—hot, sharp, the same feeling I’d been swallowing for twenty-two years. I made myself take a breath.
“It’s what I want to do.”
“What you want.” Dad laughed, bitter. “When are you going to grow up and realize what you want doesn’t matter? It’s about what’s practical. What provides security.”
“I’ll have security. Athletic trainers make good money.”
“Compared to who? Other people who settled?” He shook his head. “You had potential, Seth. You were smart enough to do something real. Instead, you’re throwing it away on this…hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby. It’s my career.”
“And when that falls through? When you realize you’ve wasted your twenties chasing some dream that doesn’t pay the bills?
” Dad’s voice had gone cold. “Don’t come crying to us for help.
You made your choice. I know you have these wild dreams of working with a pro team, but do you know how unrealistic that is? ”
“Yeah, I do.” I was seething by this point.
Not once had he asked what I’d done to secure a position.
Hell, I was surprised he knew my major at all.
“And I’ll have you know I’ve already been networking.
I’m going to Wilmington for grad school because I’ll be able to do my internship with the Breakers.
They already know who I am, respect the path that I’m on, and love the idea of having someone who understands the game working on their medical staff. ”
That, at least, seemed to shut him up. The rest of dinner passed in silence.
Mom tried a few times to change the subject—asked about my classes, my plans for the holidays, and whether I’d narrowed down my grad school options.
I gave one-word answers and focused on not throwing my plate across the room.
After, I helped Mom with the dishes while Dad retreated to his study. The kitchen felt smaller with just the two of us, the clink of plates against the sink too loud.
“He doesn’t mean it,” Mom said quietly. “He’s just worried about you.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
“You know how he is. He wants the best for you.”
“No.” I set down the dish I’d been drying. “He wants me to be the person he thinks I should be. That’s not the same thing.”
Mom's hands stilled in the soapy water. "Your father only wants what's best for you. We both do."
"What's best for me, or what's least embarrassing for you?"
Her mouth thinned. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I grabbed another dish, scrubbed harder than necessary. "Every conversation is about what I'm doing wrong. Football's a waste. My degree won't matter if I get brain damage. I should be networking, building a real career—"
"Because we can see what you can't." She turned to face me, water dripping from her hands. "You're throwing away your potential on a game that will chew you up and spit you out."
"It's my life to throw away."
"And we're your parents. We're allowed to have opinions."
"Opinions, sure. But that's not what this is." I set the dish down too hard. "This is control disguised as concern."
She stared at me for a long moment, something flickering behind her eyes. Then she turned back to the sink. "I think you should apologize to your father before dessert."
That night, I lay in the too-small bed staring at the ceiling and hating myself.
“I hope you know that you can talk to me, Seth. About anything. Nothing will change the fact that you’re my baby boy and I love you.”
My mother had handed me an opening, and I’d thrown it away. Could have told her about Tanner, about the person who actually made me feel like my choices mattered. Could have said the words that had been building in my chest for months.
Instead, I’d said nothing. Again.
My phone vibrated its way toward the edge of the nightstand.
Tanner
How’s it going?