Chapter 8
Porch Lights and Mashed Potatoes
Remi
The scent of cookies still lingers on my sweater.
It clings to me like a memory—like the laughter and the way Paige leaned into me when I showed her how to set the needle on the record player. Like Payton asking me if people really used to cry to music like that. Like the feeling of being chosen, even if only for the day.
Even if it’s all borrowed.
I sit at the edge of the bed with one boot on, the other forgotten in my hand. My phone buzzes with a text from my mom:
Mom:
You better not be late again. Your father made mashed potatoes.
Normally that would make me laugh. Tonight, I just feel… tired. Not the bad kind of tired. Just the kind that comes from feeling too much.
Because the thing is—when I saw him…
In that moment, when he walked into the kitchen and Paige ran to him like he was gravity itself—I felt something snap loose in my chest. And then Payton.
Holding herself back. Trying so hard not to show how much she needed him, too.
And he saw it. He always sees it. The way he held her, whispered that he was home like it was a prayer, not a promise. It wrecked me.
I didn’t just want him. I wanted that. And it scared the hell out of me.
Because it wasn’t just about how hot he is—and yeah, okay, he is hot. Like, unfairly hot. The kind of hot that should come with a warning label and a fan club and its own zip code.
But that’s not what made me want him. It was the way he holds broken things like they might still be whole.
The way he fights so damn hard to keep standing—even when it’s clear no one taught him how to be soft.
The way he loves those girls like it’s his only purpose in life.
And God help me, I wanted to be a part of that.
Not just physically—though yeah, that, too. But emotionally.
All in.
And that’s too dangerous. Too soon. Too everything. So I finish lacing my boots.
I spritz perfume on my neck like I’m not unraveling. And I text my mom back.
Me:
On my way now. Tell Matthew I’m bringing backup dessert.
Even though every part of me wants to stay here. Wants to walk into the kitchen and offer to set the table. Wants to take another hit of whatever passed between me and Coleman when he touched my hand. But I can’t. Not tonight.
Because if I stay—
I don’t think I’ll want to leave again. And I’m not sure my heart is ready for what that would mean.
Dinner at my parents’ house is exactly what I expected: loud, chaotic, and so damn familiar.
“Look who finally showed up,” Jesse grins from the kitchen doorway as I walk in. “Did you have to break a curfew or something, Rem?”
“Shut up,” I mutter with a laugh, dodging a kiss to the cheek from my brother Mason before he can give me a noogie like we’re still ten.
“Did you even bring backup dessert like you promised?” Matthew demands, snatching the bag from my hand.
“Don’t eat them all!” I yell as he disappears toward the kitchen. “They’re for everyone, you animal!”
Mom swats at him from across the table, already setting plates and shooing people into chairs. Dad’s carving the roast like it’s a performance, and all five of my brothers are doing their usual routine of bickering over whose turn it is to pour drinks or pass the rolls.
It's the complete opposite of what I've gotten used to in just a few short days.
And when we finally settle around the table, laughing, chewing, plates clinking—I feel it.
The noise. The energy. The messy, wonderful life of this house. And I realize I missed it.
But… I also kind of didn’t.
Because all I can think about is how quiet Coleman’s house is.
“How’s the new job, Rem?” my mom asks between bites.
“It’s… good,” I say carefully, scooping potatoes onto my plate.
“‘Good’?” Mason snorts. “She’s working for a single dad. Probably some grumpy old rich dude.”
“He’s not old,” I mumble.
That earns a round of eyebrow raises.
“I just mean—he’s like… thirty-five.”
“Ancient,” Jesse deadpans.
I throw a roll at him.
“But it’s…” I trail off, eyes finding a crack in the table I used to pick at when I was a kid. “It’s just quiet. That house. Like—too quiet.”
They go still for a beat, like they know I’m not just talking about the noise level.
“I didn’t think it would bother me,” I admit. “But it does. I grew up in this circus. Silence feels wrong. Cold.”
Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, but we don’t dig deeper.
Not until later. Not until the dishes are done and the boys are arguing about who cheated at poker last week and Mom’s packing leftovers into containers with military precision.
I slip out onto the porch, needing air. Space. A second later, I hear the screen door creak. Dad walks out and leans against the railing beside me, arms crossed, his familiar presence grounding in a way it always has been.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks gently.
I nod, even though I’m not sure I am.
“I just…” I sigh. “I don’t know if I’m the right fit. For the job. For that house. For them.”
He waits.
“You know how I’ve always been…” I gesture vaguely at myself. “Too much?”
His brows furrow.
“Too loud. Too happy. Too impulsive. I talk too much. I laugh too loud. I take up space. And it never felt like a bad thing until I got there. Until I realized how much space they don’t take up.
The girls, I mean. It’s like they’re trying to shrink themselves, and I’m this big neon sign that won’t stop buzzing. ”
Dad is quiet for a long moment before he speaks.
“You’ve always been the brightest thing in any room, Remi,” he says, voice even.
“You light people up. And sometimes people don’t know what to do with that kind of warmth.
But those girls?” He looks at me. “They’ve had a mother who didn’t mother.
A father who loves them fiercely, but spends most of his time trying to carry the weight of two people.
What they need… is someone who sees them.
Hears them. Laughs with them. Not around them.
Someone who reminds them it’s okay to be loud.
To take up space. To feel safe doing it. ”
I swallow the knot rising in my throat.
“They may need a little more Remi magic than they think,” he finishes softly.
I laugh through my tears. “You always say that when I’m spiraling.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He slings an arm around my shoulders, and for a minute, I let myself lean into it.
Let myself believe that maybe, just maybe…
I’m not too much.
I’m exactly right.
The porch light is still on when I pull into the driveway. That’s the first surprise. The second is the faint glow coming from the living room window, like someone left the lamp on—or maybe never turned it off.
I unlock the door quietly, slipping inside with the kind of care I only use in houses that don’t belong to me.
The house is still. Still and warm. Still and not empty. I kick off my boots by the door, picking them up and step into the living room, heart ticking a little faster than I want it to. And there he is.
Coleman.
Sitting on the couch, still fully dressed, a book open in his lap that he’s very clearly not reading.
He looks up as I walk in. His jaw tightens. His eyes scan me like he’s checking for damage even though I’m standing perfectly fine.
“Oh,” I say lightly. “You’re still up.”
He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Just… finishing a chapter.”
The book’s upside down.
I bite back a smile. “Good chapter?”
He doesn’t answer.
And even though he’s trying to look indifferent, I see it. The tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes keep darting toward the door like he was waiting to hear it open.
He thought I wasn’t coming back. Or maybe… that I was coming back from something that wasn’t his business but still felt like it was.
A date. He thinks I had a date.
“Dinner went long,” I say casually, walking past the couch like I don’t notice the flicker in his eyes. “My Dad made his mashed potatoes, so the boys practically licked the bowl clean.”
He blinks. “Dinner?”
“With my family.” I glance back over my shoulder. “Did I not mention that’s where I was going?”
“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Then clears his throat. “No, you didn’t.”
His whole body shifts—like I just pressed pause on whatever spiral he was riding. Shoulders relax. Jaw loosens. That little muscle in his temple finally goes still.
It makes my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and head for the stairs.
“Goodnight, Coleman.” He looks up at me. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s torn between letting me go and asking me to stay.
But all he says is, “Goodnight, Remi.”
It’s soft. Final. Neither of us move right away. But eventually, I turn toward the stairs, feet dragging a little like maybe I don’t want the night to end either. My hand touches the banister, and I glance back, voice light.
“Did Paige make it to Payton’s room yet?”
He looks at me like I just cracked something open in his chest. And then I disappear upstairs, the answer hanging in the air between us.
The scent of cookies still lingers on my sweater.
It clings to me like a memory—like the laughter and the way Paige leaned into me when I showed her how to set the needle on the record player. Like Payton asking me if people really used to cry to music like that. Like the feeling of being chosen, even if only for the day.
Even if it’s all borrowed.