14. Ari
FOURTEEN
ARI
Cicadas buzzed high in the trees behind the fence, a high-pitched, pulsing whine that crawled under my skin. Pale blue paint clung to my thumb from earlier—one of those brushstrokes I hadn’t meant to stop in the middle of. I’d walked out of my bedroom before it dried. Never went back.
The swing creaked beneath me, suspended from the beams of the back patio.
Chain links shifted with every small motion.
The cushion underneath had that sticky feel plastic got in the heat.
This thing had been here longer than I’d been alive.
Probably longer than my mom had lived in this house.
It didn’t even try to look comfortable anymore, just hung there out of habit. Kind of like me.
Fitting, maybe. Worn things hanging on because they didn’t know how to stop.
Light spilled through the sliding door from the kitchen.
Enough to catch the patchy grass along the edge of the concrete and the flaking white paint on the swing’s armrest. Mom had mentioned repainting it herself.
I’d offered to paint it—more than once—and I’d had plenty of time after I came back home.
The paint and brushes were in the shed, exactly where she said they’d be. I’d walked past them five times this week.
And still hadn’t picked them up.
Just one more thing I said I’d do and never did. Not because I didn’t want to. Just… because I didn’t trust myself to see it through.
Mom left for bingo an hour ago, already halfway through her once-a-month night out with her coworkers.
Probably yelling across folding tables by now, chasing a free ham or another mug we didn’t need for the shelf.
She’d offered to stay home when she got in from her shift—asked if I wanted company like she hadn’t just worked eight hours on her feet.
I said she deserved a night out with her friends and that I was fine.
I wasn’t.
Inside, my sketchbooks were stacked haphazardly on the edge of my bed, one open on a page that was supposed to be the start of a new series. Something about memory. Or movement. Or whatever I thought I could force to matter.
Same with the job apps open on my laptop.
Half-finished, like I’d clicked through just enough to realize I wasn’t qualified for anything in town except maybe painting windows at the hardware store.
You’d think an art degree would get you more than a pat on the back.
Professors had called my work bold. Expressive.
Said my portfolio had range . Didn’t matter if half of it lived in folders I couldn’t afford to print again.
They weren’t the ones still living at home in the same twin bed they grew up in, with a future that felt more like a loading screen stuck at 99%.
My leg bounced, nerves simmering beneath skin that had no reason to be this on edge. The swing moved with me, not quite in rhythm, just enough to make the chain groan now and then. I pressed my foot flat against the concrete, trying to anchor something that didn’t want to settle.
Gravel shifted out front—first a low crunch, then the familiar rumble of tires easing to a stop.
My pulse jumped.
I didn’t need to check to know who it was. That truck had been pulling into our driveway for years. Long before my crush on Reid Morgan ever meant anything, long before I learned what it felt like to want someone enough that the sound of their engine could rearrange your whole evening.
One knock on the front door. Short. Certain.
“Back here,” I called, not trusting my legs to carry me forward just yet.
Another pause. Then the sound of gravel as he made his way around.
The gate creaked like it always did, the latch clicking open, then shut again.
Boots crunched on the path. His walk had a rhythm I knew by heart—deliberate, even.
Like he never rushed unless someone’s life depended on it.
Like he already knew what kind of mood he’d find me in.
The first thing I felt was calm.
He rounded the corner. Porch light caught the edge of his jaw, the pale sweep of his forearm. He stood there for a beat, not speaking, just... seeing, just taking in the whole mess of me like he always did in that quiet, unshakable way of his.
Daddy didn’t say anything at first. He just moved slowly, lowering himself onto the swing beside me. Close, but not touching. Close enough that I could feel the warmth rolling off him, a pull I couldn’t ignore. He smelled like cedar soap, orange peel and clean cotton from his T-shirt.
I wanted to lean in. Just a little. Let my shoulder brush his. Let him know I noticed the way he showed up, even when he didn’t say much. I wanted to press my face to the curve of his neck and never leave. Because wanting him came so easy. And I didn’t know how to want him quietly anymore.
The chain creaked harder under his weight, steadied itself, then swayed.
Wind stirred around us, lazy, pushing humidity over my bare arms. Somewhere across the yard, the neighbor’s dog gave a tired bark before flopping back down. Summer smelled like warm grass and too many things left undone.
“Out here hiding?”
My mouth curled just enough to count as a smirk. “Only from the future.”
“Good luck with that.”
I didn’t laugh. Didn’t say anything either. Just let the swing creak again, one slow push from my leg that didn’t quite match my heartbeat.
Daddy waited. Not the kind of waiting that demanded anything. He didn’t try to fill the silence.
His voice, when it came, was softer than before. “Talk to me, baby.”
God. That word. My ribs felt like they were closing around it. Nobody else called me that. Nobody else could’ve made me want to crawl inside a voice and stay there.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” It came out hoarse.
“Try again.”
The cushion sighed under me as I pushed up, legs stiff from sitting too long.
I crossed the patio in four steps, the concrete warm under bare feet, the edge marked by a row of cracked tiles we’d never gotten around to replacing.
Turned. Walked back. Again. Just enough room to move without going anywhere.
“What if this is it?” The words cracked before I could steady them. “What if I already peaked and this—” I motioned to the swing, the scuffed siding of the house, the overgrown yard swallowed by night. “—is all there is?”
“You’re twenty-two.”
“Yeah?” I spun, pacing back. “And that means what, exactly? That I’ve got time to waste? You ever felt like you were born already behind?”
His eyes tracked me as I paced. No judgment there. Just calm and quiet listening.
“Mrs. Evans asked me to do a mural,” I added, almost before I could stop myself. “At the VFW. A tribute to the veterans. She said I’d have full creative control.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I told her no.”
His eyes never left mine.
I shrugged, tried to play it off, but the ache in my voice gave me away. “It’s like… the second something starts to matter, I get scared I’ll ruin it. So I back off before it can fall apart.”
I laughed under my breath, dry and humorless. “I think I’ve been doing that for a while now.”
Daddy didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, like he was bracing to walk into a storm.
“Hey.” His voice was low, measured. “That mural? That wasn’t a failure. It was fear doing what fear does best—talking you out of your own talent.”
His steps were slow but sure as he moved toward me, like he knew the ground was fragile now.
“You’re not behind, Ari. His voice was smooth. “You’re scared. There’s a difference. One keeps you frozen. The other means you care enough to get it right.”
I started to turn away, but he caught my wrist—gently—and gave it a squeeze.
“You didn’t say no to Mrs. Evans because you didn’t care. You said no because it mattered too much.”
Then softer, like he wanted it to land: “That’s not failure, Ari. That’s the edge of something good—if you let yourself lean into it.”
Oh, god! My name on his lips was the sweetest sound.
Daddy tugged me just close enough to feel the heat between us. “You’re scared? Good.” His smile curved, slow and wicked. “Means there’s something real under all that noise in your head.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping, breath brushing my lips. “You want guarantees? A clear path? Tough shit, baby. That’s not how this works.”
My breath caught in my throat.
His fingers skimmed my jaw, tilting my face to his. “You don’t wait for brave. You get messy. You screw up. You keep going.”
Then, almost a dare?—
“Do it scared.”
And softer, like he wanted to make sure I heard it?—
“Do it scared, baby.”
That word again. Baby. I wasn’t used to being called anything like that, but the way it rolled off his tongue made it feel earned.
A laugh tried to burst free from my lips, but it didn’t make it. Heat climbed my throat instead, sharp and fast.
Pressure burned behind my eyes before I could stop it.
Embarrassing. Weak. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, but one single traitorous tear slid down anyway, cutting a line across the bridge of my nose like it wanted the world to know I’d finally cracked. I swiped at my cheek a second too late.
He saw it.
Daddy stepped in, one quiet movement that closed the space between us. His hand came up, thumb brushing just beneath my eye before the second teardrop spilled.
His other hand cupped the back of my head—no pressure, just there, warm and sure.
“Hey.” His voice dipped again. “No shame in scared.”
I leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. Only thing I knew for sure was how close his mouth was to mine.
He tilted his head.
I tilted mine.
The space between us vanished.
First contact was breath—just that. Close enough to taste him, but not quite touching. Then his lips met mine, soft at first, like he was waiting for me to pull away.
Not a chance in hell.