Chapter Twenty-Four — Rhett
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rhett
Tessa’s father served pie before dinner.
That was how I knew something was wrong.
He set the apple pie in the center of the table, placed three forks beside it, and said, “I thought we could talk first.”
Tessa looked at me.
I looked at the pie.
Then at him.
“Strong opening,” I said.
Tessa kicked me beneath the table.
Not hard.
Warning pressure.
Her father sat across from us.
He wore the same careful expression Tessa used when trying to make uncertainty look organized.
That resemblance was becoming more obvious.
Or maybe I was learning to recognize the family language.
Control first.
Feel later.
He folded his hands.
“I heard about the Boston schedule change.”
Tessa nodded.
“We worked it out.”
“You found a midpoint.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“How do you know that?”
“Mara.”
Of course.
Family information apparently moved faster than campus gossip.
Her father looked at me.
“You’re planning to drive three hours each way?”
“Yes.”
“For one day?”
“Yes.”
He stared.
I waited.
Tessa’s knee touched mine under the table.
Not warning now.
Presence.
Her father leaned back.
“That is a lot of driving.”
“She’s worth the day.”
The answer came before I could soften it.
Tessa went still beside me.
Her father’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“I used to think that way,” he said.
The room quieted.
Tessa looked at him.
He looked at the pie.
Not us.
“When her mother and I were young.”
Tessa’s posture tightened.
Her father rarely spoke about her mother.
Even less often without defensiveness attached.
“We drove everywhere,” he continued. “Long trips. Bad cars. No money. We thought wanting something was enough to make it work.”
His voice had gone quieter.
“Sometimes it was.”
Tessa looked down at her hands.
I stayed silent.
This was not mine to fill.
Her father touched the edge of the pie plate.
“When she left, I decided wanting had been the problem.”
Tessa’s breath caught.
He looked at her.
“That was not fair.”
No one moved.
The house felt too still.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.
A clock ticked somewhere behind us.
Her father continued.
“I taught you to trust plans because I no longer trusted people.”
Tessa’s eyes shone.
Not tears.
Close.
“Dad.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“I understand.”
“I may have protected you from choices that could have made you happy.”
The sentence broke something open in the room.
Not loudly.
Not completely.
Enough.
Tessa reached across the table.
Her father took her hand.
I looked away.
Not because I did not want to witness it.
Because some moments deserved privacy even when you were sitting beside them.
After a minute, her father cleared his throat.
Then looked at me.
“And you.”
I straightened.
Here it came.
The threat.
The warning.
Possibly a detailed driving-safety lecture.
“You encourage her to be impulsive.”
Tessa looked at me.
I considered denying it.
Could not.
“Sometimes.”
“You tell her wanting something is reason enough.”
“Not reason enough.”
Her father waited.
I continued.
“Reason enough to look closer.”
He studied me.
“And when what she wants becomes difficult?”
“I stay.”
The answer was immediate.
Not impressive.
Not polished.
Just true.
Her father’s gaze held mine.
“What if she chooses something that hurts you?”
Tessa went still.
I felt it.
The fear beneath the question.
Not only his.
Mine too.
Boston.
Distance.
The life she might discover beyond Lakeview.
I looked at her.
Then back at him.
“I don’t stop loving her because the choice is hard for me.”
Tessa’s hand found mine beneath the table.
Her fingers tightened.
Her father noticed.
Of course he did.
“And if she chooses against you?” he asked.
That one hurt.
Still, I answered.
“Then I let the choice be hers.”
Tessa turned toward me.
I did not look away.
The promise mattered because I hoped she would never need it.
Not because I could guarantee that.
Her father nodded slowly.
Then reached for the pie server.
“That helps.”
That was all.
Good.
He cut three pieces.
Tessa stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“What else should there be?”
“You interrogated him.”
“I asked questions.”
“You threatened him last time.”
“I was evaluating.”
I looked at her.
“Family trait.”
She kicked me again.
Her father almost smiled.
Then served me the largest slice.
I accepted this as approval.
Dinner was strangely normal after that.
Not easy.
Normal.
There was a difference.
We discussed Boston travel.
Housing.
Training schedules.
The small midpoint town Tessa and I had chosen.
Her father suggested a safer hotel.
Tessa objected to the word safer.
They argued for four minutes about parking.
I ate pie.
Then chicken.
In that order.
No one commented.
At one point, her father asked about my summer training program.
I explained the schedule.
Conditioning.
Team workouts.
Optional skills sessions that were only optional if a person did not mind losing ice time.
He asked intelligent questions.
Tessa watched both of us like we were violating expectations.
After dinner, her father carried plates to the kitchen.
I stood.
He pointed toward my chair.
“Stay.”
I sat.
Tessa leaned closer.
“Are you afraid?”
“Completely.”
“You look calm.”
“Marketable face.”
Her mouth curved.
Then her father returned carrying a small cardboard box.
He set it in front of Tessa.
She looked at him.
“What is this?”
“Your mother’s.”
The warmth left the room.
Tessa stared at the box.
Her father stood beside the table.
“I found it while cleaning the attic.”
“When?”
“Months ago.”
Her expression tightened.
“And you kept it?”
“I did not know whether giving it to you would help.”
“That was not your decision.”
“No.”
He accepted the correction without argument.
That was new.
Tessa lifted the lid.
Inside were photographs.
Recipe cards.
A faded blue scarf.
And a small wooden box painted with stars.
Tessa touched the edge of it.
Her fingers trembled.
“My pancake shapes.”
Her father nodded.
“She kept pictures.”
Tessa lifted one.
A child stood on a kitchen chair beside a woman with dark hair.
Both held spatulas.
A burned pancake sat between them.
I looked away again.
Not far.
Just enough to give Tessa room to choose whether she wanted me inside the memory.
Her hand found mine.
That was the answer.
I moved closer.
She leaned into my shoulder.
Her father remained standing across from us.
“I was angry she kept the good things,” Tessa said.
His face tightened.
“So was I.”
“She still left.”
“Yes.”
“And the memories are still good.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
Tessa looked at the photograph again.
Tears gathered this time.
She did not hide them.
That felt bigger than anything else.
I stayed beside her.
No fixing.
No joke.
No attempt to make grief useful.
Just presence.
Eventually, she set the photograph back in the box.
Then closed the lid.
“I’m taking this.”
Her father nodded.
“It’s yours.”
She stood and hugged him.
He held her tightly.
Awkwardly at first.
Then less.
I looked toward the kitchen window.
Night pressed against the glass.
My reflection looked back.
Not smiling.
Not performing.
Just there.
When Tessa released him, her father looked at me.
“Drive carefully.”
“I will.”
“And do not let her work the entire trip.”
Tessa frowned.
“I can hear you.”
“That is the idea.”
I stood.
Her father held out his hand.
I took it.
His grip was firm.
Not hostile.
Not exactly welcoming either.
Something in between.
Respect, maybe.
A starting point.
“You said you would not waste her time,” he said.
“I remember.”
“Keep remembering.”
“I will.”
Tessa picked up the box.
“And he is not solely responsible for the relationship.”
Her father looked at her.
“I heard you.”
“Do you?”
The challenge remained.
That helped.
She needed it.
He nodded.
“I’m learning.”
That phrase.
Trying.
Learning.
Showing up.
Maybe every relationship needed the same basic vocabulary.
The cold hit when we stepped onto the porch.
Tessa carried the box against her chest.
I opened the car door for her.
She did not get in.
Instead, she looked toward the road.
The porch light spilled across her face.
“You meant what you said.”
I knew which part.
Still, I asked.
“About the pie?”
“About letting me choose.”
“Yes.”
“Even if I choose something that hurts you.”
My chest tightened.
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“That scares me.”
“Me too.”
“What if love isn’t enough?”
The question did not feel like doubt.
Not exactly.
More like honesty after a night full of it.
I stepped closer.
“Then we do more than feel it.”
Her eyebrows drew together.
“What does that mean?”
“We call when we’re tired.”
I touched the side of the box lightly.
“We rewrite plans.”
Another step closer.
“We say the thing before it becomes resentment.”
Her breath softened.
“We show up.”
The phrase settled between us.
Ours.
She looked down.
Then back up.
“And if showing up is difficult?”
“It counts more.”
Her mouth curved.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Worse.”
I smiled.
Then let it fade.
“Tessa, I don’t think love makes things easy.”
She watched me.
“I think it makes difficult things worth choosing again.”
Her eyes shone.
This time, not from grief.
Or not only grief.
She leaned into me.
Careful with the box between us.
I wrapped one arm around her.
Held her beneath the porch light while her father moved quietly inside the house.
“We leave June first,” she said.
“Right.”
“Ten weeks.”
“I understand.”
“The plan will change.”
“Definitely.”
“I may panic.”
“Frequently.”
She pulled back enough to glare.
I smiled.
“So will I.”
“That is more acceptable.”
“I’ll probably call too much.”
“I’ll probably work too late.”
“I’ll hate Priya.”
“You do not know Priya.”
“She has you in Boston.”
“That is not her fault.”
“Still evaluating.”
Tessa laughed.
Then became serious again.
“What if we become different people?”
“We should.”
Her eyes widened.
I continued.
“Not strangers. Just better.”
“And if better changes what we want?”
The hardest question.
Again.
I gave the same answer.
“Then we tell the truth.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
The word sounded like courage now.
Not distance.
Not surrender.
A choice made without certainty.
I opened the passenger door.
This time, she got in.
I placed the box carefully on the back seat.
Then walked around to the driver’s side.
Before I started the car, Tessa reached across the console.
Took my hand.
“I love you.”
No preamble.
No administrative framing.
I smiled.
“I know.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“That response is unacceptable.”
“I wanted to use it once.”
“Never again.”
“I love you too.”
“Better.”
I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.
Then started the car.
The final public test came in late April, three weeks before Tessa’s June first departure.
It arrived in the form of a microphone.
Coach Mercer had warned us after practice.
The athletics department wanted to recognize the community program during a pregame ceremony.
Not our relationship.
The program.
Children’s recreation funding had exceeded the target by twenty-four percent.
Student activities had secured its next-semester budget.
Good news.
Real good news.
Tessa and I had both agreed to stand at center ice for the recognition.
No relationship questions.
No staged photographs.
No surprises.
Naturally, there was a surprise.
The athletics director handed Tessa the microphone.
“Would you like to say a few words?”
I saw the panic immediately.
Not visible to everyone.
Visible to me.
Her fingers tightened around the microphone.
The arena waited.
Thousands of people.
Cameras.
The exact situation she hated.
I stepped closer.
Not in front.
Beside.
Her eyes found mine.
“You can say no,” I whispered.
She took one breath.
Then another.
And shook her head.
Not no to the speech.
No to leaving.
She turned toward the crowd.
“When the student union kitchen flooded, I thought the event was over.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the arena.
I smiled.
Technically, it had caught fire first.
She continued.
“What happened instead was that people showed up.”
Her voice steadied.
“Students. Staff. Volunteers. The hockey team.”
Cam bowed dramatically on the bench.
Coach shoved him upright.
More laughter.
Tessa looked toward me.
“Sometimes the plan fails.”
Her gaze held mine.
“And sometimes what replaces it is better because you were not meant to do it alone.”
My chest tightened.
The arena went quiet.
Not completely.
Enough.
Tessa looked back toward the crowd.
“Thank you for showing up.”
Applause rose.
Loud.
Warm.
Real.
She handed the microphone back.
The athletics director stepped away.
For one second, Tessa and I stood alone near center ice.
Not actually alone.
But it felt close.
“You did it,” I said.
Her breathing remained uneven.
“I did.”
“You were good.”
“I remember.”
That confidence.
I loved it.
I smiled.
She looked at the crowd.
Then at me.
No fear now.
Or fear she had chosen through.
She reached for my hand.
The arena reacted immediately.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Cam shouting something from the bench.
This time, neither of us let go.
Not for the cameras.
Not because the university wanted a story.
Because the story was ours.
The crowd only happened to witness it.
Tessa leaned closer.
“No kissing at center ice.”
“I did not ask.”
“You were thinking.”
“Frequently.”
“Later.”
My pulse kicked.
“Promise?”
Her smile appeared.
Bright.
Unhidden.
“Show up and find out.”
I laughed.
The words were a dare.
A flirt.
A promise.
Everything that had changed us.
I squeezed her hand.
“I will.”
And I knew, with more certainty than I had ever trusted, that I would.
Not only later.
Not only in Boston.
Not only when she asked.
I would keep showing up because loving her had taught me the difference between attention and presence.
Between charm and truth.
Between something easy and something worth choosing.
The Flirt Rule had always been simple:
Keep it light.
Keep it harmless.
Never let it become real.
I had broken every part of it.
Best decision I ever made.