Chapter 54 #2
"My daughter is choosing a life I don't understand.
" Her voice goes quiet. Not small — my mother has never been small — just honest. "And I have loved people all kinds of people.
People whose languages I couldn't speak.
Whose customs I didn't know. Whose faith looked nothing like mine.
And I loved them. I built schools for their children and held their hands when they were sick and I never once thought, I don't understand this, so I need to step back. "
Her voice breaks.
"But with you. With my own daughter. I'm doing exactly that."
The tears come. Hers, then mine.
Great. We're both crying. Over burnt grilled cheese and granola bars and the fact that neither of us knows how to just say the scary thing.
"I don't want to be that person, Laine. I've been praying about it — and yes, I know, you said—" She waves her hand. "The praying thing. I know. But I have been praying, not for you to change. For me to change. For me to figure out how to love you without needing to understand everything first."
"And?"
She laughs. Wet, broken, real. "And God is being very unhelpful. Apparently I have to figure this one out myself."
I laugh too. Can't help it. Same, God. Same.
"I'm going to get things wrong," she says.
"I'm going to ask questions that are clumsy.
I'm going to worry about you in ways that feel like judgment even when they're not.
I'm going to—" She takes a breath. "I'm going to have hard days where I wish things were simpler for you. Not different. Just... easier."
"I know."
"But I'm not going anywhere." She reaches out.
Takes my hands. Her fingers are still damp and her grip is tighter than it needs to be.
"I'm not holding you out here." She pulls my hands toward her, until they're tucked with hers over her heart.
"You're here. You've always been here. And I'm sorry," her breath catches, "I'm sorry I made you doubt that. "
I step forward and she catches me. Arms around me, hand on the back of my head, chin on my hair. The way she's held me since I was small enough to carry.
Thank you God. Thank you.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Stop apologizing."
"One more. I'm sorry the grilled cheese was terrible."
I laugh into her shoulder. Messy and wet and not cute at all. "It was so bad, Mom."
"I know. The pan—"
"You had it on high."
"I was thinking and it—"
"You're always thinking. That's the problem."
She squeezes me tighter. I let her. I let myself be held by my mother in a kitchen that smells like burned butter and cheap soap.
I missed her so much.
When I finally pull back, her face is a mess. Eyes red, hair coming out of its clip. She looks like me. Or I look like her. However, that works.
She cups my face. Looks at me hard. "He's— They're really good to you? Both of them?"
"Yeah, Mom. They really are."
"Reid is..." She searches. "He's got a good heart. I can see that. He's always making people smile."
"He is."
"And Blake." She's slower here. More careful. But not the bad careful — the I'm trying to be honest careful. "Blake is... not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
She thinks about it. "I don't know. Someone harder. Someone who—" She stops. "He looks at you like you're butter, Laine. I noticed that the first day."
Yeah, he does.
"Even when he was pretending to be your friend. Even when he was keeping his distance and being professional and doing everything you asked him to do—" She shakes her head. "That man was never just your friend. I should have seen it sooner."
"Would it have helped?"
"Probably not." A pause. "But maybe I would have had more time to get used to the idea before you dropped it on me at a bonfire."
Yeah, I can't hide the wince. "Fair."
She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "I need time. You know that. This isn't—" She gestures vaguely at the air between us. "It's not going to be easy for me. And I'll probably say stupid things."
"You will definitely say stupid things."
She taps me on the tip of my nose. "Fine. I will definitely say stupid things. But I'll be saying them up close." She holds my gaze. "Not from arm's length. I promise."
Not from arm's length.
Two words — well, a whole sentence, but the promise part. Not enough to fix everything. Not enough to undo five days of careful distance or the look on her face by the fire. But I believe her. And right now, that's enough.
She kisses my forehead. Turns back to the sink. Starts washing a plate that's been sitting in the water the whole time we've been talking.
"Go talk to your father," she says. "He's probably out there stewing."
She's right. He's stewing.
On the porch in a folding chair holding his battered thermos.
The mountains are black shapes against the last purple light, and he's just — sitting.
Looking at them. Dad could outwait a glacier.
Has the patience of a man who's spent three decades letting concrete cure and wood dry and people come around on their own time.
I sit down in the chair next to him. It creaks.
He doesn't say anything. I don't either. He might be patient, but I learned from him.
This is how it's always been with us. Mom fills the silence. Dad lives in it. Growing up, our best conversations happened like this — side by side, looking at the same horizon, letting the words come when they were ready.
But I'm out of time, Dad. I need the words even if they're not ready.
"Mom says you've been out here working up to something."
The corner of his mouth moves. "Your mother has never had a thought she didn't share."
"Genetic."
"Definitely genetic." He takes a sip from his thermos. Sets it down on his knee. "She also burned the grilled cheese."
"Destroyed it."
"Those boys ate every bite."
"They did."
He's quiet again, but it doesn't feel like stewing, or avoidance.
"I've been watching them," he says.
My heart picks up. "I know."
"All week. How they work. How they talk to each other. How they are with the kids." He rolls the thermos between his palms. "How they are with you."
I wait. My hands are clasped in my lap and I'm gripping my own fingers hard enough that my knuckles ache. I want him to see them clearly so badly.
"Reid—" He pauses. Nods to himself. "Reid's got a good heart. Open. Genuine. The kind of man who walks into a room and everyone feels better."
"Yeah."
"And Blake." Longer pause. He takes a breath and lets it out slow. "I watched him with a little boy today. On the soccer field."
I didn't know about that. "What happened?"
"Nothing big." He turns the thermos in his hands.
"Shy kid. Hanging back from the game. Blake crouched down, took his hand, let that boy lead him around the field for an hour.
" He clears his throat. "Put himself between that child and every bigger kid who ran past. Didn't think about it. Just did it."
Of course he did. My eyes burn.
"They're good men, Laine."
Four words. And look — I know that doesn't sound like a lot. But this is David Mitchell. The man who reads people to keep his family safe. Who doesn't waste words, ever. Four words from my father, after five days of watching and measuring and turning it over in that quiet head of his—
Don't you dare cry again. You just stopped crying. Your face can't take another round.
"Dad—"
"I'm not going to pretend I understand it." He looks at me. Directly. "I don't. I've been praying and thinking and talking to your mother, and I still don't understand how this works. This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "This isn't what I pictured."
"I know."
"But you're my daughter." His voice drops. Just enough. "You're my kid. And you've always known your own mind. Even when you were small. Even when I wished you didn't."
I almost laugh. Almost. Because it's not the first time he's told me that. The talking might have come from Mom, but the stubborn is all him.
He's quiet for a moment. Rolling the thermos. Looking at the mountains.
"I may not understand the shape of the thing you're building," he says. "But I trust the builder. He doesn't make mistakes, even if I might not understand his design."
Oh.
Oh, God.
Nope. Crying. Crying again. So much for my face.
The tears spill. I don't try to stop them. What's the point? I've cried more this week than in the last year combined.
He reaches over. Puts his hand on mine. His palm is rough — always has been, as long as I can remember. Calloused and dry and warm.
We sit there. His hand on mine. The mountains and the dark and the crickets.
"Okay," I finally whisper.
"Okay," he says.
He squeezes my hand once. Picks up his thermos. Takes a sip. Looks back at the mountains.
That's it. That's the whole conversation. With my mother, I got tears and confessions and apologies and an entire emotional excavation. With my father, I got four words and a hand squeeze.
Both of them said the same thing.
We're here. We're not going anywhere.
The plane is small. Three seats on the left, two on the right, and the engine sounds like it's personally offended about being airborne.
Reid has the window because he called it before we even got to the airport — "Window seat or I'm not going, those are my terms" — and Blake has the aisle because he's Blake.
Which puts me in the middle. Any other company, maybe I'd complain, but I'm more than happy to spend the rest of my life between my guys.
Reid's already got his tray table down and he's arranging the snacks Mom packed — granola bars, dried mango, a bag of something that might be trail mix or might be another of Mary Mitchell's kitchen experiments.
"She put chocolate chips in the trail mix," he says, inspecting the bag. "I love your mother."
"You love anyone who feeds you."
"That's not true." He pauses, a little wrinkle between his brows. "Okay, it's a little true. But Mary's special. She tries so hard."
"She really does."
He tears open the bag. Pops a handful in his mouth. "Oh, these are good. Blake, try these."
"I'm good."
"You're not good. You're sitting there like a statue. Eat a chocolate chip. Experience joy."
Blake takes the bag. Eats exactly one chocolate chip. Hands it back. I cover my mouth to hide my smile. He's messing with him and I love it. Blake acts all innocent, but he pokes at Reid just as much as Reid pokes at him.
"Wow," Reid says. "Thrilling. Really let loose there."
"I ate the chip."
"You ate a chip. Singular. That's not snacking, that's— that's pathetic. There's something wrong with you."
I lean back in my seat. Close my eyes. My body is heavy — the good kind of heavy.
The kind that comes after you've been clenching for days and something finally lets go.
Nothing is fixed. Mom is going to say something clumsy on a phone call next month and I'm going to have to breathe through it.
Dad is going to go quiet on things he doesn't understand and I'm going to have to be patient with the silence.
And I'm probably going to call Jamila from my bathroom floor at least twice before Christmas.
But they're in it. They're in it. Not standing at arm's length. Not praying me back to normal. They're still my parents. We're still family.
Considering I'm the jerk who sprung it on them at the last minute, I'll take it.
Reid's hand finds mine on the armrest. His fingers thread through and I open for him automatically. His thumb traces a circle on my knuckle while he argues with himself about whether dried mango counts as a fruit serving.
I reach over with my other hand and find Blake's arm on the aisle armrest. His forearm is warm, dusted with dark hair. I slide my hand down to his.
His fingers open then close around mine immediately. His thumb settles against my wrist and stays.
He doesn't look at me. He's looking straight ahead, jaw set, the picture of a man with absolutely no feelings about anything.
But his grip tightens.
Sure, Babe. Very stoic. Very convincing.
"Okay," Reid says, turning from the window. "Important question. When we land, what's the first meal? Because I've been eating sandwiches, burnt things and tamales for a week and I love both but I need a burger. I need it spiritually."
"We're not getting burgers at the airport," Blake says.
"Why not?"
"Because airport burgers are a fucking crime."
"All burgers are beautiful, Blake. Don't be a food bigot."
Blake's lip curls in a sneer. "I'm not eating a twenty-dollar patty from a place called Sky Grill."
"What about Laine? Laine gets a vote. Laine, burger?"
I open my eyes. Look at Reid — animated, sunburned, trail mix dust on his shirt. Then at Blake — stoic, sawdust-stained, holding my hand so sure in his. My guys. My ridiculous, impossible, mine , guys.
"Burger," I say because suddenly I'm starving.
"Yes. Two to one. Democracy wins."
"This isn't a democracy," Blake says.
"It literally is. We just voted."
"You railroaded a tired woman into agreeing with you."
"She's a strong, independent woman who made her own choice. Right, Laine?"
Now I'm giggling. "Right."
"See?"
Blake shakes his head. But his thumb is still moving against my wrist. And the corner of his mouth is doing the thing — that barely-there curve that means he lost and he doesn't mind. That means he'd eat a hundred terrible airport burgers if it meant sitting across from us while he did it.
The engine hums. The mountains fall away below us. Reid pops another chocolate chip. Offers one to Blake. Blake takes it.
"See?" Reid says. "Joy."
"It's a chocolate chip."
"It's a moment, Blake. Learn to appreciate moments."
Blake's jaw works. He looks out at the aisle like it personally offended him. But he eats the chocolate chip, then holds his hand out for another one.
God, I came so close to losing this.
Not because of them. Because of me.
Because I was too scared to tell my parents the truth. Because I made Blake invisible for two days. Because I almost let the fear of losing my family cost me the family I chose.
Never again.
I squeeze both their hands at the same time. Reid squeezes back without pausing his monologue about airport dining options. Blake's grip tightens — brief, fierce, then settles.
I almost cost myself this. I almost cost them this. Because being brave was too hard and being careful felt safer, and I forgot that careful is just a prettier word for hiding.
No more hiding. No more dropping hands. No more introducing Blake as Reid's friend or dodging questions or performing a version of my life that's easier for other people to swallow.
This is my life. These are my people. And I'm done being anything but proud of them.