Reece #2
I glare at him. “You were in on it, too.”
He shrugs, calm. “I was loyal.”
Mom’s eyes get watery like this is the sweetest thing she’s ever heard. “He was always loyal.”
Dad laughs. “He really was.”
Robert nods. “My boy followed her like a shadow.”
My stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with food.
Because hearing it said out loud—followed her like a shadow—lands differently now.
The room laughs.
I force a laugh too, because what else do I do?
Susan leans forward, delighted. “Tell them about the dance.”
I freeze again. “What dance?”
Susan’s eyes gleam. “Oh, honey. The one where you asked why Gage couldn’t go to dance with you.”
The table goes still for half a second.
My soul tries to exit my body.
Dad’s grin widens like he’s been waiting years for this moment.
Mom covers her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”
My dad looks at the ceiling like he’s praying for patience. “Susan.”
Susan waves him off. “It’s adorable!”
“It was dance school,” I say quickly, because if I don’t speak I will combust. “Not—like—a dance. Not a school dance. I was little.”
“And dramatic,” Dad adds, pleased with himself.
“And I just—” I continue, voice rising, “didn’t understand why I had to do it alone when I did everything else with Gage. And I mean everything. Bikes. Forts. Card games. Library trips. The Great Grilled Cheese Incident of Third Grade.”
Susan clasps her hands. “You marched into this kitchen and declared—”
“I declared,” I interrupt, mortified, “that it was unfair. Because Gage couldn’t come to dance school with me.”
Mom’s eyes crinkle. “You were in tap shoes.”
Dad laughs. “You were in a leotard, and you meant business.”
“And,” I say, pointing my fork like I’m presenting evidence, “I asked him—very reasonably—why he couldn’t just come and do it too.”
Gage’s jaw tightens slightly, like the memory hits him in the ribs.
Robert chuckles. “And what did Gage say?”
Gage takes a sip of water like he’s stalling. “I said… I wasn’t going to do ballet and tap dance.”
“Which,” Susan adds, delighted, “was the wrong answer.”
“It was not the wrong answer,” Gage says, calm.
“It was the wrong answer for Reece,” Dad corrects.
“And then,” I continue, because apparently we’re doing public humiliation as a side dish, “I told him he was being ‘un-supportive.’”
Mom makes a soft, helpless sound. “You did.”
Gage’s eyes flick to mine again.
Quiet.
Steady.
And my chest tightens because I remember it too—standing on the porch afterward, pouting like it was an Olympic event, and him offering me his arm anyway like he could make up for the one thing he wouldn’t do.
Robert smiles. “He still walked you up the steps after.”
Susan grins. “He always showed up.”
My mom sighs happily. “He always showed up.”
The words always showed up settle over the table like a blanket.
And for a second I can’t breathe.
Because Jesse didn’t show up.
Because I spent years making excuses for someone who didn’t know how to hold me when things got hard.
Because Gage has been holding me—quietly, steadily—for most of my life.
And I don’t know what to do with that truth sitting in a room full of people who have been watching it happen.
Susan laughs, breaking the tension like she didn’t realize she created it. “Anyway! Who wants more?”
The table exhales.
I take a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Gage’s knee shifts slightly beneath the table—grazing mine.
My entire nervous system notices.
The conversation drifts to Georgia.
To the parents living in the same community down there now.
My mom mentions “forever” casually—something like, “It’s nice that we’ll all be neighbors forever, in some way.”
And the word forever hits me like a bruise.
My fork stills.
My chest tightens.
Because forever is the word Jesse said lightly once—before he left.
Forever is the word that used to feel safe until it didn’t.
I blink too fast, trying to keep my face normal.
Gage notices anyway.
He always does.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t call attention to it.
He just reaches for the serving bowl near me—smooth, steady—and shifts it closer to my plate like he’s giving me something to do with my hands.
A small, quiet kindness.
A lifeline.
My throat tightens.
I whisper, too low for anyone else, “Thanks.”
His eyes flick to mine.
Soft.
And for half a second, the table disappears.
Then my phone lights up beside my plate.
Not a text.
Not a polite buzz.
A full-screen FaceTime that vibrates like it has opinions.
ROSIE — FaceTime
I freeze.
My mom glances down at it, then up at me like she already knows I have to answer it.
Susan, across the table, cranes her neck and squints. “Is that Rosie?”
I clear my throat, because apparently my body has forgotten how to do normal things. “Yes.”
Susan claps her hands once like this is excellent news. “Oh, answer it.”
I blink. “Right now?”
Susan looks genuinely confused by my confusion. “Reece. Yes. Right now. She should be included.”
My phone is ringing like it’s trying to stage an intervention.
Susan leans forward, delighted. “Rosie needs to see this.”
I lift my hands. “No she doesn’t.”
“Yes she does,” Susan says, like she’s issuing a legal ruling.
The phone keeps vibrating.
I stare at the screen like it’s a trap.
Then I tap accept, because I have been raised by women who do not allow avoidance to win.
FaceTime connects.
Rosie’s face fills my screen—hair perfect, eyes bright, expression already suspicious.
“Reece, I need details,” she announces like she’s addressing a stadium.
I angle the phone toward the table so Rosie sees everyone here and doesn’t continue a personal conversation.
Susan immediately leans into the frame like she’s a producer going live.
“SUSAN DONOVAN!” Rosie’s eyes widen. “OH MY—WAIT—IS THAT LINDA?”
My mother waves. “Rosie!”
Rosie shrieks. “I FaceTimed one person and got a whole family special—why is this cast so cute?!”
Dad leans in and says, “Rosie.”
Rosie gasps. “PATRICK? Sir. Icon. Legend.”
Dad laughs. “How’s Manhattan?”
Rosie squints like she’s already counting details. “Fine. But I have questions. Many. Who authorized this reunion?”
Susan beams. “Me.”
Rosie points at the screen. “That checks out.”
Then Rosie’s gaze locks onto me.
Her eyes narrow.
“Reece.”
I freeze.
My mother grins like she knows exactly what’s coming.
Rosie says, slowly, “Why do you look like you’re in court.”
I blink. “I don’t.”
Rosie leans closer to her camera like she’s trying to see my soul. “You do. You look beautiful but also like you’re about to be cross-examined by a casserole.”
Susan cackles.
Mom laughs so hard she nearly drops her fork.
I hiss, “Rosie.”
Rosie’s eyes flick—casual, predatory—to the side of my screen.
To Gage.
Her smile turns feral.
“Oh,” she says softly. “OH.”
Gage’s face stays calm, but his ears go slightly pink.
Rosie points a finger like she’s about to narrate a documentary.
“And there,” she says, delighted, “we see the rare Donovan in his natural habitat: pretending he is unbothered while absolutely being bothered.”
Gage clears his throat. “Hi, Rosie.”
Rosie’s eyes sparkle. “Hi, Gage. You look… steady.”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “That’s usually the goal.”
Rosie nods like she’s filing evidence. “Mmm. Sure.”
“And Reece,” Rosie continues, “Are you still doing math with your feelings?”
I inhale. “Rosie.”
Rosie smiles sweetly. “What? I’m supportive.”
Susan leans over, stage whispering into the phone, “She always does that.”
Rosie beams. “Thank you, Susan.”
Dad laughs.
The parents are loving this. All of them.
They’re laughing like this is entertainment.
Like this isn’t my heart trying to crawl out of my chest and hide behind the mashed potatoes.
Rosie’s eyes flick to the whole table and she says, “Okay, okay. Everyone is adorable. I approve of the food vibes. I approve of the family vibes. I approve of the… tension vibes.”
I choke. “There are no tension vibes.”
Rosie’s smile widens. “Sure, babe.”
Susan laughs so hard she has to wipe her eyes.
Robert mutters, “This is chaos.”
Dad says, delighted, “It really is.”
Rosie points at the screen again. “Fine. I will let you all eat. But I expect a full report later.”
My mother waves her off. “We love you!”
Rosie blows a kiss. “Love you more!”
Then she looks at me one last time—eyes softer underneath the jokes.
“Reece,” she says, gentler, “breathe.”
My throat tightens.
I nod once, grateful.
Rosie smiles. “Okay. Bye! Don’t let anyone interrogate you into emotional honesty without snacks.”
I end the call, still laughing breathlessly because I don’t know what else to do with my face.
The table settles again.
But something about Rosie’s presence lingers—like she just held up a mirror and now I can’t unsee what’s reflected.
Our parents keep talking.
The food keeps disappearing.
The night keeps moving.
And yet, underneath everything, the tension hums.
Not angry tension.
Not awkward tension.
The kind that feels like a thread pulled tight between two people who keep pretending it’s just… normal.
I feel it every time Gage reaches for something near my hand.
Every time his voice drops lower when he says something just for me.
Every time he does something steady and kind in front of everyone, like sliding the serving bowl closer, like refilling my water, like glancing at me when the word forever lands wrong.
And the worst part?
It all feels like home.
And home is the one thing I want and fear at the same time.
Later, when dessert comes out—because of course it does—Susan announces it like she’s unveiling a masterpiece.
The parents laugh again, eating, reminiscing.
And for a moment—just a moment—Gage’s hand brushes mine as we both reach for the serving spoon.
Not dramatic.
Not a lightning bolt.
Just skin to skin.
Warm.
Familiar.
And neither of us moves away fast enough.
Our eyes lift at the same time.
His gaze catches mine.
Steady.
Soft.
As if he’s asking a question without words.
As if he’s saying: Are we okay?
My heart stutters.
I don’t know how to answer.
I hear my mom laugh at something across the table. Susan’s voice chiming in. Dad teasing Robert. Robert quietly amused.
The house is full of love.
Full of history.
Full of people who already see us as linked.
And all I can think is:
When do we get a quiet moment?
How do we even find one in a room this full?
I excuse myself after dessert, claiming I need to “check on something” like there’s an emergency in the hallway.
In reality, I just need air.
I slip into the hallway, leaning my hand against the wall for a second.
My chest rises and falls too fast.
This is ridiculous.
This is dinner.
It’s not a big deal.
It’s just—
It’s him.
It’s always been him.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
I turn.
Gage stands there at the end of the hallway, like he followed the pull of the same thread.
His expression is calm.
But his eyes are not.
They’re careful. Quiet. Wanting something he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask for.
My throat tightens.
For a second, the house noise fades, and it’s just us—finally, a pocket of quiet.
A moment.
My heart pounds like it’s about to betray me.
Gage takes one slow step closer.
And before either of us can say a word—
Susan’s voice rings out from the dining room, bright and triumphant.
“GAGE! WHERE DID YOU GO? GET IN HERE—WE’RE TELLING THE FORT STORY AGAIN!”
I freeze.
Gage’s eyes close for half a second like he’s praying for patience.
Then he looks back at me, and the almost-smile he gives me is so tender it hurts.
“Witnesses,” he murmurs.
My chest tightens.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He nods once, like he’s storing this moment somewhere safe. “We’ll talk,” he says quietly.
Not a promise he throws around lightly.
A real one.
Then he turns back toward the dining room, shoulders squaring into “son” and “host” and “responsible adult.”
And I’m left in the hallway with my hand on the wall, my heart thumping, and one burning thought:
We need a quiet moment.
But I don’t know if we’ll get one—
not with everyone watching.
Not with everyone laughing.
Not with everyone already convinced they know how this ends.
And the most terrifying part?
A part of me thinks they might be right.