25. Chapter 25
Claire
Laughter wakes me. It's real laughter, the kind my father hasn't produced in months, rolling up through the window of my childhood bedroom like it has every right to be here.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand before I'm fully upright.
Darius:
Brandon served Evan this morning. NDA breach, formal notice, league's opening its own review. It's handled.
A second message appears before I can reply.
Darius:
Also survived the board review. Apparently not everyone thinks I'm a lost cause.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Then, thirty seconds later:
Darius:
I'm in your backyard. Jacob texted me at 6:40am. SIX FORTY. Your brother is a menace and I respect it.
I blink at the screen.
Once.
Then again.
My backyard?
I throw back the quilt and cross the room.
***
The view stops me with one hand still wrapped around the curtain.
Darius is in the backyard between the oak trees, jogging backward in gray sweats and calling out a route to Jacob. Jacob cuts left and snatches the football out of the air with the kind of concentration usually reserved for open-heart surgery.
And my father, my father, sits in a lawn chair with a blanket over his lap laughing so hard the sound carries all the way to my window.
For a second, I just stare.
I didn't invite Darius over.
My father certainly didn't invite Darius over.
Which means Jacob somehow orchestrated this before most people have finished their first cup of coffee.
A laugh escapes me.
I press my palm against the glass and keep watching.
Darius launches another pass.
Jacob catches it.
My father laughs again.
And against all odds, it looks like they've been doing this forever.
***
I get dressed and head downstairs, and somewhere on the staircase I notice the change I haven't been able to name all week.
I feel different. Part of it is the baby, who is the size of a tangerine and has already decided I don't get to enjoy regular smells anymore.
Halfway down the stairs the scent of Mom's coffee hits me and my stomach stages a full mutiny, which is rich, considering I've run on coffee since college. This kid is already in charge.
The rest of it has nothing to do with hormones. I feel lighter than I have in years.
And for the first time since I took this assignment, I'm not carrying anything alone.
Samuel is stable. The hospital bill is settled.
The Gatorade money came through end of last week, and I had to sit with that for a minute before I could move past it.
That number on my parents' kitchen table has been there so long it started to feel permanent. Turns out it wasn't.
In the kitchen, my mother has watermelon cut up in the big yellow bowl, the one we've used for backyard everything since before I could reach the counter. She kisses my cheek and nods toward the porch.
"Take that out to the men," she says, and there's a glint in her eye I don't trust for one second.
I narrow my eyes.
"What are you up to?"
My mother just smiles and goes back to wiping down the counter.
That's never a good sign.
***
I carry the bowl toward the screen door.
The morning air drifts in through the mesh. My father's voice carries from the porch, low and thoughtful.
"...different when it's your daughter."
I slow.
Darius says something too quietly for me to make out.
My father's chair creaks.
"No. I understand that part."
I stop just inside the doorway.
The watermelon bowl suddenly feels much heavier than it should.
Then I hear Darius take a breath.
"You're right, sir. That's why I'm asking."
Asking?
My pulse kicks.
The porch falls quiet.
When Darius speaks again, his voice is steady.
"I want to marry your daughter for real, and I'm asking you the way I should have asked you the first time."
Everything inside me goes still.
My father doesn't answer right away.
The porch boards creak beneath his chair.
"You know what I was doing at your age?" he finally says.
"Preaching, I'd guess."
"Wrestling." He lets that sit. "Badly. I also rode a motorcycle and played bass in a band called The Sinners."
The bowl nearly hits the floor.
"We played exactly four shows," my father continues, like he's describing another man's life. "Got paid in gas money and fried chicken. I thought I was the most alive man in Texas."
"What happened?" Darius asks.
Samuel lets out a rough laugh.
"Grace's father happened. Man spent thirty years convinced I wasn't good enough for his daughter."
My mother snorts from the kitchen behind me.
"You weren't."
The porch erupts in laughter.
Samuel points toward the house without turning around. "See? Forty years of marriage and she still takes his side."
"I do not." Footsteps cross the kitchen and I barely have time to flatten myself against the wall before my mother breezes past, lifting the watermelon bowl straight out of my hands without breaking stride.
She winks at me and pushes through the screen door.
"My daddy thought you were irresponsible. I thought you were fun."
I risk a glance through the window.
My mother settles into the chair beside him and steals a slice of watermelon from the bowl in her lap.
Samuel shakes his head. "I sold the motorcycle. Quit the band. Got a real job."
"You looked ridiculous in that band."
"I looked cool."
"You looked ridiculous."
Darius is trying very hard not to laugh.
Samuel ignores him. "Point is, I kept changing things. At first it was to earn her father's approval. Then somewhere along the way, I forgot to stop."
Grace's smile softens.
"That's the part that always broke my heart."
The porch goes quiet.
"You know I never wanted you to become my father," she says. "I married you because you made life interesting."
Samuel looks down at his hands.
Grace reaches over and squeezes one of them.
"I liked the motorcycle. I liked the band. I liked the man who'd drag me out for ice cream at ten o'clock because he didn't think grown adults should have bedtimes."
A reluctant smile pulls at Samuel's mouth.
"There he is," she says. "I've been looking for him."
Darius clears his throat.
"For what it's worth, sir, I know a couple guys who restore bikes."
Samuel looks over.
"And I've never heard a pastor play bass," Darius adds, "but I'd probably buy front-row tickets."
My father laughs. It cracks in the middle, like a hinge working loose after years of rust.
"I'd like that, son."
He called him son.
***
I back away from the door on socked feet and stand in my mother's kitchen, staring at absolutely nothing.
At some point this morning, I learned my father rode a motorcycle, played bass in a band called The Sinners, and spent thirty years hiding pieces of himself to become the man everyone expected him to be.
Objectively, those are life-altering revelations.
The problem is my brain keeps snagging on something else.
I want to marry your daughter.
The words replay so clearly it's like he's standing beside me saying them again.
This wasn't for the cameras or the foundation. It wasn't another crisis demanding a solution, and it definitely wasn't because the internet has already decided we're one family Christmas card away from matching pajamas.
He meant it.
I grip the edge of the counter before my legs make a decision without me.
Because what exactly is a person supposed to do with that information?
My father gave him his blessing.
That should be the shocking part.
A month ago, I would have bet my retirement account on Samuel Wells throwing Darius Webb off the porch.
Instead, he said yes.
But the part I can't seem to wrap my head around is that Darius asked in the first place.
No one expected him to. No one pressured him into it. There wasn't a publicist in sight handing out talking points.
He walked into that conversation because he wanted to.
My pulse refuses to settle.
For weeks I've told myself this relationship happened by accident. One fake engagement. One impossible situation. One crisis after another.
Now I'm standing in my mother's kitchen wondering if the only person who never realized this was becoming real... was me.
***
"You look like you saw a ghost." Hannah pads into the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt, hair in a pineapple, and steals a piece of watermelon.
"Did you know Daddy was in a band called The Sinners?"
Hannah chokes on the watermelon.
"THE SINNERS?" She grabs my arm. "Our daddy? Deuteronomy Sam?"
"Bass player. Four shows. Paid in fried chicken."
Hannah screams into a dish towel. She is genuinely screaming. Then we're both laughing so hard I have to sit down on the kitchen floor, my back against the cabinets, while she wheezes out a plan for church business cards that say Pastor Samuel Wells, formerly of The Sinners.
"I'm never letting him live this down," I manage. "Never. I'm requesting bass solos at Christmas."
The laughing fades the way it does, in waves, and Hannah slides down next to me on the floor and bumps her shoulder against mine.
"Okay. So why'd you look like that when I walked in?"
I pick at the hem of my sleeve. "Darius asked Daddy for permission. To marry me for real."
"And Daddy said yes."
"He called him son, Hannah."
"So why do you look like you're about to file a complaint?"
I exhale slowly. "Because the fake version had rules. A contract. An end date. I knew exactly what it was. The real version comes with none of that. It's just me, betting everything on a man, with a baby on the way, in front of God and Daddy and the entire internet. And I'm scared."
Saying it out loud costs me. Scared sits high on the list of words I was raised never to say.
Hannah goes quiet for a second. Then she takes my hand.
"You know what you told me when I called you crying my freshman year, convinced I was going to fail out?"
"That you needed to actually attend statistics?"
A laugh escapes her.
"After that."
I smile despite myself.
"You said scared just means it matters."
My chest tightens.
Hannah squeezes my hand.
"And you were right."
I look down at our joined hands.
"Hannah—"
"No." She shakes her head. "I'm serious. You always think yourself into circles when something's important."
"That's not true."
"It's absolutely true."
I huff out a laugh.
She nudges my shoulder.
"Just look at him, Claire."
I follow her gaze toward the backyard.
"Really look."
***
Something in her voice makes me do it.
The backyard smells like cut grass and a neighbor's charcoal grill two houses over.
Jacob is mid-route, tongue between his teeth, and Darius lofts the ball into his hands like a gift.
My parents have migrated to the far end of the yard, my mother fussing with my father's blanket while he bats her hands away and grins.
Darius sees me and his whole face changes. He doesn't load up a performance first. He just lights up.
"Water break, twelve," he tells Jacob, and comes to sit beside me under the big oak, close enough that his arm settles warm against mine.
For a minute we just watch Jacob chug a Gatorade and immediately start running routes against an imaginary defender anyway.
Then Darius reaches over and takes my left hand. He turns it so the oval ring catches the afternoon sun, and he runs his thumb across the band, slow.
"I've been thinking about making this real," he says.
My heart climbs into my throat.
"Darius." I shake my head. "That's a big deal."
"I know."
"No, I mean it." I force myself to hold his gaze. "There's no contract anymore. No expiration date. If we do this, it's just us. Every day. Trying."
The ring turns once between his fingers.
"And this baby is going to grow up watching us," I continue. "I don't need perfect. I don't need grand gestures. I just need two people who keep showing up for each other."
His shoulders loosen.
A small smile appears, and for a second he looks almost relieved.
Like I've finally caught up to something he's known for a while.
A month ago, I would've laughed if someone told me Darius Webb would be standing in my parents' backyard talking about marriage.
Now he's here anyway.
The football player who crashed into my life, drove me insane, charmed my family, survived every scandal thrown at him, and somehow became the safest place I know.
My chest tightens.
Not because I'm scared he's asking.
Because I'm starting to realize he means it.
"I know what I'm asking for, Claire," he says quietly.
The certainty in his voice settles something inside me.
For weeks I've been waiting for the catch. The loophole. The fine print.
There isn't any.
There's just him.
Sitting under my parents' oak tree with my hand in his and looking at me like I'm the easiest decision he's ever made.
"If you're ready," I say.
"I'm ready."
His smile starts slow and takes over his whole face.
Then he reaches for me.
The kiss is soft. Familiar. The kind that feels less like a promise and more like coming home.
***
A horrified noise erupts from somewhere behind us.
"OH MY GOD, ARE THEY KISSING?"
I pull back laughing.
Jacob is standing twenty feet away holding a football like he's just witnessed a crime.
"THAT'S SO GROSS."
"You're twelve," Hannah calls from the porch. "Everything is gross."
"NOT THIS GROSS."
Jacob's hollering could wake the whole street, so of course it draws an audience. Two shadows fall across the grass.
My parents stand over us, my father moving carefully but under his own power, my mother's arm looped through his.
"Darius," my father says. "Are you coming to Fourth of July dinner?"
"Wouldn't miss it, sir."
"Good."
My father settles a hand on Darius's shoulder.
"Because I want you at the head of the table."
The words hit harder than they should because I know exactly what they mean.
My father isn't offering Darius a seat at dinner. He's making room for him in the family.
I glance at Darius.
For a second he just looks at my father. Then he nods once.
"Yes, sir," he says quietly. "I'd like that."
Jacob immediately perks up.
"Fourth of July is awesome." He points toward Darius as if this information might somehow be new. "We do burgers, ribs, Mom makes that potato salad everybody fights over, and Dad lets me set off the big fireworks."
"You almost lit the shed on fire last year," Hannah says.
"It was one spark."
"It was a lot more than one spark."
Jacob ignores her.
"The point is, it's awesome."
A smile spreads across Darius's face.
"Actually," he says, "I had an idea of my own."
The smile gets wider.
Oh no.
I know that smile.
That smile once rented an entire amusement park.
"Darius."
His innocence is immediate and completely fake.
"What?"
I groan, which only makes my father laugh.
My mother looks delighted, Hannah is trying not to smile, and Jacob has already decided whatever Darius is planning is the greatest idea in human history.
"What's the idea?" Jacob asks.
Darius looks around the yard, then back at me.
And whatever he sees on my face makes him grin.
"You'll find out soon enough."
My stomach drops.
Everyone else's lights up.
Which means whatever happens next is going to be unforgettable… and very Hollywood.