Chapter 26
twenty-six
. . .
Witt
We had a big family dinner and my Granny asked if I had a girlfriend. It puzzled me.
The drive to my father's house takes twenty-three minutes.
I know because I've timed it more than once over the years. Twenty-three minutes if traffic cooperates. Twenty-seven if I catch every red light downtown. Today it takes twenty-four because I stop for a school bus.
The house hasn't changed.
The porch swing still hangs slightly crooked.
Dad always blamed the weather, but everyone in the family knows Parker tried to stand on it when he was three.
Greyson caught him before he cracked his head open, but they told me Greyson fell on the swing and it’s been uneven ever since.
I have never sat in it. I like things to be even.
The old wind chimes hanging beside the front porch still announce every breeze with the same soft metallic notes they did when I was a kid. I used to sit on the steps listening to them while everyone else ran through the yard playing football.
The house feels smaller than I remember.
Not because it's changed.
Because somewhere along the way I started measuring space differently. Stadiums. Executive offices. Server rooms. Entire data centers.
Yet standing here, none of those places seem nearly as significant as the little brick house where everything actually began.
Dad opens the front door before I have a chance to knock.
"You’re smiling."
I blink. “Hello.” Why is everyone saying I never smile? I do.
He grabs me into a hug. I’m comfortable enough hugging my family but it’s completely different than when Maci was holding me in bed.
Dad steps aside so I can come in before closing the door behind me.
"I love seeing you smile."
"I smiled?"
"You looked at the porch swing and then the wind chimes.”
I nod.
"You smiled both times."
I stare at him for a second. "You noticed that?"
He chuckles as we walk toward the kitchen. "Son... you think you're the only one who notices everything?"
The familiar scent of coffee greets me before we even reach the kitchen. It's mixed with fresh-cut lumber from one of Dad's latest woodworking projects. Some smells never leave a place.
He pours two mugs without asking if I want one.
Some routines don't require confirmation.
"So..." he says, sliding one across the island toward me. "Did you make another billion dollars?"
"No."
"Two?"
"No."
"Hmm." He pretends to think about it while taking a sip of coffee. "Then something else must've happened."
I smile despite myself.
"Maci had an idea." Okay that’s not the only reason I’m smiling. I’m self-aware enough to know that.
"The new creative strategist?"
I nod.
I tell him about the arcade. About the documentary series she wants to produce on the history of gaming and how she wants people to understand the stories behind the games instead of just the technology. By the time I finish explaining it, Dad is smiling almost as much as I am.
"I love it."
"So do I."
"You should make it."
"I intend to."
He studies me quietly over the rim of his coffee mug. "Are you going to be in it?"
The question hangs between us. I hadn't really considered it yesterday.
Today...
I've thought about little else. "I don't know."
"You built Synatrix from your bedroom until two years ago."
"I know."
"You lived it."
"I know."
"They'll want your story."
My story.
Most people think Synatrix started with code.
It didn't.
It started with a broken headset balanced on a stack of books... and a girl who refused to believe losing meant failure.
If I tell my story...
I tell part of Rune’s too.
Not her name or where she lived or who she became. I don’t know any of that and a part of me sinks. I spent ten years talking to her and now, nothing.
Rune would become part of my history instead of remaining tucked safely inside a decade's worth of letters.
For years, being Glitch belonged only to me.
Sharing that story would make it belong to everyone.
"I'm thinking about it."
Dad nods. "I figured you were."
He doesn't press, never has. He’s the strong silent type when it comes to dishing out advice. Instead, he sets his mug in the sink.
"You didn't drive all the way over here just for my opinion."
"No."
He smiles knowingly.
"It's downstairs."
The basement smells exactly the way I remember.
Concrete.
Cardboard.
Fresh-cut wood.
Shelves line every wall, each one labeled in Dad's neat handwriting. Christmas. Camping. School. Sports. Memories.
He walks to the back corner and rests one hand on a weathered brown leather suitcase.
"There it is."
I haven't touched it in years.
The leather is darker than I remember, worn smooth around the handle from decades of use. One brass latch carries a tiny scratch that catches the light, and the corners have softened with age.
"You know," Dad says quietly, "I always wondered why you wanted this."
"I needed something to raise one of my monitors."
He smiles.
"I know that's what you told me."
"It was."
"It was also the one thing in the house nobody would dare throw away if it was holding up your computer."
I don't answer because he's right. Back then I convinced myself I wasn't saving my mom’s luggage that had made it through four kids. I wanted a little piece of her in my room. But I told myself I was solving a practical problem.
Only now do I realize those were never two different things.
Dad rests a hand on my shoulder. "You've always loved differently than the rest of us."
The words settle somewhere deep inside me.
"I’m sorry I wasn't always good at recognizing it."
I nod. Neither was I.
He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. "Take it home."
I wrap my fingers around the worn leather handle.
It's heavier than I remember, not because of what's inside. Because of all it represents.
As I reach the stairs, Dad calls after me.
"Witt."
I turn.
"I'm glad you're smiling."
I look at the suitcase, then back at him. "So am I."
This time...
I know I mean it.
By the time I make it back to the penthouse, the weight of Dad’s words are still sitting somewhere beneath my ribs, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. I’m expecting silence, order, and the comfort of everything exactly where I left it.
The familiar click of the elevator opening echoes through the quiet entryway. Normally the apartment greets me with the low hum of climate control and little else. Tonight, another smell drifts toward me before I even step inside.
Garlic.
Tomatoes.
Butter.
And smoke.
Not enough smoke to trigger the fire suppression system. Just enough to suggest something had gone terribly wrong.
I step into the kitchen and stop. My eyes begin doing what they've always done.
Countertops.
Four bowls stacked beside the sink. Some in the sink.
Three measuring cups scattered across the island instead of nested together in the drawer where they belong.
Flour dusting the black quartz like the first snowfall of winter.
A wooden spoon resting across a pot at an angle that somehow feels... apologetic.
One cabinet door remains open three inches.
The refrigerator isn't fully closed.
A streak of tomato sauce decorates the backsplash.
Another somehow reached the ceiling.
Interesting.
Parmesan forms a trail across the floor, leading from the island to the stove. A towel hangs crookedly from the oven handle, and something inside the skillet has transformed beyond recognizable food into what appears to be an archaeological discovery.
My brain catalogs every detail automatically.
It always does.
Normally I'd already be mentally reorganizing the room before taking another step.
Instead, my attention keeps moving until it finds her.
Maci stands in the center of the disaster holding a wooden spoon like she's forgotten what it's for.
Her pink hair has escaped its messy bun, loose strands curling around her face.
There's flour across one cheek, a tiny smear of tomato sauce near her elbow, and she has somehow managed to get a fingerprint of what looks like marinara on the front of her T-shirt.
She looks exhausted.
Hopeful.
Mortified.
And unbelievably adorable.
The kitchen disappears and all I see is her.
The moment our eyes meet, her shoulders drop. "I'm sorry."
The words come so quickly they tumble over each other.
"I wanted to surprise you, and then the rice...
honestly, I don't know what happened to the rice.
I think it declared independence. Then the chicken burned, and I thought I could save the sauce, but apparently tomato sauce has a violent streak, and I kept thinking if I cleaned fast enough you'd never know—"
She stops talking long enough to look around the kitchen.
Fresh panic floods her expression.
"Oh no."
She presses one flour-covered hand against her forehead. "I knew it looked bad, but not like a Minecraft Creeper got splattered.” Her voice grows quieter. "I'll clean all of it."
Another shaky breath before she says, "If something's ruined, I'll replace it."
She swallows.
"If... if you don't want me staying here anymore..."
The words barely make it out.
"I'll find a place."
For one suspended moment, everything inside me goes still.
She thinks that's what this is about.
Not the kitchen.
Not the food.
She's afraid I've stopped wanting her here.
I set the suitcase carefully against the wall before walking toward her.
She doesn't move.
She simply watches me with wide, uncertain eyes, as if she's already preparing herself for disappointment.
"I know this is a lot," she whispers.
"It is."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"I just..." Her voice cracks. "I wanted to do something nice for you."
The sentence settles somewhere beneath my ribs.
I look around the kitchen one more time.
The parmesan.
The dishes.
The burnt food.
Every misplaced object tells the same story.
Not carelessness.
Effort.
She spent hours trying to make me happy.
Without thinking, I close the distance between us. My hands settle gently around her waist.
She stiffens for the briefest second before melting against me, burying her face against my chest.
"I thought you'd hate me."
"No."