Chapter 48
Chapter forty-eight
Knox
Sunday dinner wasn’t exactly my idea. Left to my own devices, I’d have offered to break the news over coffee or maybe a cautious “hey, by the way” in the produce aisle.
But Brynn had this look in her eyes when she suggested it, this wide-eyed, nervous kind of bravery that made me want to make it easy for her. For us. So, dinner it was.
I’ve vacuumed twice. I didn’t need to, but the thought of both our mothers inspecting my baseboards like it's a qualifying round for domestic husband of the year sent me into a cleaning spiral that ended with rearranged spice jars and a candle labeled “Mountain Rain” burning in the guest bathroom.
Cam would never let me live this down if he saw it.
Brynn’s voice floats over from next door, light and a little breathless, like she’s corralling cats.
Her parents must’ve arrived. We agreed she’d bring them over once everyone was here.
My mom and dad are already settled on the couch with a glass of wine and a container of pumpkin bars.
She didn’t trust me to bake them correctly on my own.
I take a breath and glance around the kitchen one more time.
The roast smells good, the Brussels sprouts haven’t turned to mush, and the wine is breathing, which apparently is a thing.
I don’t know if this night will go exactly how we planned, but it already feels like more than I ever thought I’d get again with her.
There’s a soft knock on the door before it opens. Brynn steps in first, her eyes flicking to mine in that silent way we’ve started communicating again, like there’s a wire stretched between us, buzzing with a thousand unsaid things. Her parents follow, just a few steps behind.
Her mom, Susan, greets me with a familiar smile, the kind she used to give me when I showed up at their door back in high school, soft, a little amused, like she’s still not quite sure how I convinced their daughter to love me the first time around.
Her dad, Frank, gives a firm handshake, steady and brief.
No silent warnings, no posturing. Just mutual respect.
“Hi, Mrs. Dalton, Mr. Dalton,” Brynn says as she takes the Tupperware from my mom with an easy smile. She lifts the lid of the container to inspect the contents. “Are these your pumpkin bars?”
“They’re still warm,” my mom replies with a nod. “I remember how much you love them!”
“I can’t wait.” Brynn places it on the kitchen island and grabs the brussels sprouts and heads for the table. “Let’s all sit down.”
We sit and plates are passed, drinks are poured, and we ease into the kind of dinner conversation that skirts just wide enough around the truth.
Small talk cushions the table—early fall weather, a new café opening near the courthouse, how Frank still refuses to give up mowing his own lawn despite Brynn offering to hire someone.
It’s easy. Familiar. Not tense. Brynn catches my eye, and I feel the small shift in her posture. Not nervous—just ready.
She sets her fork down with quiet confidence. “So,” she says, tone clear, “we didn’t just invite you over for a roast and polite conversation.”
I catch her dad’s eyebrows lift. My mom freezes mid-sip of her iced tea.
“There’s something we wanted to tell you,” I say, glancing at Brynn as our fingers link under the table. Her hand’s steady in mine, but I can feel the way she’s holding her breath.
She gives me a quick smile, then looks at our parents. “We’re dating,” she says. “Again. Taking it slow, but…we’re dating.”
For a heartbeat, the room goes still. Then my mom gasps, sharp, dramatic, like she just found out she won a cruise.
“I knew it!” she cries, practically knocking her napkin to the floor. “The minute she moved in next door, I said it. Didn’t I say it, Frank? ‘Mark my words,’ I said, ‘they’re going to find their way back to each other.’”
Brynn’s mom lets out a delighted sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, honey. This makes me so happy. Look at your face—you’re glowing.”
Brynn laughs, cheeks pink. “It’s the lighting. And maybe the wine.”
“Nope, that’s love-glow,” my mom says, fanning herself. “Don’t argue with a woman who watches twelve hours of Hallmark a week.”
Brynn shoots me a look. “We’re not going to survive this dinner, are we?”
“Absolutely not,” I say, grinning.
“I need wine,” Susan says, already pouring another glass. “Because I promised I’d stay neutral, but now I’m invested. Fully. Emotionally. Possibly financially.”
“I’m hosting the engagement party,” my mom declares.
“We are not engaged,” Brynn says quickly, eyes wide.
“Yet,” both moms say in unison.
Brynn stares at them. “This is a coordinated attack.”
I lean in. “Should’ve known better than to underestimate them.”
Our dads just sit back, smiling into their drinks.
“I’m just glad someone finally said it out loud,” Frank mutters. “I was starting to feel like I was in a soap opera rerun.”
“Same,” Brynn’s dad agrees. “You have no idea what your mothers have put us through.”
Brynn drops her forehead to the table. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”
“To subtlety,” my mom says, raising her glass. “May it rest in peace.”
“To second chances,” Susan adds, clinking hers with a soft, proud smile.
Brynn turns to me, her eyes dancing, fingers squeezing mine.
And just like that—this moment, this family, this chaotic, love-filled dinner—it all feels exactly right.
My mom claps her hands like someone just announced free pie for life. “Oh, I’m so happy for you two,” she gushes. “You two always had that something. Everyone else could see it. Took you long enough to catch up.”
I smile, shaking my head. “We’re giving it a real shot this time.”
“Good,” she says, eyes darting between us with the kind of excitement that makes me nervous.
“Because I’ve been biting my tongue for months.
Every football game, every church potluck, I kept thinking—just kiss already!
” She leans forward, grinning. “And now look at you. All grown up. Back where you belong.”
Brynn squeezes my hand under the table, and I can feel the tension in her grip slowly starting to ease.
“And who knows,” my mom adds with a sparkle in her eyes. “Maybe now I’ll finally get a few grandbabies out of you two.”
The words hang in the air like a balloon that just lost all its helium.
It’s not loud. No one gasps. No plates crash to the floor. But I feel Brynn freeze beside me.
Just a fraction. Just enough.
Her smile doesn’t fall—but it stretches thinner. Her fingers tense slightly in mine. And I know.
Her parents both shift uncomfortably, like they’re trying to silently will the conversation somewhere safer. But the damage is already done.
Mom’s still smiling, oblivious, already rattling off something about baby Halloween costumes and matching jerseys.
But all I can see is Brynn—still smiling for everyone else, still doing that thing she does where she tucks away the ache so no one has to see it.
Except I do.
I lean toward her and murmur low against her temple, “You okay?”
She gives the faintest nod, eyes on her plate. “Just surprised me.”
I hate this. Hate that something as small as a careless hope could dig into a place she’s still healing. I want to shield her from it. I want to tell my mom to change the subject, to leave it be.
But Brynn’s stronger than anyone gives her credit for. She just straightens her back, takes a breath, and meets my gaze.
And I say the only thing that matters, loud enough for the table to hear.
“Whatever our future looks like,” I say, “I want it with Brynn.”
She looks at me and something softens behind her eyes. Her thumb brushes against mine, and she gives a tiny nod. Not for the table. Not for anyone else.
Eventually, the moment passes. Brynn’s mom shifts the conversation to something about the fall festival’s chili cook-off and my mom jumps in.
Laughter comes back into the room, slowly but surely.
But I never stop holding Brynn’s hand. And I don’t miss the way she holds mine back like she’s scared I’ll let go.
I won’t.
Whatever future we build—whatever shape it takes—it’s going to be ours. Even if it looks different than we once imagined.
Our parents linger for coffee, though none of us touch the pumpkin bars.
We’re too full from dinner, too content to reach for more, even as the sugar calls faintly from the countertop.
Conversation winds down into the soft lull of a night well spent—easy laughter, the clink of mugs, the occasional yawn someone tries and fails to hide.
When Brynn’s dad stifles a second yawn, her mom gently pats his arm and rises with a knowing smile. “We’d better head out before he falls asleep mid-sentence.”
We all laugh, and that’s the cue. Everyone rises in a comfortable shuffle of hugs and ‘let’s do this again’ sentiments. Brynn walks her parents to the door, her hand tucked into her dad’s elbow, and I watch them go with something warm and weighted turning in my chest.
My mom reaches for her purse, but I step in gently. “Mom, Dad—could you stay a little longer?”
My dad lifts a brow, curious but calm. “Of course.”
Once Brynn’s parents are gone, I find her hand as she turns back to me.
Her face is composed, her smile still easy—but I know her too well.
I caught it earlier, the way her fingers tightened just slightly when my mom had chirped something about grandkids.
A light, harmless comment on the surface—hopeful, sweet. But it landed differently.
She hadn’t let on. She nodded, smiled like everyone else. But I saw the flicker in her eyes. That tiny crack in her composure, the grief she thought she’d hidden behind her grace.
I lean in, my voice just for her. “I asked them to stay because…I think maybe it’s time to talk about it. About the grandchildren thing.”
Her breath catches, and she glances past me to where my parents sit on the couch, talking quietly. Then her eyes find mine again, steady but hesitant. “Right now?”
I nod, wrapping my fingers around hers. “Only if you’re okay with it.
But I saw your face tonight, Brynn. And I don’t want that look to sneak back in because we’re avoiding something that’s part of our reality.
My mom meant well—she had no idea. But I don’t want her to keep unknowingly brushing against something that hurts you.
I think…I think we should tell them. I don’t want you carrying that weight alone.
We should get to write our story on our terms.”
She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to our joined hands. Her thumb traces mine, and for a moment, she’s quiet. Then, in a voice almost too soft to catch, she says, “Just keep holding my hand, okay?”
I lift her fingers to my lips. “Always. Whatever you need.”
The house is quiet again, the kind of stillness that settles deep after a big night.
Brynn’s in my hoodie, barefoot in the kitchen, her hair down, her shoulders finally relaxed.
She’s washing the last few mugs in the sink, even though I told her I’d do it.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching her.
There’s something about seeing her like this—unhurried, soft in the light glow of the pendant lamp, her expression loose with exhaustion and peace—that hits me right in the chest.
“I still think it’s wild how good they were with it,” she says suddenly, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Your parents. I didn’t know what to expect.”
I step closer and slide my arms around her waist from behind. She lets out a breath and leans back into me like she was waiting for it.
“You were brave as hell tonight,” I say against her temple. “The way you talked to them—clear, honest, calm... I know it wasn’t easy.”
She shrugs lightly, setting the towel down. “I didn’t want to cry. I thought if I could just explain it without choking up, it might feel less like something broken and more like…just a part of me.”
I press a kiss to her cheek. “It is just a part of you. And it doesn’t make you any less—”
“Don’t,” she says quietly, turning in my arms. “Don’t say it doesn’t make me any less of a woman. I know that. I just…I needed them to see it too.”
“They did.” My voice is gentle, but certain. “You should’ve seen my mom when you walked out to get their coats. She looked at me and said, ‘That girl is stronger than she even realizes.’”
Brynn exhales a shaky little laugh, one hand pressed to my chest. “She said that?”
“She did. And my dad…you know he’s quiet, but he nodded and said he’s proud of us.”
Her eyes shimmer a little, but not from sadness this time. Something warmer sits there now. Lighter.
“I was scared they’d look at me differently.”
“They just saw someone they already adored being real with them. You didn’t lose anything tonight, Brynn. If anything…you just became more you.”
She wraps her arms around my neck, forehead resting against mine. “You always know what to say.”
I grin and kiss her softly, lingering for a moment. “That’s because I love you.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”
We just stay there, tangled up in each other in the middle of our messy kitchen. No rush, no noise, no more weight pressing on her shoulders. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the way her thumbs stroke the back of my neck.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask after a beat.
She nods, pulling back just far enough to meet my eyes. “I’m better than okay. I feel… proud. And kind of exhausted.”
I laugh. “Then let’s call it a night. I’ll finish these.”
She arches a brow. “We both know you’re terrible at scrubbing mugs.”
I lean in close, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Yeah, but I’m great at taking you to bed.”
Her soft laugh fills the room, bright and easy, and when I reach for her hand, she doesn’t hesitate. We walk out of the kitchen together, fingers laced. She stops just before we start up the stairs.
“Wait, bring the pumpkin bars.”
I laugh, shaking my head. I step back into the kitchen, grabbing the tupperware from the island. I walk back and hand them to her. She raises on her toes, kisses my cheek and I smile. We’re still writing our story, on our terms.