LARK #5
I shake my head. “I don’t have time right now.”
He shifts on his feet, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Lark, I don’t want to keep doing this. Avoiding each other, pretending like—”
“Mom.”
The voice cuts through everything.
I turn so fast I nearly knock over a salt shaker on the table.
Hudson.
Standing there in the doorway to my office, arms crossed, baseball uniform on, cap pulled low over his forehead. His cheeks are slightly flushed, like he’s been bouncing on his heels, antsy to get going.
My pulse slams against my ribs.
Shit . Shit, shit, shit.
“If we don’t leave for practice now, we’re going to be late,” Hudson says, exasperated. “And Coach hates when we’re late.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry.
Boone looks at Hudson.
And then back at me.
Then back at Hudson again.
And I see it happen—see the exact second it all clicks into place.
The way his expression shifts.
The way his body tenses, his jaw clenching so tight I can see the muscle tick.
Boone drags a hand over his jaw, his breath slow and controlled, but his eyes—his eyes say everything.
Shock. Confusion. Something closer to devastation.
He looks back at me, voice lower now, rougher, like he’s still wrapping his head around it all.
“ Mom? ” His brows knit together.
My throat closes. I blink, trying to keep my expression neutral, trying to stop the ground from shifting underneath me, trying to pull together whatever the hell I’m supposed to say next .
But Boone already knows. There’s no undoing this. No taking it back.
I turn to Hudson. “Go wait for me in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Hudson groans in frustration but listens, pushing the door open and stepping out.
The second it closes behind him, the air between Boone and me goes thick and heavy.
A beat of silence.
Boone’s eyes stay locked on the door Hudson just walked through, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to get a grip on something that keeps slipping through his fingers.
Then, finally, his gaze swings back to me, sharp and unrelenting.
“Is that my son?”
My throat tightens.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. Because the weight of the moment is pressing down on me so hard it’s impossible to breathe.
Boone takes a step forward, his voice low but firm. “Lark, is that my son? ”
There’s no room for anything but the truth.
I swallow hard, force myself to meet his gaze. “Yes.”
Boone drags a hand down his face, over his jaw, like he’s trying to physically process what I just said.
“Twelve years.” His voice is rough. He shakes his head. “I’ve been gone twelve fucking years, and you didn’t think to tell me something like that?”
The anger rises in my chest like a tide. I lift my chin. “Of course I tried to tell you.”
His head jerks slightly. “What?”
“I tried to tell you, Boone,” I say, my voice steadier now, firmer.
“I wrote you letters for months. I called every number I had for you. I left messages, reached out every way I could.” My pulse pounds in my ears.
“You left me, remember? Not the other way around. You left me . And I didn’t know if you were ever coming back. ”
Boone doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His jaw tightens, but nothing comes out.
The room has gone quiet around us.
A fork scrapes against a plate at the counter, someone clears their throat.
The air feels dense—too still for this time of morning.
A few of the regulars glance over from their booths, trying to look casual but not even bothering to hide their curiosity.
One of them leans toward the other, murmuring something behind a coffee cup.
They can feel it, too. The tension. The truth in it. All the unsaid years pressing in.
Boone’s lips part, like he’s about to say something—but no words come. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and gutted, like the ground’s shifting under his feet and he doesn’t know where to step.
I don’t have time for this. I need to get out of here.
I exhale sharply, turn for the door. “I have to take Hudson to baseball practice.”
His entire face shifts. Brows furrowed, mouth slightly open, his expression somewhere between disbelief and something softer.
“He plays baseball?”
I pause but don’t turn around. “Yes, he plays baseball.”
I don’t mean for it to come out the way it does—like a confession. Like something I never wanted to say out loud.
Because of course Boone would react like that.
He was supposed to be the one out there with him.
The one teaching him to throw a curveball, the one sitting in the stands, calling out pointers, tossing a ball back and forth in the backyard.
Boone was the best damn baseball player our school had ever seen.
He was scouted. He could’ve played college ball on a scholarship if he hadn’t gone off into the military and disappeared into a world I was never a part of.
I reach for the door, but Boone’s voice stops me cold.
“Lark, come on. Please.”
It’s not just my name. It’s a plea, a thread pulled too tight. It’s him—the boy I loved, the man standing in front of me now. It’s the way he said it the last time I ever saw him .
I turn back around, walk straight up to him and hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
Boone watches me for a second before pulling it from his jacket pocket and handing it over. I type in my number, press save, and pass it back to him.
“Text me,” I say. “I’ll give you a time and a place to talk.”
Boone nods, his grip tightening around the phone like it’s the only solid thing in the world he has right now. “Soon.”
I nod once. “Soon.”
And then I bust my ass to the back door, stepping out onto the sidewalk. The cold slams into me like a tidal wave, like ice water filling my lungs. I take a breath, but it doesn’t feel like air. It feels like guilt and regret and twelve years of decisions catching up all at once.
Boone knows.
God, he knows.
I clutch the folder Wendell handed me, the stiff edges biting into my palms, but I barely feel it. Everything feels too sharp, too real in a way I don’t have time to process.
If I could rewind, just five measly minutes, I would. Hell, I’d rewind years. Undo the moment Boone walked through those doors, the moment the recognition hit him like a freight train.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
Hudson shouldn’t have seen his father for the first time under the glow of a neon EAT HERE sign, with the smell of burnt toast hanging in the air, while half the town loitered over breakfast. He should’ve first seen him in a space I could control, where I could ease them both into it.
Where I could soften the edges before the inevitable cutting began.
But that’s not what happened.
Boone looked at our son and saw himself. And I saw my past catch up to my present with nowhere left to hide.
I close my eyes, breathe in deep, but it does nothing to settle me. My body is already ahead of me, already bracing for impact.
I yank open the car door, slide into the seat. The world outside blurs for a second. Hudson shifts next to me, his knee bouncing, that restless energy rolling off him in waves. His cap is still pulled low, but I know he’s watching me. Waiting.
“You okay?” His voice is easy, but I know my kid. I know when he’s testing the waters.
I push a tight smile onto my face, start the engine. “Yeah, baby. We’re good.”
It’s not a lie.
Not exactly.
I don’t know if it’s the truth, either.
But for now, it’s going to have to be.