Chapter 5LARK
LARK
I’m pacing the living room, my arms crossed so tight across my chest it feels like I might fold in on myself.
What the hell am I supposed to say?
What the hell am I supposed to do ?
I glance at the clock. Not much time to figure it out. Hudson will be home any minute.
I run through the conversation in my head again, try to predict how this is going to go, what his reaction is going to be. Will he be excited? Confused? Angry? Will he shut down completely, the way he does when he’s stressed out?
I blow out a breath. I should’ve practiced this. Rehearsed it in the mirror or something. But there’s no preparing for something like this.
Before I can spiral any further, the front door swings open. Hudson steps inside, holding it open just long enough to toss a wave over his shoulder as Cade’s mom pulls away, his best friend sitting shotgun. I make a mental note to send her a thank-you text later for bringing him home.
Then I take a good look at my kid.
He’s filthy. His baseball uniform is covered in dirt, streaks of it smudged across his face, the kind that tells me he either slid into home or dove for a ball he had no business diving for. Probably both .
“Hey, Mom,” he says, kicking off his cleats and dropping his duffel by the door.
I open my mouth to tell him to take it to his room—the same thing I tell him every damn day—but the words don’t come out. The duffel bag is the least of my worries.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. “How was practice?”
Hudson brightens instantly, his face lighting up like it always does when baseball is the topic.
“Okay, so—” He launches into a story, his words tumbling out in that fast, animated way he gets when he’s excited.
“Cade was up to bat, right? And he swung so hard, he let go of the bat, and it went flying into the fence. Coach turned so fast, I swear he pulled something.” He snickers, shaking his head.
“Then Kyle tried to catch a fly ball, but he lost it in the sun and it hit him right in the forehead. I mean, he’s fine, but he looked so confused afterward, like he forgot where he was. ”
I can’t help but laugh, watching him tell the story with all the energy of someone replaying the best moment of their life. His hands move wildly, illustrating every detail.
I love watching him like this. Love seeing him talk about something he loves.
And for a brief, fleeting second, I think about Boone. About how he used to talk to me about baseball the same way, rattling off stats and plays and trying to explain the difference between a fastball and a slider like it was life or death.
It’s unfair, how time works. How one day you’re sixteen, lying on a baseball field under the stadium lights, listening to the boy you love talk about the game like it’s in his blood, and the next, you’re standing in your kitchen watching your son do the exact same thing.
“Ma?”
I blink, snapping out of it.
Hudson is staring at me now, his brow furrowed.
“What?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “What’s wrong? ”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why would you think something’s wrong?”
His eyes narrow. “Because you have that look.”
I scoff. “I don’t have a look.”
“You totally have a look.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, yeah? What look?”
He crosses his arms, studying me like he’s piecing together evidence in a case. “The one where your eyebrows do that weird little pinch thing. And you’re biting your nails.” He nods at my hand. “You only do that when you’re nervous or sad.”
I glance down at my fingers, realizing he’s right. Damn. Sometimes having a perceptive kid was a pain in the ass.
I drop my hands to my sides and exhale. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t move right away, just watches me for a beat longer, like he’s trying to read me.
But then, finally, he walks over to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair.
As he sits, I catch myself staring at his legs—how long they are now, how they don’t dangle over the edge like they used to.
I remember when he was little, when his feet barely touched the floor in these chairs.
Now they’re too long.
Time is a thief.
I pull out the chair next to him and lower myself into it, inhaling slowly, steadying myself. My hands press against my thighs, like grounding myself to something will make this easier.
“Baby,” I start softly, watching his face, watching for the smallest shift. “I know we’ve never really… talked about your dad very much.”
His eyes drop to the table. He shrugs. “Yeah.”
I let out a quiet breath. “The truth is, I didn’t know where he was. Or if he was ever going to come back.” I pause, clearing my throat before I say the next words. “But he has. He’s come back.”
His head snaps up at that, his wide brown eyes searching mine. But he doesn’t say anything.
I keep going, because if I stop now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to start again. “He wants to get to know you.”
Silence stretches between us. Hudson swallows, his fingers tracing patterns into the wood grain of the table.
I keep my voice even, gentle. “He wants to come over. Have dinner with us. But I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, okay?
If you don’t want to, I’ll call the whole thing off, and we can order pizza and watch whatever Marvel movie you want.
” I reach for his hand, running my thumb over his knuckles.
“But… I think it might be good for you to get to know him.”
Hudson looks up at me then, his brows pulled together. “Why?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. “He left us.”
I exhale, squeezing his hand. “He didn’t leave you, baby. He didn’t know about you.”
Hudson’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping again. I give him a moment before I keep going.
“He was away for a long time. And I wasn’t able to contact him,” I explain, keeping my voice steady, even though my chest feels tight. “But now that he knows, he wants a fair shot.”
Hudson stays quiet, his fingers stilling on the table.
“The choice is yours,” I tell him. “But I think maybe you should try.”
He looks at me again, searching my face, like he’s trying to find the answer there. “He’s a pretty good guy?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He considers that for a moment, then asks, “What’s he like?”
I hesitate, searching for the right words. How do I explain Boone to the son who’s never met him? How do I capture all of him—the boy I knew, the man he became—in a way that makes sense?
“He’s—” I pause, pressing my lips together.
“He’s strong. And stubborn. And loyal in a way that sometimes makes him reckless.
” I exhale a soft laugh. “He’s the kind of person who will drive through a snowstorm if someone he cares about needs him.
He’s always been that way. And he’s funny, even though he doesn’t always mean to be. ”
Hudson watches me, absorbing every word .
“He’s good with animals,” I add, thinking of the way he always had a soft spot for the runts, the strays, the ones nobody else thought were worth saving. “And he used to be the best baseball player in Summit Springs.”
Hudson’s eyebrows lift slightly at that.
“He could’ve gone to college on a scholarship,” I say, giving him a small smile. “Probably could’ve gone pro if he wanted to.”
Hudson huffs. “Then why didn’t he?”
I inhale deeply, my heart aching a little. “That’s something you should ask him.”
Hudson is quiet for a long stretch, his fingers tracing over the grain of the table again.
I hate this. I hate the position I’ve put him in.
I hate that he has to process something this big, that I’m asking him to figure out how he feels about a dad he never knew, a dad he didn’t even know existed until a few minutes ago. My heart aches for him.
Finally, he glances up at me. “Are you guys friends?”
I nod. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
He tilts his head, considering that. “How long?”
I smile faintly. “Since I was younger than you are now.”
Hudson lets out a low whistle. “That’s a long time.”
“It is a long time,” I say softly.
He nods to himself, like he’s weighing it all out in his head. Then, finally, he exhales and says, “I guess dinner wouldn’t be too bad.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost feel lightheaded. “Yeah?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
I swallow. “And maybe after that, if you want to, you guys can keep spending time together. We can work our way up to weekends.”
Hudson watches me, something unreadable in his expression. “Weekends where?”
I shift in my chair. “He has a ranch.”
Hudson’s eyebrows furrow. “A ranch?”
I nod. “It’s big. The Wilding Ranch. He grew up there. I did too, kind of.”
His fingers tap the table again, considering. “Like, with animals and stuff?”
I smile faintly. “Yeah. Horses, cattle, a bunch of different animals. And big, open fields. When we were kids, we used to go riding through the pastures, go fishing, spend summer nights outside with nothing but a campfire. It’s beautiful out there.”
Hudson nods his head slightly. “That sounds kinda cool.”
“Yeah?”
He shrugs again. “I’ve always wanted to fish.”
That makes me pause. “You have? Why haven’t you ever told me?”
He gives me a look. “Mom. You hate fish.”
That was true. I hate everything about them—the way they smell, the way they move, the way they feel like something prehistoric that should have been left the hell behind.
But something about this—about Hudson never mentioning it—makes my chest ache.
What else hasn’t he told me? What else has he kept to himself because he thought I wouldn’t care?
“Well, your dad’s a really good fisherman. I’m sure he’d be happy to teach you.”
Hudson smirks. “He doesn’t sound so bad so far.”
A surprised laugh escapes me, something light and unsteady. “No, I guess he doesn’t.”
I exhale, studying his face, the way he’s still rolling all of this around in his head. I reach for his hand, running my thumb across his knuckles the way I used to when he was little. “I know this is a lot.”
Hudson shrugs, his eyes flicking away. “Yeah.”