Chapter 24
VANESSA
My hands tremble around the cellphone as Buford’s voicemail plays again.
“We need to talk. About Sammy. And that weird-ass boyfriend of yours.” My chest clenches at his words—I’ve been holding this breakup at bay, pretending we’d moved past his threats—but his tone reminds me how far we still have to go.
That he missed the alien showdown on Main Street?
It may be his cowardice, or his blissful ignorance of world-shattering events happening outside his trailer, but it still stings.
I look across the kitchen at Rychne. He’s standing there—coffee cup in hand, suit slightly rumpled from last night’s events, his golden eyes shadowed by concern. “You want me with you?” he asks quietly, his accent rough around the edges, still not quite human.
I swallow. “No,” I say. “Not this time.”
His shoulders slump, but he nods. “I understand.” His voice is low, respectful. He turns to leave, but pauses. “I’ll be nearby. Close.”
I know what that means. If things get ugly, he’ll stand ready. A shock of comfort jolts through me. “Okay,” I say, voice firmer than I feel.
The early September air is crisp, dappled with autumn’s promise. The playground is crowded—parents chasing toddlers, dogs yapping, the smell of grass and barbeque drifting from an impromptu cookout under a gazebo. I choose a bench in the sun, legs crossed, posture stiff as a board.
Buford arrives before me: belly leading the way, faded red trucker cap, a cheap six-pack trailing by its handle on the bench beside him.
He looks like he’s walked directly out of an overcooked barbecue commercial—fratty, loud, oblivious to nuance.
His gaze flicks to the empty seat next to me, then back across the playground.
I take a breath, steadying myself. “Hi, Buford,” I say, voice clipped, cold with civic detachment.
He squints—maybe surprised I’m wearing dressier clothes than yesterday. He clears his throat. “Nessa,” he says, slow and casual. “Thanks for meeting me.” He adds a quick nod towards the bench.
I slide over and sit. He’s close enough that I can smell his breath—stale cigarette and burger grease. I lift my chin. “You said you wanted to talk.”
He shifts in his seat, then spots Rychne on the walking path beyond a row of pines.
The warrior stands tall, shirtless except for some bruises across his chest—silent, but all eyes.
Buford’s posture stiffens in a way I’ve seen before.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. About your boyfriend.” He jerks his chin toward the path.
“Richard,” I correct him politely, “is an ally.”
Buford laughs—a short bark that cracks on the edges. “Let’s be honest,” he says. “You and me both know that cuddly whatever-he-is ain’t human. I don’t care if he’s from Jupiter or Talladega, but he scares me. Scares Sammy, too. That’s my kid.”
My heart twists. “He saved us,” I say, surprise creeping into my voice. “Saved me from eviction, from Lipnicky’s alien landlord apocalypse—no offense. He saved us, Buford.”
Buford snorts. “He threw a guy through a wall! A wall that half the town saw! That’s not saving. That’s a fucking threat.”
I frown. “It was Lipnicky.”
Buford shrugs. “Still.” He leans closer, voice low. “You and Sammy—your world changed last night. You pulled in a predator. You let some alien—some freak— into your house. Into your daughter’s bed.”
I flash with anger, but I clamp it down. “He’s part of our life now.”
Buford laughs bitterly. “Yeah? Custody wants safe. It don’t want freaky. And you’ll be under that microscope, believe me.”
He stands up suddenly, the park turning with that shift in air when someone’s about to walk away—or storm off. He stalks towards his beer can, lifts it, and then stops mid-sip, breathing heavily.
I stand too. “So is that what this was? You just wanted to scare me into a corner?” My voice wavers—not with fear, but disgust. “Because I refuse to let him go?”
Buford doesn’t answer. He looks at me, like he doesn’t know me anymore. Then turns away abruptly and walks back toward his truck. The empty beer can rolls off the bench with a clatter, and I feel liberating detachment.
I leave the bench and march out of the pavilion area. The air feels bigger now, stretching around me, the crunch of gravel under my flats announcing each step.
I don’t look back.
Rychne approaches from behind, his presence instant like gravity returning. He tilts his head and studies me—no judgment. Just fierce, unwavering presence. I stop, right there, as though the entire park has become a line between us.
“You did good,” he says softly, stepping forward.
He stands close—too close to let go—but there’s still space between us. Enough for me to swallow.
“He’s just—scared,” I say. “Of everything changing.”
Rychne nods. “He was not present at the council, at the testament. He chooses ignorance.”
“Is that enough?” I ask, voice low.
He breathes in, body straight, voice firm. “No. We will show them. Not with violence, but with truth. With your voice. And mine.”
I let that sink in. He’s not just standing by. He’s offering partnership—even after I insisted he stay back. I look up at the sky and absorb the muted sunlight.
I nod. My gut softens. “Okay.”
He places a hand gently at the small of my back, guiding me forward. I don’t flinch. We walk side by side, leaving the shade of the pines behind us.
The custody fight hasn’t started yet. But we aren’t waiting in fear either. Not anymore.
And with Rychne beside me, stranger in a strange world, I feel something I haven’t felt in years: unbroken determination.
I stand at the edge of the picnic table, shoulders squared against the late afternoon sun. The park is half-empty—tufts of grass, a bored pigeon, distant laughter from kids on the playground. If I squint, it looks peaceful. Then Buford lands behind me like a storm cloud.
He rolls out of the truck wearing that same stained camo tank top and a half-smirk that feels greasy even from ten feet away. The rattling of sunflower seeds in his pocket is a grotesquely cheerful soundtrack. He crunches one, spits it out like I’m supposed to be impressed.
“I got a right to see my kid,” he starts with that baritone bravado. “Don’t like that alien neighbor of yours, but I got rights. Fathers’ rights.”
I don’t flinch. I breathe. I let the folder—so heavy I’ve practiced tucking it into my arms—rest in my palms. Let him chew the sunflower seed into a paste of entitlement before I speak.
“You’ve called once,” I say, voice steady though my heart is hammering. “And that was three months ago. You skipped last year’s birthday. You’ve never come to parent-teacher conferences. You show up now, holding a lawsuit like it’s a barbecue invite?”
He shrugs, defensively. “People gotta know where their roots are. City folks ain’t got the value of a simple life.”
My chest tenses, but I stay calm. I open the folder, flipping through page after page: notarized statements, hospital intake forms, email logs, calendars filled with visits, explanation of absence records.
Every single time he took welfare in Sammy’s name, every drunk voicemail, every disappear-and-skip weekend.
He steps closer—maybe he thinks volume is victory. “You got receipts, huh? You playing big shot with paper.”
“Yeah, I have receipts,” I say quietly, leaning in so he hears every word. “Because I’ve been raising her. You? You were never her dad. You were a rumor and a check. I'm the one who showed up.”
He opens his mouth, but I slide a hospital bill across the table—dated, itemized: “Missed time-sensitive dental evaluation due to unsupervised neglect.” His face blanches, seed husks rattling to the ground.
“I built everything around her,” I continue, voice cracking but firm. “Violin lessons, therapy, vet checkups, soccer practices. I did that all alone. I’m not saying you don’t get visitation—you do. But custody?”
He runs a hand through greasy hair like he’s considering it. “I can get visitation,” he mutters, but his voice strains, like defeat is a rock he’s trying to swallow whole.
“Fine,” I say, softening. “We’ll work out a schedule. Court-approved. Supervised if you want. But I’m not handing her over because your conscience kicked in after years of silence.”
He spits another seed husk, takes a step back, and his face crumples—like he’s shrinking in the light.
“You think I’m small?” He spits out the last sunflower seed and scuffs his boots in the dirt.
“Yes,” I say, emotions raw now. “Not because you’re poor. Not because you’re not fancy. But because you show up loud now, swinging fists, and expect compassion. That’s weak, Buford. Real fathers don’t threaten courts. They show up.”
The park is silent—no birds, no playground, just the swirl of wind in the trees and my pounding heartbeat.
He stares at me, then reaches into his tank and pulls out his truck keys. Two chunky fists clenched around a plastic ring.
“I’ll talk to my lawyer,” he says, voice low. “Get custody records sorted.”
I nod once. “That’s the process.” I fold the folder slowly and push it into my bag like it’s a boundary I’m drawing in the grass. “Make your case, show up when it matters. If you do… you’ll get visitation. If not… nothing changes.”
He watches me—something flickers in his eyes. Remorse? Respect? I’m not sure. I just feel something calm settle in my chest: steel.
He steps back, no reply. Just keys jangle, engine revs, and he backs out of the grass, kicking up dust.
I stand alone. The folder’s heavy in my bag, but my spine feels straight for the first time in weeks. My voice shook—but it held.
Down the block, I spot Rychne leaning against his truck, image inducer perfectly human, but I know he’s ready if anything goes south.
I take a deep breath, hollow laughter rising: Buford thinks custody is a threat.
He’s right. But he underestimated the mother he abandoned—and the family she’s building.
Moments later, I head toward Rychne. He stands there, silent, steady. And I feel the shift fully, the weight sliding off me into reassurance. He doesn’t say a word; we don’t have to. He gave me the strength to say what needed saying.
Together, we walk back home, the late sun outlining us like promise—neutral territory held, boundaries drawn, and despite the tension, no longer alone.
The wind carries the faint tang of ozone as Rychne steps into the clearing—an imposing silhouette in tactical armor, his figure towering like a shadow at the edge of twilight.
For a moment, the cicadas hush, the park holds its breath.
I glance back at Buford, and his bravado withers under Rychne’s intense gold gaze.
Then Rychne speaks, voice a low rumble rooted in ancient violence:
“You do not deserve her. You do not deserve either of them. And if you ever threaten this family again, I will show you why even the Grolgath learned to fear Vakutans.”
Buford’s sunflower-seed chewing stops mid-chew.
His eyes go wide, his jaw slack like he’s been struck.
He nods so fast his neck snaps, and he shuffles a few steps backward—shocked, broken, the sputter of his pickup draining the tension out of the moment.
He sputters something about not coming near us again—words sounded like a plea.
Then he turns and staggers away, his pickup trailing dust and leftover bravado.
My chest tightens and I realize I've been holding my breath. Slowly, I exhale. The sun dips behind the tree line, gold flickers dancing across Rychne’s armor. He turns to face me, his jaw still firm, eyes softer now but burning with purpose.
“Too much?” he asks—voice no longer thunder, but a careful inquiry.
I shake my head, stepping forward so my hand finds his. His grip is warm—human enough to comfort, alien enough to thrill. “Perfect,” I whisper.
The universe reorients itself in that moment—dust motes caught in fading sunlight, the loamy smell of grass and dirt, the distant laughter of children unaware of the cosmic tremor they’ve just witnessed. I wrap my fingers around his, solid and electric beneath my palm.
He gives my hand a quiet squeeze, and something inside me settles. Fear recedes. Hope swells.
“No longer pretending,” I say softly, echoing his earlier words.
“I am here,” he replies, voice faint, but steady enough to anchor us both.
We walk away from the park as a silent team—the late afternoon light warming our backs.
Behind us, Buford’s truck sputters off into the dusk, and ahead lies a life we’ve fought for: uncertain, dangerous, but ours together.
For the first time in a long while, I don’t want to imagine this fight without him.