Chapter 22
PARKER
The backpack check reveals that Liam has, in fact, packed everything plus some—extra pencils, backup erasers, a small notebook “just in case,” and his gym shoes in a separate bag so they don’t touch his regular supplies.
Noah’s backpack is a disaster of crumpled papers, and a juice box that I’m ninety percent sure wasn’t supposed to be in there, but we make it work.
Ten minutes later, we’re loading into the SUV.
Jace takes the driver’s seat with that military efficiency, adjusting mirrors and checking sight lines like we’re heading into a combat zone instead of elementary school drop-off. I slide into the passenger seat, and immediately the boys are scrambling for the back.
“I want the window!” Noah announces.
“You had the window last time!” Liam protests.
“Boys,” I start, but Cal’s already moving.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” he declares, settling into the middle row. “Best two out of three. Winner gets the window, but loser gets to pick the music.”
“We get to pick music?” Noah’s eyes go wide.
“Within reason,” Jace says from the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “No Baby Shark.”
“Aw, man!”
I twist in my seat to watch them play it out—Cal officiating with exaggerated seriousness, both boys completely absorbed in the game.
Liam wins with paper over rock, claims his window seat with quiet satisfaction.
Noah pouts for exactly three seconds before Cal hands him the aux cord like it’s a sacred artifact.
“Choose wisely, kid. This sets the tone for the whole day.”
Silas climbs into the far back, all sprawled danger in the third row, but his eyes track the boys with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
Through the window, I can see Charles’s vehicle pulling up behind us—Marcus at the wheel, Sienna in the passenger seat, Lottie and Jimmy already waving at their cousins through the glass.
The third security vehicle idles behind them, four stone-faced guards who probably cost more per hour than most people make in a day.
And flanking us on both sides, four motorcycles with riders in tactical gear that screams don’t fuck with this convoy.
“This is a lot of security for a school drop-off,” I murmur as Jace guides us out of the circular drive.
“It’s the right amount of security for a Carter family debut,” he corrects, his eyes constantly moving—mirrors, road, surroundings. Always assessing. “People need to see that you’re protected. That your boys are protected.”
That they belong to us, hangs unspoken in the air.
Noah’s music choice starts playing—some upbeat pop song that’s probably from a kids’ movie—and he bounces in his seat, temporarily distracted from first-day nerves.
But Liam is quiet. Too quiet. I can see him in the side mirror, staring out the window with that small furrow between his brows that means he’s thinking too hard.
We’re maybe five minutes from school when I hear it—that shift in energy that only a mother can detect.
“Mom?” Liam’s voice is small. Careful. “What if the other kids don’t like us?”
My heart clenches. “Baby—”
“What if they think we’re weird because we’re new?” Noah adds, his earlier brightness dimming. “What if we don’t make any friends?”
I twist in my seat to look at them, opening my mouth to offer the standard maternal reassurance—you’re wonderful, they’ll love you, just be yourself—but Cal beats me to it.
“You know what I did on my first day at a new school?” he asks, leaning forward between the seats, amber eyes warm.
“What?” Both boys chorus.
“I challenged the biggest kid in class to a race at recess.” Cal grins, and there’s mischief in it, but also truth. “Beat him by half a lap.”
“Did he get mad?” Noah asks, leaning forward.
“Nah. Silas doesn’t get mad about losing. He just gets competitive.” Cal glances back at Silas, who’s watching this exchange with something soft in his expression. “We’ve been best friends ever since. Sometimes the best way to make friends is to show them what you’re good at.”
“You raced Mr. Silas?” Liam’s voice carries surprise. He looks at Silas. “Did you want to win?”
“Tried to,” Silas corrects from the back. “Kid was fast. Still is, unfortunately.”
“You’re fast, too,” Noah observes. “You caught me when I tried to run past you yesterday.”
“Different kind of fast,” Silas says. “Cal’s got speed. I’ve got reach. Your mom’s got strategy—she’ll let you think you’re winning right up until you realize you’re exactly where she wanted you.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck at the observation. At the casual way he describes me like he’s studied me. Like he knows.
“What if I’m not good at anything?” Liam asks quietly, and the vulnerability in his voice makes me want to pull the car over and hold him.
I twist further in my seat, catching his eyes.
“Liam, baby. Have you forgotten how you built that entire city in Minecraft? With the working redstone doors and the farm system? You were so proud of it, you made me take pictures.” His face scrunches into a frown, but I continue.
“And you taught yourself. You watched those videos and figured it out step by step. That’s amazing. ”
“Really?” His voice is small but hopeful.
“Really. And your drawings? The spaceship you made last week had so many details—windows and engines, and a landing bay. You’re five, and you drew a landing bay with little ships inside it.”
I watch his face relax, his shoulders straighten slightly, see him processing this, filing it away.
“What about me?” Noah pipes up. “What am I good at?”
“Are you kidding?” I have to laugh. “You learned to ride your bike in one afternoon. One. You fell like six times and just kept getting back on. And your stories—remember the one about the dragon who was afraid of butterflies? You made Jimmy laugh so hard he got hiccups.”
“That was a good story,” Noah admits, grinning.
“And if those don’t work,” Cal adds, leaning forward with that mischief in his amber eyes, “you’ve clearly got a future in management, Noah.
Look at how you got Silas to not only shape pancakes into Mickey Mouse for you, but to go the extra mile with whipped cream.
That’s executive-level delegation right there. ”
“What’s ‘delegation?’” Noah asks.
“Getting other people to do cool stuff for you,” Cal explains. “And you, my friend, are a natural.”
“I just asked nicely,” Noah says.
“Exactly,” Silas rumbles from the back. “Most people forget the ‘nicely’ part. You didn’t. That’s skill.”
“And Liam,” Jace adds, “the way you organized your backpack this morning? Color-coded folders, everything labeled, gym shoes in a separate bag? I’ve worked with grown men who can’t manage that level of preparation. You’re already ahead of the game.”
I watch my serious boy process this, see a small smile tug at his lips.
“So you see,” Cal says, sitting back, “you’re both good at lots of things. The other kids are going to figure that out pretty quickly.”
“And if they don’t?” Liam asks.
“Then they’re idiots,” Silas says flatly.
“Silas,” I hiss. “Language.”
“What? It’s accurate.”
“They’re five.”
“Old enough to learn that some people are idiots.” But there’s warmth underneath the gravel. “Point is, boys, you’re gonna be fine. Better than fine.”
“And if anything bad happens,” Jace adds, his hands steady on the wheel, “that bad thing would have to get through us first. All of us. Your mom, Uncle Charles, Aunt Sienna, me, Cal, Silas—you’ve got an army. You’re not going into this alone.”
Noah’s grin returns, bright and brave. Liam nods once, that careful decision-making process complete.
And I feel my chest crack open a little more.
Because they’re giving my sons exactly what they need—concrete reassurance mixed with gentle humor, meeting them where they are instead of where adults think they should be.