Chapter Eleven — Tessa
Chapter Eleven
Tessa
Rhett arrived at my father’s house carrying apple pie.
The same apple pie my father had sent him forty minutes earlier.
I stared at the bakery box.
Then at Rhett.
He wore dark jeans, a charcoal sweater, and the expression of a man who believed returning a gift to its sender was somehow charming.
“Why do you have that?”
He looked down.
“Hospitality.”
“It came from here.”
“I’m returning the gesture.”
“You’re returning the pie.”
“With gratitude.”
“That is not how gifts work.”
He leaned closer.
“I panicked.”
That stopped me.
Rhett Callahan did not look like someone who panicked.
He looked like someone who made other people forget they were supposed to.
His hair was still damp from a shower. The sweater fit too well. He smelled faintly like soap and cold air.
This was not helping.
“You could have left it in the car,” I whispered.
“I considered it.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Cam said bringing it back showed confidence.”
“Cam is an idiot.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that.”
The front door opened behind me.
My father stood there.
He looked from me, to Rhett, to the pie.
Then back to Rhett.
“You brought dessert.”
“Yes, sir.”
I closed my eyes.
Rhett continued.
“Technically, you brought dessert. I transported it.”
My father stared at him.
For one horrible second, nobody spoke.
Then my father laughed.
Actually laughed.
I opened my eyes.
Rhett glanced at me.
Surprised.
I was more surprised.
“Come in,” Dad said.
Rhett stepped inside.
I moved aside to let him pass.
His hand brushed lightly against the center of my back.
Not performative.
Not for my father.
Just a small touch.
Steadying.
My pulse reacted anyway.
The house looked exactly as it always did.
Cream walls.
Dark wood floors.
Family photographs arranged in careful rows.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing unnecessary.
My father believed homes should look maintained, not lived in.
Rhett looked around.
His gaze paused on a framed photograph of me at twelve, holding a regional debate trophy and glaring at the camera.
“You look thrilled,” he said.
“I was tired.”
“You look dangerous.”
“I was twelve.”
“Still.”
Dad carried the pie toward the dining room.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Rhett leaned toward me.
“Is this where you tell me the emergency signals?”
“We did not establish emergency signals.”
“That feels like a planning failure.”
“If I kick you under the table, stop talking.”
“Which leg?”
“Either.”
“If you touch my hand?”
“Also stop talking.”
“What if you look at me meaningfully?”
“I will not.”
His smile appeared.
Quiet.
Real.
“You already are.”
I stepped away before my face betrayed me.
The dining table was covered with more food than three people needed.
Roast chicken.
Potatoes.
Green beans.
Fresh bread.
And, at the far end, three internship packets stacked beside my father’s plate.
Of course.
Rhett noticed them.
He did not comment.
That helped more than it should have.
Dad gestured toward the chairs.
“Sit.”
I took my usual place.
Rhett sat beside me.
Too close.
Not because the chairs were close.
Because he moved his chair half an inch toward mine.
I noticed.
He noticed that I noticed.
Neither of us said anything.
Dad poured water.
“So,” he said, “how long have you two been seeing each other?”
I nearly inhaled my own tongue.
Rhett answered smoothly.
“Not long.”
True.
Technically.
Dad looked at me.
“You said you weren’t dating.”
“We aren’t—”
Rhett’s hand settled lightly over mine beneath the table.
I stopped.
Not because I needed the reminder.
Because the contact erased every prepared sentence.
His fingers were warm.
Steady.
He gave one small squeeze.
One dinner.
One arrangement.
I forced myself to continue.
“We weren’t ready to label anything.”
Rhett’s thumb moved once against my knuckles.
That was unnecessary.
Completely unnecessary.
Dad leaned back.
“I see.”
He did not.
Neither did I.
Rhett smiled.
Not broadly.
Respectfully.
“We’re figuring it out.”
My heart made an alarming decision to believe him.
Dad passed the potatoes.
“How did you meet?”
Tessa and I looked at each other.
“The fire,” we said together.
Dad’s eyebrows rose.
“It was small,” Rhett added.
“It was not small.”
“It was contained.”
“I contained it.”
“She did.”
He sounded proud.
That was worse.
Dad looked between us.
“So Tessa saved you.”
“Immediately.”
“I saved the building.”
“And me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Rhett smiled at me.
My father watched the exchange.
Something in his expression softened.
Which felt unfair.
He had always liked competence.
Apparently he also liked men who appreciated mine.
We began eating.
For several minutes, the conversation stayed harmless.
Hockey.
Classes.
Family Weekend.
The charity skate.
Rhett answered questions without overexplaining.
He did not perform.
Not exactly.
He was polite.
Funny when the moment allowed it.
Serious when it mattered.
My father asked about his major.
“Communications,” Rhett said.
“What do you plan to do with that?”
There it was.
The question behind every conversation in this house.
What is the measurable outcome?
Rhett set down his fork.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Dad’s expression tightened.
I braced.
Then Rhett continued.
“I used to think not knowing meant I was behind. Now I think it means I haven’t chosen the wrong thing just to have an answer.”
The room went quiet.
I looked at him.
He did not look at me.
My father did.
Directly.
“That sounds familiar,” Dad said.
I knew what he meant.
My jaw tightened.
Rhett finally glanced at me.
The table suddenly felt smaller.
Dad reached for his water.
“Tessa has always been practical.”
“Dad.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
Practical.
Responsible.
Reliable.
The words people used when they wanted to praise the parts of me that never inconvenienced them.
Rhett’s hand had left mine.
I missed it immediately.
That irritated me.
Dad nodded toward the internship packets.
“I’ve arranged interviews with three firms.”
Rhett looked at the folders.
Then at me.
“Arranged?”
“They’re preliminary,” I said.
“They’re excellent opportunities,” Dad said.
“I know.”
“Two are in Boston.”
Rhett’s expression did not change.
But something in him went still.
Boston.
Far enough from Lakeview to become a decision.
“Summer internships?” he asked.
“One could extend after graduation,” Dad said.
I looked down at my plate.
I had known that.
Seeing Rhett hear it made it feel different.
More real.
He did not react publicly.
No joke.
No careless smile.
Only a quiet, “That’s significant.”
My father nodded.
“It is.”
Rhett looked at me.
“Do you want it?”
Dad answered before I could.
“She hasn’t made a decision.”
Rhett kept his eyes on mine.
“I asked her.”
The room went silent.
My father’s expression hardened slightly.
Not anger.
Surprise.
People did not interrupt him.
Especially not about me.
I should have been embarrassed.
Instead, something inside me loosened.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Dad exhaled.
“You’ve had months to consider this.”
“I’ve had months to consider what makes sense.”
“That is the same thing.”
“No,” Rhett said quietly. “It isn’t.”
My father turned toward him.
I did too.
This was exactly what I had been afraid of.
Not a fight.
Something worse.
Honesty.
Rhett’s posture remained relaxed, but I knew him well enough now to see the effort beneath it.
The restraint.
The choice not to joke.
Dad folded his hands.
“You disagree?”
Rhett glanced at me before answering.
“I think something can make sense and still be wrong for the person choosing it.”
My chest tightened.
Dad’s voice cooled.
“You’re twenty-one.”
“Twenty-two.”
“That does not improve the argument.”
Rhett nodded.
“Probably not.”
I expected the smile.
It did not come.
“But Tessa is good at making things work,” he continued. “That doesn’t mean she should have to build her whole life around whatever she can survive best.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Dad looked at me.
Rhett did too.
Neither of them spoke.
Every part of me wanted to retreat.
To smooth the conversation.
To defend my father.
To explain that he meant well.
To say I appreciated the interviews.
That Boston was smart.
That law school was safe.
That wanting was not a plan.
Then Rhett’s knee touched mine beneath the table.
Not pressure.
Presence.
You get a choice.
I put down my fork.
“I don’t know if I want law school.”
The words landed softly.
Still, they changed the room.
My father stared at me.
“What?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“You’ve been preparing for law school since sophomore year.”
“I’ve been preparing because it was the plan.”
“Your plan.”
I almost agreed.
That would have been easier.
Instead, I looked at the internship packets.
Then at him.
“I don’t remember choosing it.”
His face changed.
Hurt.
Confusion.
That was worse than anger.
“I never forced you.”
“I know.”
“You said you wanted stability.”
“I did.”
“Then what is this?”
I had no polished answer.
No presentation.
No color-coded explanation.
Only a feeling I had spent years treating like unreliability.
“I think I wanted you to stop worrying.”
Dad leaned back.
The sentence struck him.
I saw it.
His gaze dropped.
For the first time that evening, Rhett moved his chair away from mine.
Barely.
Giving us space.
That mattered too.
My father rubbed one hand over his mouth.
“When your mother left,” he said, “I promised myself you would never have to depend on anyone.”
I went still.
We did not talk about my mother.
Not directly.
Not like this.
Dad looked at the table.
“At the time, stability felt like the only thing I could give you.”
The anger inside me softened around the edges.
Not gone.
Complicated.
“I know,” I said.
“I wanted you protected.”
“I know.”
His gaze lifted.
“I may have confused protected with prepared.”
Rhett stayed quiet.
Thank God.
Dad looked older suddenly.
Not weak.
Just tired.