Page 121 of Stolen Dreams

THIRTY-EIGHT

RAY

Tucker hasn’t leftmy side in a week.

I love how much closer we’ve gotten, how he opens up without hesitation, how he wants to spend all his time with his dad. What worries me is how skittish he is around other people now.

We met up with Jordan at the skate park yesterday. Tucker had been so excited to see them. The entire drive there, he spoke animatedly about all the things he wanted to try on his skateboard. But when it came time to hang out with Jordan, Tucker’s hands started to shake. His smile was all wrong.

I told him we didn’t have to stay. We would come back another day.

But Tucker wasn’t having it. He vehemently shook his head.“No. I have to do this.”His voice had been so stern, determined.

I didn’t have it in me to insist otherwise.

The entire hour, he was glued to Jordan’s side. They talked, skated, and sat on a bench for a bit.

It warms my heart to know Tucker feels safe with Jordan. That he has someone other than family, Kaya, and a therapist to speak with about what worries him. He is braver than I ever was at his age.

“Do I have to wear this shirt?” Sour expression on full display, Tucker tugs at the stiff, snugger-than-he’s-used-to-wearing sleeves of his button-down. “It’s so itchy”—he scratches the nape of his neck—“and tight,” he whines.

“You don’thaveto wear it,” I say, and he sags in relief. “But I’d like you to.” I fasten the last button on my own shirt and sit on the edge of the bed. “Come here. Let’s see if I can help.”

He shuffles forward with a hint of hope in his eyes.

“Hold out your arm, bud.”

He does as I ask, and I unbutton the cuff. One flip after another, I roll up his sleeves until they are just beneath his elbows. Then I reach up and pop the top two buttons at the collar and relax the cotton away from his neck. With two simple adjustments, his entire frame loosens.

“Every once in a while, we have to put on a dress shirt and look extra nice.” I smooth my hands over his shoulders. “Especially when we want to impress people.”

His brows drop down and scrunch together. “What does impress mean?”

I run my fingers through his curls, fix a few wayward locks, and make a mental note to get it trimmed soon. “Impressing someone means you put in extra effort to look nice or do something special for them. You want them to remember how handsome or thoughtful or wonderful you are after spending time together.” I study his quizzical expression. “Does that make sense?”

Eyes narrowed and lips puckered, he slowly nods. “I think so.” Softening his features, he adds, “You want Miss Kaya’s family to like us.”

“Yes, bud.” I roll up my sleeves to match his. “I want them to like us.”More than anything.

Since the start of my culinary career, my primary objective has been to deliver the best dish possible and make a lastingimpression on the recipient. Others’ approval has been a top priority more years than not. The pressure to be perfect is nothing new.

But I’ve never had to impress others—definitely not a girlfriend’s family—withonlymy personality.

When Kaya said her family wanted Tucker and me to join them for dinner, an unexpected surge of adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. Meeting the parents is a big step in any relationship. Granted, because our families are prominent figures in Stone Bay, the Imalas and Calhouns are somewhat acquainted… in a generic, impersonal way.

Tonight’s dinner will shift the dynamic, hopefully for the better. Regardless, I want Kaya’s family to like us, accept us, and know we’re worthy of her affection.

I asked if I should make something for dinner, and Kaya said her family had the meal covered. My skin crawled at the idea of walking into her family’s home without an offering. Food is my default but not an option.

So when Kaya left for her place after lunch, Tucker and I dashed to the florist and created the perfect thank you arrangement. Vibrant peach and yellow roses, bold orange ranunculus, dark-pink camellias, blossoming succulents, sprigs of lavender, and a soft bed of moss in a rustic wooden box. Beautiful and breathtaking yet unique and modest.

“You ready to go?” I pocket my wallet, phone, and keys.

Tucker rushes out of my room and across the hall. “Just a minute.”

As I reach the stairs, he sidles up to me, a toy fire truck in his hand.

“Where’d that come from, bud?” I’ve seen the fire truck a few times but have yet to ask where he got it.

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