Page 23 of Off-Limits Daddy
I hadn’t been part of a project that big in years.
“You should do it,” Cael said, reading the hesitation on my face. “You’re not some hobbyist, Ari. You got the damn degree to prove it.”
I flicked paint off my fingers, messy little smudges across my skin. “Yeah, ’cause that’s gonna help pay the bills.”
“It doesn’t have to yet. But it’s something. And I don’t know... people need to remember you’re the kid who made the windows on Main Street look like stained glass for Christmas that one year.”
I remembered that. Remembered how good it had felt, too.
“That was a long time ago,” I muttered, looking down at the shapes on the page, those two forms straining toward each other like gravity was pulling them closer despite themselves.
"I know you didn't forget how to do it."
I swallowed, throat tight. “I’ll think about it.”
Cael bumped his shoulder against mine, easy and friendly. “Do more than think.”
We stood there for a while, no sound but the cicadas buzzing and the faint hum of cars on the highway miles off.
I didn’t want to admit how much I wanted it. Wanted to prove I could be more than the kid whose father abandoned him, more than someone’s ex. More than a story people told about the artistic kid who left town and came back with his tail between his legs.
I wanted something to be mine again.
But mostly, I wanted something that felt likestartinginstead of justending.
EIGHT
ARI
Steam curled from the chipped mug resting between my palms. Third cup. Maybe fourth. I’d lost track somewhere between the first swallow and the two unread texts from Cael still sitting on my phone screen. He’d be fine. Probably watching some rerun with his feet on my mom’s coffee table and stealing bites of whatever she’d baked that morning.
The swing creaked under me, the familiar groan of old chain links shifting with every slow rock. Paint flakes clung to the armrest, stubborn and cracked. I ran a finger along one edge, let it curl under my nail. Same spot I’d promised to repaint—how many times now? Three? Four? Didn’t matter. I hadn’t done it.
Out beyond the patio, sunlight bleached the grass into patches. The jacaranda tree swayed a little in the breeze, like it knew how to be graceful without trying. I tilted the mug and drank what was left, lukewarm and bitter.
Too quiet for music. Too warm to be productive.
Mom had gone to work, so it was just me, the swing, and every thought I hadn’t figured out how to outrun yet.
The phone rang. Not buzzed. RANG. Like a proper call. The kind that made your stomach lurch even before you checked the screen.
Unknown.
I stared for a second too long before sliding my thumb across the screen.
"Hello?"
"Ari Jackson?"
The voice was bright. Familiar in that "I probably scolded you in the fourth grade" kind of way.
"Speaking."
"This is June Evans. Planning committee. Fourth of July."
My spine straightened a little. "Yes, ma’am?"
Mrs. Evans had been on every school committee, community event board, and church fundraiser this side of the state line. She baked the kind of banana bread that made grown men weep and could organize a town parade with nothing but a clipboard and prayer. The woman was adorable in that business-like kinda way.
