Page 111 of Dream Chaser
Dagger. Straight to the ovaries.
I stare at it too long. Zoom in. Zoom out. Like it’ll make me feel something different. It doesn’t.
It’s a photo. Golden hour. His arm around his grandma, the two of them on a porch swing, the Gulf behind sky-dyed in amber and pink. He’s pressing a kiss to her cheek and smiling in that soft, real way he rarely does. Not the cocky, cleat-stomp grin he wears on the field. Not the panty-melting smirk he gives me when he’s about to say something to annoy me, on purpose. This smile is different. Unfiltered. Unarmored. I’ve seen it a few times now, and it still causes pause.
I clutch my phone to my chest for a second, like a complete loser, before dropping it onto the comforter. So that’s how he’s playing it—sentimental and sweet. Which means he’s trying to melt me down.
Fine. Two can play that game.
I push up, stretch, and mentally prepare to get ready for the day.
I slide out of the Jeep at the perfect time—the sun is just peeking over the greenhouse.
I snap a pic and post:Mornings are beautiful.
Lame? Maybe, but still.
Dad opens the front door of the house, coffee in hand, and Wile trots out to see me. “He missed you, Izzy girl.”
I squat down and rub his ears. “I missed him, too.”
“You got time for a cup, or are you in a hurry?” he asks.
I shield my eyes from the sun. “Where’s Mom?”
He nods to the greenhouse. “I’ll grab you and Mom a cup.”
He steps back inside, and I hang out, petting Wile for a bit, trying to figure out what to say, because the girls know, and itfeels kind of wrong since Mom is always the first person I talk to when something is going on in my life. I suppose it’s a good thing she wasn’t there last night when my brain was still in a post-orgasmic haze and I blurted out everything.
I hover by the doorway for a second, unsure of my footing, even though I’ve stepped into this room a thousand times. Mom’s at the long table under the windows, gently prodding the base of a jade plant with her fingers like she’s asking it questions.
I clear my throat. “Hey.”
Mom looks up with a smile, soft and worn-in like her favorite gardening gloves. “You want coffee?”
“Dad’s bringing us some. Can I sit?”
Mom gestures toward the stool across from her. “Of course.”
I sit, tuck my feet under me, run my finger along a crack in the tabletop, and wait for Dad, because I owe them both after yesterday, and I only wanna do this once.
When he enters the greenhouse and sets the cups down, I thank him.
He walks over and sits next to Mom.
“I’m going through something,” I say quietly. “And I don’t want you to worry. I’m okay, really. I just … need some room to figure it out. Maybe fail. Maybe not. But either way, I’ll be okay.”
Mom’s hand pauses on the soil. “Transplant shock,” she says gently.
I blink. “What?”
“When you take a healthy plant from one pot and move it to another. New soil, more space. Even if it’s good for the roots, the leaves wilt for a bit. They’re just adjusting.”
Dad rests his elbows on the table. “Sometimes it looks worse before it gets better.”
I nod. “I don’t want you to fix anything. Just—if you can—let me try. Support me the way you always have, no matter what this turns into.”
There’s a beat of silence. The hum of the radio fills it.
