Page 115 of Dream Chaser
After toweling the dirt off my hands, I walk outside and take a photo of the greenhouse windows, the condensation still clinging to the glass.
Caption:Something about mornings makes everything feel possible.
Mags makes a pie on day four. I film us arguing about how much cinnamon is “too much.” She steals the camera and pans to my face. I look flushed, laughing, happy.
I almost delete it. Instead, I caption:We laugh loud here.
His story is of the pier. Footsteps in sand. Wind noise in the mic. And just four words:Wish you were here.
The next day, he posts a video of his Grand dancing in the kitchen to old-school Motown. He pans to himself in the reflection of the microwave door. He’s shirtless.Gaw!
Caption:This house has soul.
I slam my phone facedown and yell into a pillow.
Ten minutes later, I post a boomerang of me stirring coffee in a giant mug with “DO NOT ENGAGE” Sharpied on the side.
No caption. Just that.
He posts late on day five. A candle burning next to a notebook. A scribbled mess of X’s and O’s. Caption:Nothing’s changed. But everything’s different.
I don’t even pretend not to stare at it for twenty full seconds.
I post a still shot of Wile curled up next to my leg, my notebook open, the same song from his story playing “Feeling Good” faint in the background.
I don’t tag him.
I don’t have to.
The next morning, he posts a video of the weight rack at a small local gym, a slow pan to a handwritten sign taped to the wall:“GRIND IN SILENCE, LET THEM WONDER.”His reflectionin the mirror—head down, sweat-slicked, focused.
Oh, we’re doing bro inspiration now?
I roll my eyes then pause it again to catch that reflection. He’s in a tee, sleeves cut off, sides wide open. So hot.
My post: a photo of my muddy boots in front of the door. Caption:Some people’s‘happy’ involves power tools and poop bags.
He postsa close-up of his plate at dinner the next night: venison steak, charred greens, cornbread with butter melting into every groove. Caption:She taught me better than takeout.The corner of his other’s hand is visible across the table.
I feel that one. More than I expected to. He’s not flexing. He’s grounding himself.
Is he making it clear who he’s anchoring to while he’s not here?
I stare at the photo longer than I mean to, zooming in on the way he plated the meal. There’s care in it. Deliberateness.
I post a flat lay of Aunt Isobel’s old handwritten recipe cards, dog-eared and tea-stained, next to a fresh batch of biscuits. Caption:Some of us treasure what’s important. Others? I wouldn’t know. We’re not friends.
Chapter 24
One Week
Griffon
“You better send your love note,” Grand remarks as she lines up to swing.
I pull my phone out and record her railing the golf ball farther than mine. Caption:Where my athletic ability comes from.
Izzy’s morning post—or love note, as Grand calls them—was a video of her greenhouse, foggy glass behind a tangle of green vines crawling up. Caption:She’s a little wild, but that’s how she grows.
