Page 97 of Hometown Touchdown
Brynn squeezes my hand under the table, and I can feel the tension in her grip slowly starting to ease.
“And who knows,” my mom adds with a sparkle in her eyes. “Maybe now I’ll finally get a few grandbabies out of you two.”
The words hang in the air like a balloon that just lost all its helium.
It’s not loud. No one gasps. No plates crash to the floor. But I feel Brynn freeze beside me.
Just a fraction. Just enough.
Her smile doesn’t fall—but it stretches thinner. Her fingers tense slightly in mine. And I know.
Her parents both shift uncomfortably, like they’re trying to silently will the conversation somewhere safer. But the damage is already done.
Mom’s still smiling, oblivious, already rattling off something about baby Halloween costumes and matching jerseys.
But all I can see is Brynn—still smiling for everyone else, still doing that thing she does where she tucks away the ache so no one has to see it.
Except I do.
I lean toward her and murmur low against her temple, “You okay?”
She gives the faintest nod, eyes on her plate. “Just surprised me.”
I hate this. Hate that something as small as a careless hope could dig into a place she’s still healing. I want to shield her from it. I want to tell my mom to change the subject, to leave it be.
But Brynn’s stronger than anyone gives her credit for. She just straightens her back, takes a breath, and meets my gaze.
And I say the only thing that matters, loud enough for the table to hear.
“Whatever our future looks like,” I say, “I want it with Brynn.”
She looks at me and something softens behind her eyes. Her thumb brushes against mine, and she gives a tiny nod. Not for the table. Not for anyone else.
Eventually, the moment passes. Brynn’s mom shifts the conversation to something about the fall festival’s chili cook-off and my mom jumps in. Laughter comes back into the room, slowly but surely. But I never stop holding Brynn’s hand. And I don’t miss the way she holds mine back like she’s scared I’ll let go.
I won’t.
Whatever future we build—whatever shape it takes—it’s going to be ours. Even if it looks different than we once imagined.
Our parents linger for coffee, though none of us touch the pumpkin bars. We’re too full from dinner, too content to reach for more, even as the sugar calls faintly from the countertop. Conversation winds down into the soft lull of a night well spent—easy laughter, the clink of mugs, the occasional yawn someone tries and fails to hide.
When Brynn’s dad stifles a second yawn, her mom gently pats his arm and rises with a knowing smile. “We’d better head out before he falls asleep mid-sentence.”
We all laugh, and that’s the cue. Everyone rises in a comfortable shuffle of hugs and ‘let’s do this again’ sentiments. Brynn walks her parents to the door, her hand tucked into herdad’s elbow, and I watch them go with something warm and weighted turning in my chest.
My mom reaches for her purse, but I step in gently. “Mom, Dad—could you stay a little longer?”
My dad lifts a brow, curious but calm. “Of course.”
Once Brynn’s parents are gone, I find her hand as she turns back to me. Her face is composed, her smile still easy—but I know her too well. I caught it earlier, the way her fingers tightened just slightly when my mom had chirped something about grandkids. A light, harmless comment on the surface—hopeful, sweet. But it landed differently.
She hadn’t let on. She nodded, smiled like everyone else. But I saw the flicker in her eyes. That tiny crack in her composure, the grief she thought she’d hidden behind her grace.
I lean in, my voice just for her. “I asked them to stay because…I think maybe it’s time to talk about it. About the grandchildren thing.”
Her breath catches, and she glances past me to where my parents sit on the couch, talking quietly. Then her eyes find mine again, steady but hesitant. “Right now?”
I nod, wrapping my fingers around hers. “Only if you’re okay with it. But I saw your face tonight, Brynn. And I don’t want that look to sneak back in because we’re avoiding something that’s part of our reality. My mom meant well—she had no idea. But I don’t want her to keep unknowingly brushing against something that hurts you. I think…I think we should tell them. I don’t want you carrying that weight alone. We should get to write our story on our terms.”
