Even now, I catch myself checking in on him whenever we’re together—watching the way he moves, listening for anything in his voice that might mean a bad day is creeping in.
Dad shakes his head. “Are you gonna go back next summer?”
The question is soft, but the weight behind it isn’t. Will you still be at that dead-end job after you’ve graduated? Are you staying where it’s safe because it’s easy or because you’re scared to want more?
“Maybe,” I say. “Haven’t decided.”
Dad nods, but there’s something unreadable in his expression. And I get it. He’s never said it outright, but I think he wants more for me. Not because Sycamore is a bad job, not because he thinks I’m wasting my time.
He believes I have the potential to do something else. Something bigger. And now that Wes is stable, now that the worst seems behind us, I think he wants me to start moving again. To stop holding my breath.
Wes swipes a finger through the whipped cream on his plate. “You could always come work for me.”
I scoff. “Oh yeah? What are you offering?”
“Personal assistant,” he says. “Pays in movie nights and unsolicited life advice.”
I flick a wadded-up napkin at him. “Sounds like a scam.”
Wes gasps, hand to his chest. “How dare you. I am a fantastic boss.”
Dad snorts. “Yeah? And what’s Quinn’s first task as your personal assistant?”
Wes hums, dragging his fork through the syrup on his plate. “Fetch me a new napkin.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. Because that’s what my resume’s missing—experience in napkin retrieval.”
Dad chuckles, shaking his head. “Overqualified already.”
I huff, picking at the edge of my toast. “Might as well start now, right? Gotta get used to working jobs that don’t fulfill me so the disappointment doesn’t hit too hard later.”
Dad’s smile falters. It’s subtle, but I catch it. Strange how much he’s paying attention today. Like he’s actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to speak.
My parents have never been good at reading between the lines, at catching the cracks in my facade, so why start now? It’s not their fault. They believe what I let them see. And I’ve spent years making sure they don’t look too closely.
Thankfully, Wes changes the subject for us. He launches into a story about some new game he’s obsessed with, a fantasy epic that involves quests and guilds and whatever other nerd shit he’s into.
I half listen. I don’t care about the mechanics or the lore, but I do like the sound of his voice when he talks about things he loves. It’s comforting. Steady. Like background noise I don’t have to think about. Something solid in a world that never really stops shifting.
“Sounds fake,” I mutter when he tells me his rogue can cast illusions.
“Sounds jealous,” Wes tosses back.
Dad smiles, shakes his head. “I don’t know how you two make me feel old when I’m not.”
I hum. “Youareold.”
Wes grins. “You do make that weird groaning noise when you sit down.”
Dad groans dramatically just to prove a point. “Keep talking like that, and I’m leaving you both here.”
Wes and I share a look and then immediately fall into exaggerated, innocent smiles—mirror images of faux obedience. I spear the last bite of my eggs, popping it into my mouth while Wes makes a show of licking syrup off his fork. Dad shakes his head, amused, reaching for his coffee.
“Enjoy this while you can, kid. Sugar catches up with you.”
Wes smirks. “Yeah, is that why your knees sound like popcorn? From thesugar?”
Dad narrows his eyes, about to fire something back, but then his phone buzzes against the table. He glances at the screen, sighs. “Work. Gimme a sec.”
