Dad leans back in his chair. "You planning to marry this girl?"
"Dad! Marriage?"
The word should terrify me, should send me into a panic about commitment and responsibility and all the ways I could mess it up.
Instead, it feels... right. Like the most natural thing in the world.
Like why the hell didn't I already think of it myself.
"You know what," I say quietly, shifting to the edge of my seat like I've just had some kind of epiphony. "I think I am."
Mom makes a soft sound of delight, her hand flying to her heart.
"Oh, Ryder. That's wonderful!"
"Wait. Just hold up a second," Dad says, and I can already hear the lecture coming, "Son, before you can evenconsidersuch a big move, you need to get your life in order. Starting with that disaster you call a house."
Fuck. Here we go.
"Dad, the house is fine—"
"Fine?" He raises an eyebrow. "Son, you've been living there for God knows how long and you're still sleeping on a mattress on the floor! You've got paint samples on the walls and half-finished projects in every room."
"I've been busy with hockey and—"
"And finding Mia," Mom finishes. "Which is sweet, but Tom's right. If you're serious about building a life with her, you need to actually build it. Literally."
I want to argue that Mia doesn't care about any of that stuff.
She's not some high-maintenance woman who needs perfect surroundings to be happy. She spends her days cleaning up after rescue animals, for Christ's sake.
But even as I form the arguments in my head, I can hear how weak they sound.
Because maybe they're right. If I'm serious about this, which, with the way my heart is pounding right now, I am… then I need to give her the life she deserves.
And no girl of Ryder Scott's should be summoned to sleep on the floor.
"Look," Dad continues, his voice gentler now. "I'm not saying you need to have everything perfect before you propose. But you need to show her that you're ready to build something permanent. Something that says 'this is our home, our future.'"
"You only get one chance to make up for lost time," Mom adds quietly. "Don't waste it."
Don't waste it.
The words hit deeper than they should, settling into my chest like a weight I'll carry with me on the road.
An hour later, I'm driving home through the quiet streets of Iron Ridge, my parents' advice ringing in my ears, circling endlessly like a broken record.
You only get one chance to make up for lost time.
The phrase follows me all the way home, growing louder as I pull into my driveway and stare at the house that's supposed to represent my future.
In the moonlight, it looks exactly like what it is: a work in progress.
The porch railing I've been meaning to fix leans at an odd angle. The front steps creak under my weight as I climb them. Inside, the chaos of renovation greets me like an old friend.
Paint cans stacked in the corner of the living room. Drop cloths covering furniture I haven't assembled yet. Toolsscattered across the kitchen counter where I abandoned them three weeks ago when I got distracted by a text from Mia.
This is what I'm bringing her home to.
