Theo pipes up from under the table. “Bring her to my hockey game!”
“Only if she’s ready to holler louder than your mom.”
Dessert arrives — Mom’s maple-pecan masterpiece. Hazel claims she’s “allergic to nuts” until she sees the vanilla-bean ice cream. Morgan slices her piece in half, slides the bigger wedge onto my plate.
“Fuel for your emotional support romcom marathon. Featuring you and Addy,” she whispers.
I tuck it into a bakery box, scrawl on the lid: Emergency Pie Ration – Handle With Care.
Leah catches me sealing the box. “If Addison is worried about the age gap, bring her here. Let her see how we measure people. Spoiler: not by birthdays.”
Jenna snaps a picture of me holding the box: “True love is pastry transport,” she narrates for her followers.
Cleanup spins into controlled chaos. Dad tackles the roasting pans, Mom wipes faces, Hazel drops a spoon down the heating vent. Morgan hands me a laminated card: Baby Rock-to-Sleep Playlist, Guaranteed! “Here. For future reference.”
“We aren’t even dating,” I protest.
“You build things,” she says. “Prep work matters.”
Boots back on, I haul leftovers to the truck. Sunset paints the hayfield cantaloupe and lavender, and crickets crank up their evening symphony. Dad leans through the window.
“Watch for deer by Stony Creek. And watch for opinions — people wreck young love faster than a bull in a china shop.”
I promise to be on the lookout and shift into gear. In the rear-view mirror, Hazel chases fireflies, Leah and Morgan wave vigorously, and Mom holds Finley, smiling that soft, knowing smile worn by moms who’ve seen every version of their boy.
The cab fills with the smell of leftovers. Halfway to Bluewater Cove, my phone buzzes in its dash mount.
Addison.
Should we meet at Butter & Crust? I’ll set it up with the owner and text you day & time.
I grin and voice-text back without taking eyes from the road. “Deal. Can’t wait for this tasting. Are we still on for a walk-through tomorrow and light installation?”
Sure thing. See you tomorrow.
I laugh into the dark.
Lake Huron slides into view, moonlight skipping across the water like loose fairy bulbs. I replay my sisters’ advice — no ‘ma’am’, real questions, foot rubs, kid names, evidence louder than gossip. Simple framing, not easy. But I’m a Smyth; we build things meant to last.
The age gap? Just background chatter. What matters is how steadily two sets of hands can hold the same arch.
I signal right, my truck rumbling over the tracks, the future spreading wide, steady as cedar beams under orchard lights.
14
CONFESSIONS & CONFLICT
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7
several hours before
Addison
Sunday afternoon. The smell of charcoal and sizzling burgers wafts through the air, mingling with the soft hum of cicadas. Maggie’s backyard is alive with laughter and clinking glasses as Olivia, Brett, and the kids mill around the picnic table. I’m sitting on the porch swing, nursing a glass of lemonade and watching the scene.
“So,” Maggie says, flopping beside me with her plate piled high. “What’s going on with Coach Cutie?”
I choke on my lemonade, coughing into my hand. “Maggie!”
