Page 84 of Worth the Wait

I glance at him, surprised by the unexpected direction. "What do you mean?"

He rocks gently, gaze fixed in the distance where mist clings to the horizon. "After Henderson Industries crushed our business, I watched you change. That carefree girl who believed in possibilities became so… careful. So determined to control everything."

“Dad, it’s okay, I turned out alright.”

"I know you did, honey." His weathered hand covers mine. "But that's what I've regretted most all these years. Not losing the business—losing the chance to show you how to get back up after being knocked down."

I blink back unexpected tears. "Dad?—"

"Let me finish," he says gently. "When you left for Northwestern, so determined to build an unshakable career, I worried you'd forgotten how to let yourself be vulnerable. That you'd close yourself off from the messy, beautiful parts of life to stay safe."

"I was afraid," I admit, the confession easier here on this porch, with the man who was my first protector. "Of being hurt. Of losing control."

"I know, honeybee." His smile is tender. "But fear's a poor compass for living. It'll keep you safe, but it won't lead you to joy."

I think of Jackson, of the daisy field, of the future we're building—not cautiously, but with open hearts. "I'm learning that."

"I always hoped you'd find your way back to each other," Dad says, his gaze direct now. "That boy saw the real you, not just the brilliant mind or the pretty face, but the fierce heart underneath it all. The part you try to hide."

"When did you get so wise?" I ask, leaning my head against his shoulder like I used to as a little girl.

He chuckles. "Getting your heart broken teaches you a thing or two. So does watching your daughter rediscover her courage."

We rock in companionable silence as the morning brightens around us, each lost in our own thoughts.

"He makes me happy, Dad," I say finally. "Happier than I thought I was allowed to be."

"That's all I've ever wanted for you." He squeezes my hand. "And Tarryn? You deserve every bit of it."

The restaurant glowswith warmth as our families gather around a long table for our impromptu engagement celebration. Laughter fills the air as Jackson's mom recounts embarrassing childhood stories and his father and mine fall into comfortable conversation like old friends.

I sit beside Jackson, his thigh pressed against mine beneath the table. His hand finds mine periodically, thumb brushing over my ring as if to reassure himself this is real.

"Speech!" Ellie calls, tapping her knife against her water glass. "We need a proper toast!"

Jackson's father, Paul, rises slowly, his movements deliberate but stronger than the last time I saw him years ago. The heart procedure has clearly improved his quality of life, just as Jackson had hoped.

"When Jackson was a boy," he begins, voice carrying across the room, "he'd bring home broken things, birds with damaged wings, discarded toys from the neighbor's trash, a watch I'd given up on fixing. He'd work on them for hours, sometimes days, determined to make them whole again."

He looks at us, his eyes softening. "I always thought it was just boyish curiosity. It wasn't until much later I realized it was something deeper—an instinct to mend what others might abandon, to see value where others saw only damage."

His gaze settles on me, warm and accepting. "Tarryn, I've watched my son rebuild himself after losing you. I've seen him pour that same patience and determination into becoming a man worthy of a second chance."

I blink back tears, feeling Jackson's grip tighten around my hand.

"The two of you remind me of something I learned when we had to reinvent the family business," Paul continues. "Sometimes we have to let beloved things grow beyond our original vision for them."

He raises his glass. "To Jackson and Tarryn. May your love continue to evolve beyond what either of you first imagined, surprising you both with its strength and beauty."

Glasses clink as everyone echoes the toast, but I barely notice. I'm lost in the way Jackson's father embraces me when I stand to thank him, in the words he whispers just for me. "Thank you—not just for loving my son, but for being the dream he fought to pursue."

Later, as dessert plates are cleared and coffee served, I find myself beside Paul again. "Your toast was beautiful," I tell him. "Thank you."

"I meant every word." He studies me with eyes much like his son's. "You know, when he told me about New York, about this new beginning you're building together, I recognized something in him I've rarely seen."

"What's that?"

"Peace." Paul smiles. "The kind that comes from knowing exactly where you belong."

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