Page 29 of Under Southern Stars
“I’ll be there,” I promise. “Want me to grab breakfast after?”
“Can Jack come?”
My coffee goes down wrong. “What? No. Madison, we’ve had one date—”
“But if he wanted to?”
“He has to work.” I think. Maybe. I didn’t actually ask about his weekend schedule.
My phone buzzes. My heart does something ridiculous.
But it’s just Maria:
Maria: DETAILS. NOW. THE WHOLE ER IS DYING.
Madison leans over, reads it. “See? Everyone’s invested. You have to make this work.”
“That’s not how relationships—”
“Mom.” She puts on her serious face. “You know what Brené Brown says about vulnerability?”
“What?! Since when do you read Brené Brown?”
“Since Dad started dating someone who quotes her incorrectly on Instagram.” She scrolls through her phone. “Here. ‘Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity.’ Maybe stop armor-ing up?”
A car honks outside. Troy, in his new Tesla that he definitely can’t afford.
“That’s my ride.” Madison grabs her gear, then pauses. “Mom? I’m glad you went out last night. You looked…happy when you got home.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my coffee and a teenager’s wisdom.
I wander into the living room, drawn to the bookshelf where our photo albums live. There’s one from our early marriage—Troy and me at some finance company party, both trying so hard to look successful.
Next to it, Madison’s baby album. Then nothing for the last five years. Like our life stopped being worth documenting when things got hard.
Maybe it’s time for new pictures. Maybe it’s time to start documenting what comes next—whatever that might be.
My phone buzzes again. This time, my stupid heart wins.
Jack: Morning. Hope you slept well. Still on for Sunday? Thinking coffee and a walk if the weather holds.
I stare at the text for an embarrassingly long time. Three sentences. Perfectly normal. Casual. Friendly.
