Page 104 of The Pucking Date
“I’ve got a game tonight,” I say.
“I know,” she answers. “Just...don’t wait too long… You know how fast things can change.”
25
SMOKE SIGNALS
JESSICA
The Hudson Valley is putting on a show today. The trees are blazing in reds and golds, sunlight spilling through the canopy in a steady rhythm. The air carries a faint edge of woodsmoke and apple peel, that brief, perfect window where the world feels crisp but not cold.
I’ve been staying with Sophie and Liam since Monday. Which is a gentle way of saying they’ve staged a soft coup of my autonomy.
They won’t let me go home.
Apparently, crying into a throw blanket and passing out in your sister’s guest bed activates a full-house lockdown. For six straight days, I’ve been under tight surveillance. Sophie’s been timing my bathroom breaks, and Liam’s taken to “accidentally” leaving green smoothies on my nightstand.
They mean well. It’s very loving. Also slightly terrifying.
There’s always someone around. Always a check-in. Always eyes on me, which is wildly uncomfortable and also...kind of nice.
Turns out having people who won’t let you disappear into your own spiral has its perks.
Sophie insists on driving me. Liam drops off a decaf cappuccino and a lecture about protein. I’m basically under house arrest—with decaf coffee.
Especially when the one person I want to hear from has frozen me out like a rejected Netflix password. Finn texts in corporate-speak. “How are you feeling? Let me know if you need anything.” No emojis. No flirting. No chaos. Just sterile concern, because now it’s about the baby, not me. He swings by after Liam, drops off Sweetgreen and electrolyte water, then disappears.
It’s both thoughtful and gutting.
So yeah. Maybe I haven’t pushed to go home because being around Sophie and Liam feels safer than the silence waiting in my home. Or because I’m not sure I’m ready to be alone with my own thoughts, especially the ones that sound suspiciously likeyou did this, you ruined it, you pushed him away.
The Novak house appears—white clapboard, dark green shutters, a wide porch that wraps around and holds it steady. It’s rooted. Familiar. Safe.
Dad and Adam are deep in a chess game that’s been going since lunch. Neither looks up when we arrive.
“Touching,” Sophie murmurs, cutting the engine. “Father-son bonding meets slow-burn caffeine withdrawal.”
We step out, gravel crunching underfoot. Adam lifts a hand without lifting his eyes. “The sisters grace us with their presence.”
“You’ve been out here since lunch?” Sophie calls.
“Endgame,” Dad mutters.
“We bring dessert and witty conversation. Show some appreciation,” I scoff.
Dad shifts a pawn. “Hi, girls,” he says, still not looking, just enough warmth in it to make something twist behind my ribs.
Before I can reply, the screen door swings open. Mom steps out with a tray of cocktails. Gray-streaked black hair twisted up, barefoot, wrapped in a pale linen tunic over jeans.
“There you are,” she says, voice calm and sure. “I was just about to text.”
“We hit some traffic,” Sophie replies, slipping into a hug.
I stay back for a moment.
Mom centers the space without trying. She always has. Watching her now, grip steady on the tray, gaze sweeping over us with quiet recognition, I feel something shift. Tighten. Crack.
She hands Sophie a glass and then holds one out to me.
