Page 91 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Something about the normalcy deflates the storm in the air.
Buford rubs the back of his neck. “Right. I… I just wanted to say—I know I screwed up. Big time.”
Nessa exhales slowly. “You did.”
Nearby, Sammy shifts, almost imperceptibly, clinging to her mother’s leg.
I step closer. “You want a chance,” I say softly to Buford. Not a threat. Not a statement of power. A possibility. “I can offer that.”
Buford’s eyes jump to me. “You… you sure? After everything?”
I nod. “Yes. You have a daughter who deserves someone who shows up. Who learns. Who starts again.” My voice feels odd—like I’m speaking for myself as much as him. “I was given that chance. I choose to pass it on.”
Buford blinks. I see the muscle under his shirt tense as he fights tears or shame or recognition. He opens his mouth, closes it.
He says, “Alright. I… I’ll try.”
There it is. The stark truth. He’s human, flawed, frightened—but he’s trying.
Nessa exhales, and I sense her fighting tears behind her eyes. “That’s a start,” she says gently.
Smiles—small, broken—cross their faces. The space warms. It smells like possibility: toasted bread, baby powder, suburban summer mornings.
We stand there, three adults and a child caught between broken pasts and hopeful futures. Redemption isn’t fireworks. It doesn’t come in victory roars. Redemption comes in moments like these—quiet, trembling examples of choosing again.
Buford clears his throat. “So… what do I do now?”
I glance at Nessa, who gives me a nod. I step forward, still in my skin that’s not human but not alien anymore. I put a hand on his shoulder—gentle, firm.
“Start by being present,” I say. “Listen. Learn. Be patient. And don’t leave again.”
He meets my gaze, and I see something shift—fear giving way to resolve.
Sammy breaks the moment, sidling next to me. “Did you save Dad?” she asks, voice soft.
I smile down at her. “I’m trying,” I say. She nods and gives my arm a squeeze before looking back at her father.
We cross over to the kitchen table after I unpack the groceries. Nessa offers lemonade for everyone. We sit. Sunlight through the curtains. Cicadas outside.
Buford looks at the groceries and then me. “You got any coupons?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I can learn Earth discount systems. We can optimize budgets.”
He cracks a real, tiny smile. “Alright, space accountant.”
Sammy laughs. The tension loosens like a held breath.
They dig into sandwiches. I marvel at the taste of earth-grown tomatoes. Simple. Real. The kind of sensation I risked everything to experience and now treasure for every second.
Redemption is not for poets and fools. It’s building lunches and lessons, and showing up after storms. It’s choosing again—and again.
Today, I offer it. Tomorrow, we see.
We sit together, first steps into a future both uncertain and utterly ours. And I think, redemption isn’t just about us anymore. It’s about building a family strong enough to forgive, to learn, to survive—and to thrive.
And I, warrior of worlds, stand ready for it.
That night, I pull up to the roadside bar where the sun bleeds through sticky windows, painting the stale linoleum in orange-red melancholy. Inside, the air presses heavy with stale beer and regret. Buford’s hunched at a corner booth—his default posture—surrounded by empty bottles like they’re old friends. He’s alone, as usual.
