Page 71 of Broken Secrets
“How are you feeling about everything with Jeremy and Emma?” Derek asks, taking a careful bite of his ice cream.
“Better than I expected. It’s still complicated, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.” I pause, trying to articulate the change. “I think I was so focused on the big dramatic reunion that I forgot relationships are actually built through smallmoments. Like them being here, seeing our town, getting to know the normal parts of my life.”
“That makes sense. Drama gets all the attention, but it’s the regular stuff that actually matters.”
“Exactly. Like this.” I gesture between us. “Ice cream dates and color-coordinating for formal. The everyday things.”
Derek reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I like our everyday things.”
“Me too.”
We finish our ice cream as the sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting the downtown in golden late-afternoon light. Derek insists on paying, despite my protests, and we walk hand in hand back to his car.
The drive home is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about school, friends, weekend plans that don’t involve family drama or emotional revelations. When we pull into my driveway, I’m almost disappointed that the normal part of my day is ending.
Derek walks me to the front door, a habit he’s developed over the past few weeks. It’s old-fashioned in a way that makes me feel cherished rather than patronized.
“Thanks for today,” I say, turning to face him on the porch. “For practice, for ice cream, for being normal when everything else has been so complicated.”
“Thanks for letting me be part of it.”
He leans down to kiss me, and I tilt my face up to meet him. But just as our lips are about to touch, the front door swings open behind me.
“Evening, kids,” Robert says, appearing in the doorway with a timing that would be impressive if it weren’t so mortifying.
Derek immediately steps back, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Good evening, Mr. Carlson.”
“Derek, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Robert?” But he’s smiling as he says it. “And how was your afternoon of corrupting my daughter?”
“We practiced soccer and got ice cream,” I say quickly. “Very wholesome corruption.”
“The most dangerous kind,” Robert replies with a completely straight face. “Derek, you’d better head home. I hear there’s a curfew for teenagers who eat ice cream with my daughter.”
“There is not,” I protest, but Derek is already backing toward his car.
“Yes sir, I should get going anyway. See you tomorrow, Olivia.”
“See you tomorrow.”
As Derek drives away, I turn to glare at Robert. “Really? You couldn’t wait thirty more seconds?”
“I have excellent timing. It’s one of my many parenting skills.”
“Your timing is terrible.”
“My timing is perfect. That boy gets any more smitten with you, and he’s going to forget how to drive home safely.”
Despite my embarrassment, I can’t help smiling. Robert has been making dad jokes since I was six, and somehow, they’ve never gotten less ridiculous or more annoying.
“Come inside,” he says, holding the door open. “Your mom’s making dinner, and she could use the company.”
The smell hits me the moment I walk into the kitchen; something complex and delicious that requires more effort than Mom usually puts into weeknight meals. She’s at the stove, stirring a pot of what looks like homemade marinara sauce, her hair pulled back in the tightest bun I’ve ever seen her wear.
The kitchen is immaculate in a way that suggests obsessive cleaning, with every surface sparkling and ingredients lined up with military precision. Mom’s wearing an apron I didn’t knowwe owned, and there are three different types of pasta boiling on the stovetop simultaneously.
“Mom?” I set my backpack down carefully, noting the way she’s gripping the wooden spoon. “What’s all this?”
“Dinner,” she says without looking up from the sauce. “I thought we should have a nice family meal before Jeremy and Emma head back to Michigan tomorrow.”
