Page 187 of Dream On

Stevie slaps her on the arm. “Jop, come on.”

“I requested consent. It’s fine.”

A smile hints as I hook my fingers at Joplin, summoning her toward me.

She slowly extends her arms and shuffles forward for a stiff hug, awkwardly patting my back and sniffing my shirt. “Okay. Bucket list now complete.”

Stevie’s cheeks flush neon pink. “You’re humiliating. You’ve met him before.”

“Full-body contact is different.” Joplin tosses an apron at me. “Are you helping us roll dough? There’s a lot of it. We need a firm set of hands.”

“Uh…”

Their father comes up behind me and plops a hand on my shoulder, tearing the apron away with the other. “Ignore her. She just wants to say she baked pies with a celebrity.”

I don’t know what to do with my hands now, so I shove them into the deep recesses of my pockets and teeter on the heels of my feet. The house smells amazing—pumpkin-spice candles flickering on every available surface and a fire kindling in the fireplace using real wood logs. While Stevie joins her mother and sister in the kitchen, I saunter into the living room.

Her father collapses on the oatmeal-colored sofa. “It’s great having you here, Lexington,” he says, smiling over at me. “Or do you prefer Lex?”

“Yeah. Lex is good.”

“It’s got a patriotic ring to it. A nod to history, perhaps?” He eyes me curiously. “Battle of Lexington, 1775. The first military engagement between British troops and American colonial militia during the American Revolution.”

I stare at him. “Pretty sure my parents just thought it sounded cool.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckles, reaching for a pair of eyeglasses. “I’m a bit of a history buff, so don’t mind me. I’m Bill, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

My eyes trail to an old acoustic guitar leaning against the side of the couch. “Are you a musician too?”

He follows my gaze and barks a laugh. “Try as I might, I can never get the strings to cooperate. I just end up making noise that even the chickens can’t tolerate.”

A smile twitches. “Stevie, Joplin…all music-related.” I almost add Morrison into the mix, but the mood isn’t right, and I don’t want to spoil it.

“That’s right.” A grin carves creases into his cheeks. “Stevie’s mother and I met at a rock music festival in ’94. She sang like a dream. Still does.”

Hesitation leaves me, and I move toward the couch, still eyeing the guitar. “Stevie can sing too. She’s…incredible.”

He studies me, not with judgment or suspicion but with something else. Something I can’t really pinpoint because I never saw it in my own father’s eyes. “Have a seat, Lex.”

He pats the vacant cushion beside him, and I sink down.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Stevie wired us that money, and it’s truly been a lifesaver. We were able to repair the barn, replace some old equipment, and get things back on track. My wife and I are planning a trip to Rock Werchter in Belgium next July for our anniversary. We haven’t had a vacation in…well, since we had the kids, really.” Removing his glasses, he finds my eyes and holds. Moisture shimmers in his gaze as pots and pans clatter from the kitchen and a gust of wind shakes the shingled roof above. “And Stevie,” he adds with a soft smile. “She wasn’t in a great place these last few years. You really pulled her out of it. The way she talksabout you, about the life you’ve provided for her these last couple of months. I’ve never seen her look so light.”

Our attention shifts to the kitchen cutout, where Stevie giggles at something her mother said.

When I glance back at him, I’m lost for words.

Bill’s smile deepens, soft lines forming at the corners of his eyes. It’s a smile I’m not used to—a father’s pride, steady and unselfish. It catches me off guard, because it’s so far from what I know. My parents’ version of pride was always laced with conditions, a weapon to manipulate.

This is a man who’s proud not because of what he can get but because of who his child has become.

I’m still fumbling for a response when Stevie floats back into the living room, her face painted with a smile that could fix anything.

My eyes trail over her, from her thick mane of hair to her dark-brown ankle boots. A berry lipstick stains her mouth, complementing her eyes. She swishes the skirt of her dress, looking shy and nervous, like we’re on a first date. We kind of are—a real one anyway.

“Hey,” I say.

She smiles. “Hey.”