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Lyla

T he Officers’ Club at Homestead Air Reserve Base is exactly as I remember it—crisp linens, a quiet hum of conversation, and just enough military memorabilia on the walls to remind you that this place doesn’t mess around.

I sit across from my parents at a corner table, trying to ignore the way my mom is already watching me like I’ve done something wrong.

“That’s a pretty color on you. Makes you look more professional,” my mom says and I try not to cringe. Compliment or dig? Unclear.

“Thanks,” I reply, buttering a roll I don’t actually want to eat. I can already feel a migraine forming at the base of my skull.

“This place has a 98% table turnover rate. That’s good leadership,” my dad says. He says that every time. It might be his favorite item on the menu. He clears his throat, turning his full attention to me. “So, how’s work?”

“Busy. We’re gearing up for our annual tour.

” I smile, hoping to diffuse whatever tension they’ve walked in with.

“It’s going to be great—we’re trying to get Dan Marino there.

” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

It’s a panic brag to win their approval—but we are so far from getting Dan Marino there.

But I guess I still want to impress my parents in whatever pathetic way I can.

Mom tilts her head. “The football player? I thought he retired.”

“He did. But he’s kind of a big deal still. And the kids are going to love it.”

Dad hums like he’s humoring me. “You’re still that woman’s assistant, right?”

I nod.

“Is there a plan to move up?” he asks, and his voice isn’t accusatory, just . . . loaded. Like there’s a correct answer and we all know I’m not going to say it.

“Dad, I like my job. I’m good at it.”

Mom exchanges a look with him. “We just want to make sure you’re not wasting your talents.”

“What happened to law school?” My dad cuts in. “You used to love debating.”

It’s true I did love to be on the debate team—but that’s because the stakes weren’t high there. I could defend my point without worrying that someone would interrupt me or display their supreme disappointment in my response.

“Law school,” my mom says, nodding as if this thought just occurred to her too. “That English degree seemed so . . . indulgent. But if you go to law school, it makes more sense.”

“Play It Forward is doing real work.” I make a half-hearted attempt at defending my job. “We’re making a difference, and I—”

“I’m sure, sweetheart,” my dad says. “Just don’t wait too long to make a real plan. You’re too smart to waste your potential.”

Mom sets down her fork. “Your father and I were hoping you’d consider something more stable. Maybe in the federal government? There are journalism positions in public affairs. Surely you could do that with an English degree. And you’d have benefits.”

And a dress code. And bureaucracy. And no kids lighting up when they get a mentor or score their first goal.

Call me crazy, but I love being there for the kids who would have no one else in their corner unless it were for Play It Forward. As much as Cathy drives me nuts, it’s all worth it.

I force a smile, though they won’t notice. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll think about it.” And . . . I do think about it for a brief moment as I imagine covering military briefings about pothole repairs on base. I fall asleep just a little thinking about it.

The conversation shifts to my cousin Madison, who recently got hired at Deloitte.

She just bought a “gorgeous” condo and got engaged.

She’s got a five-year plan, unlike someone they know.

(They don’t say that, of course, but it’s the underlying thread weaving the conversation about Madison together.)

When dinner is mercifully over, my parents walk me to my car—because how could I possibly defend myself against attackers in the middle of a military base when I have zero formal training? As we approach my Toyota Camry, they begin discussing the benefits of having such a wonderful car.

“I’m so glad we chose such a reliable car.”

“It really is best in class,” my dad agrees.

After we say our goodbyes and I shut myself in the car, I pull out my phone and text my cousin Hazel to see if she’s still up. I get an immediate thumbs up and an invite to come to her house. I watch my parents walk away as I grip the steering wheel of my Camry.

I sigh. At least they’re proud of the car.

Hazel’s place smells like cinnamon and sage. There’s always something brewing in her kitchen, even if it’s just tea and good intentions. I kick off my flats the moment I walk through the door and collapse onto her couch.

Hazel peeks around the corner from the kitchen. “How bad was it?”

“It was a classic military debrief disguised as dinner.”

She winces. “Was your dad in full Colonel mode or just mild, emotionally unavailable dad mode?”

“Somewhere between ‘let me plan your life’ and ‘you’ve disappointed the family name.’”

Hazel hands me a mug of chamomile tea and flops down next to me. “Let me guess. They think you’re wasting your potential.”

I blow on the tea. “I’m a glorified receptionist with a Cricut machine, so . . . maybe they’re not entirely wrong.”

“You’re not wasting anything,” Hazel says firmly. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. We’re talking about actual people’s lives here—every day, you impact a real human being. You know how many people go their whole lives without doing work that actually matters?”

I shrug. “I just wish it didn’t feel so . . . small to them.”

“That’s because they only understand one definition of success. Ranks and promotions. Medals and measurable output. But that’s not the only kind of impact. You’re changing lives, Lyla. And you’re doing it your way.”

I exhale, feeling all of the tension from the evening draining out of me. Because I’m at Hazel’s house, I pull my hair tie out, letting my hair fall down around my shoulders. I run my fingers across my scalp, rubbing away the tension. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Hazel pats her lap. “Come here,” she says. “How about a head massage and you tell me everything about this quarterback who’s magically reappeared in your life.”

I groan—Hazel sure knows how to get me to talk. The forming migraine blooms into full force at the mention of Drake Blythe.

And I can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever be anything other than a headache for me.