Page 19

Graduation Day

Song : Prayer in C - Robin Schulz

T he day started with a bang—literally. No, not a metaphorical “ bang,” like the emotional kind people write about in Hallmark cards. I mean an actual bang. The kind that leaves your thighs sore, your hair in a knot, and your soul somewhere between sin and salvation.

I woke up to the heavy press of Jon’s arm draped over my waist, his chest warm against my back, and something hard nudging me with purpose.

When I turned over, there it was—his cock, in all its glory, standing at full attention like it had a job to do and a promotion on the line.

I swear it twitched when I looked at it.

I didn’t even get a chance to say good morning before he reached for me, still half-asleep, pulling me into him like I was the missing piece of a puzzle he was hellbent on solving and surprise—not a Levi’s boxer in sight.

Like magic. Or maybe habit. Either way, that man was ready.Resistance?

Please. I didn’t even pretend. That cock was mine.

Like, MINE mine. Trademarked. Engraved in memory.

Practically addictive. Every time we were together, it was like my body hit replay on every reason I’d ever wanted to be touched—loved—claimed.

The first time had been unforgettable. This time?

This time was a goddamn saga. I lost count of how many times I said his name or forgot my own.

After what felt like an hour—maybe more—of sheets tangled, hands everywhere, breathy cursing, and several moments that bordered on illegal in some states, we finally peeled ourselves out of bed, spent and flushed.

“I think we broke the laws of physics,” I muttered, reaching for a tank top and trying to get my legs to work again. Jon smirked, dimples flashing like danger signs.

“Worth it.”

I gave him a look that said you already know, and slipped into a steamy hot fifteen-minute shower to wash my sins away and once more into my comfort uniform: white tank top, lived-in Levi’s, and those cheap-ass flip-flops I’d panic-bought at a Target on a road trip I barely remembered.

Comfort was key today—especially since I’d be spending it with Melissa, however her mother Natalia, not a fan of mine.

Ah, Natalia. The human embodiment of passive-aggressive tension and uncomfortable eye contact.

She wasn’t just cold— she was permafrost. The kind of woman who could chill a room with a smile and seemed to believe that her one-night stand with Jon gave her eternal dibs on his future.

News flash, darling: you can’t force a man like Jon into anything.

Not commitment, not brunch, not even choosing between sweet or unsweet tea.

He’s stubborn, principled, and allergic to bullshit.

The very fact that she tried to stake a claim on him probably pushed him further away.

But credit where it’s due—he never once ran from responsibility.

He was there for Melissa, fully and beautifully present.

And that? That alone made me fall harder. Again. And again.

Jon walked out of the bathroom wearing a navy polo that clung to his chest in a way that should’ve been illegal, dark Wranglers that hugged his hips like they had something to prove, and his trusty Hey Dude lace-ups—the most redneck fashion statement ever invented.

I looked him up and down and tilted my head.

“You know you look like the hot dad from every small-town grocery store fantasy, right?” He gave me that grin, slow and smug.

“You saying you have fantasies about me in Wranglers?”

“I’m saying I had fantasies,” I corrected, stepping into his space and brushing past him.

“Now I have memories.”

We grabbed Bojangles on the way to Aunt Becky’s because nothing says class and sophistication like biscuit sandwiches dripping in butter.

Honestly, I wasn’t complaining. I’d just burned more calories than an OrangeTheory session, and carbs felt like a spiritual requirement.

Nacho, my little boujee ride-or-die, was curled in the backseat like a silent judgmental puff.

He hadn’t made a peep since yesterday, and for a second I wondered if he’d emotionally checked out.

Poor thing. He’d had a long few months too—dragged through airports, strange houses, and Aunt Becky’s cacophony of Southern chaos.

I reached back, gave him a soft pat, and promised to grab his blanket and bed once we got to the house.

Boujee dogs need their creature comforts. So do high maintenance humans.

Aunt Becky greeted us like a one-woman welcoming committee—hair curled, house smelling like hairspray and something fried. I barely made it to the kitchen before she launched into a full play-by-play of her night.

“Those trashy idiots across the street were hollerin’ and carrying on until two a.m. I tell you, I thought someone was gonna get shot or married.”

No wonder Billy Joe is in the barn doing God knows what, he doesn’t want to be here until he has to go to the graduation…

. Smart move Billy Joe. I took a giant bite of my sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit and let the buttery joy soothe my soul.

All I wanted was three minutes of silent chewing.

But silence, I was learning, was not in this family’s vocabulary .

“Y’all ever think maybe people just… like to talk?” I muttered to myself between bites.

“Or am I just a grumpy bitch before noon?” Probably both.

Jon left to pick up Melissa, which gave me a brief moment of peace. I refilled my coffee. I sat down. I stared into the void like a woman with battle fatigue. And then—they returned. I wasn’t ready.

Melissa walked in like a curly-headed hurricane, all wild energy and wonder.

She had Jon’s eyes. Jon’s exact eyes. Same mischievous sparkle.

Same “I’m about to ask you fifty-seven questions and climb that chair” energy.

It hit me in the chest so hard that I had to look away for a second.

She ran straight to me and threw her arms around my waist like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire little life.

“Hi! I’m Melissa!” she announced. I melted. Like puddle-on-the-floor melted .

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she interrupted confidently.

“You’re Daddy’s girlfriend.”

My eyes flicked to Jon, who was failing to hide his smirk behind his coffee cup. Oh, we were using labels now? Bold of her. Melissa spotted Nacho snoozing in his bed like a tiny Victorian ghost.

“Can I pet your doggy?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling.

“His name is Nacho.”

Nacho opened one eye and gave me a mom, are you fucking serious look that only a ten-pound dog with existential dread could pull off.

But, true to form, he let Melissa touch his ears, poke his belly, and declare him “the cutest little boy ever” without flinching.

He was either a saint or completely resigned to his fate.

Jon leaned down beside me, watching Melissa with a quiet, reverent kind of pride that made something shift in my chest. This man.

This little girl. This moment. Perfection.

As Jon, Aunt Becky, and Billy Joe headed out for Joseph’s graduation, the house started to quiet down—or, at least, shift into a different kind of chaos.

Jon bent down, kissed Melissa on the forehead, kissed me just a little too slowly on the lips—like he didn’t want to leave—and said, “Be good.” I gave him my best mock-angelic smile.

“Define good.” He just chuckled and gave me that half-smirk, half-dimple thing that should come with a warning label.

And just like that, he was gone. Suddenly, it was just me, Melissa, and Nacho.

The Dream Team. Chicago P.D. ended up on the screen—not because I’m obsessed with police procedurals, but because we’d exhausted every watchable thing on Aunt Becky’s streaming accounts.

And Melissa was deep into some iPad game that involved unicorns, sparkles, and the kind of screechy sound effects that could make your ears bleed.

Nacho, for his part, had given up on society entirely and curled into his tiny, dramatic little ball in his bed like the jaded royal he is.

Then, just as I was sinking into the couch with my lukewarm coffee and a silent prayer for five uninterrupted minutes, Melissa flopped next to me and—without warning—launched into a full-blown interview.

“How did you meet my dad?”

“Why did you cut your hair? Was it because the ends were all split?”

“What subject did you like in school? Did you fail anything?”

“Where did you get Nacho? Does he like pizza?”

It was like being on The Melissa Show, where I was the guest, the audience, and possibly the unwilling co-host. But somehow?

I loved it. She was a category five hurricane in glitter sneakers, asking me everything from my childhood crushes to whether I believed in aliens.

The answer is yes, by the way—especially after visiting certain Walmart locations after midnight.

Every now and then she’d pause long enough to glance at the TV or poke Nacho, who would give me a side-eye like, I did not sign up for this job, lady.

But he endured it. Just like her dad. And just like me.

There was something so weirdly beautiful about it—this kid who barely knew me, choosing to open up, to ask questions, to curl into my space like she trusted me.

Like I was already part of her universe.