Lucy went still in a way that was subtle enough most people wouldn’t catch it—the slight pause in her hand against Dottie’s fur, the way her posture adjusted just a fraction forward, like something in the room had finally clicked into place.
She leaned back a second later, smoothing it over, her fingers resuming their slow, absent path behind Dottie’s ear.
The dog sighed contentedly, eyes slipping closed halfway, completely unbothered by the shift in tone, the weight of the conversation, the way the air had changed around us.
I rattled off my haphazard morning and afternoon as the sun started to set over Northbend.
“He found it?” Lucy asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“In the drawer.”
Lucy huffed out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief.
“You didn’t check it first?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“My father showed up.”
Lucy blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“—your fathermaterializeson your doorstep?—”
“He doesn’t materialize, he?—”
“—you panic, hide the test like you’re twelve and it’s contraband?—”
“I was being efficient.”
“—and then your six-foot-four walking problem of a fake boyfriend shows up, finds it, and announces it in a restaurant.”
Silence.
I stared at her.
She stared right back.
Dottie’s tail thumped once against the couch cushion.
“...when you say it like that,” I said slowly, “it sounds bad.”
Lucy’s mouth twitched.
“Bea,” she said, completely deadpan, “itisbad.”
I leaned back into the couch, closing my eyes for a second as the weight of it settled back in, heavier now that it had been said out loud.
“Yeah,” I murmured.