In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 35

I didn’t set an alarm, but judging by the slightest peek of light, I suspect I woke up at five anyway.

For a minute, it seems like I’m alone in bed and I think maybe I dreamed last night. But then I breathe deep and smell that sweet shampoo smell that always clings to Madison. I’m under her fluffy comforter. And when I stretch my legs, I accidentally bump hers.

There she is.

She’s curled up on her own side of the bed, but when she feels me stir she wordlessly scoots over and slips into my arms.

Hello, naked Madison.

Last night rushes back to me, and it must hit her at the same moment because, without ever opening her eyes, she’s nuzzling in, kissing my chest. Her stomach is hot against mine. I run my hand over her soft, bare shoulder, down her back.

We haven’t even said good morning yet, but we’re having sex. It’s sleepy and sweet. A slow, lethargic caress that’s better than dreaming. I want to spend all day like this. Kissing her. Making her gasp and moan. But I have to get to work.

Even worse, I have to face my family.

After I’ve cleaned up and dressed, I go to the bed and kiss Madison’s cheek. She’s already fallen back to sleep, and the sight of her like this, knowing I get to be in her life in this way, it’s more than I ever could have hoped.

“I’ll see you later,” I whisper, and she hums her acknowledgment, eyes closed, smiling.

I slip into the house a little after six. My plan is to run upstairs, rinse off, then head out to the farm—even if I’m running late. Because the crops don’t give a damn if I’m in love or not. They still need water.

As I ease the door closed behind me, trying not to make the hinges creak, I turn and startle at the sight of my dad sitting at the kitchen table. Chair angled toward the door, like he’s been waiting. There’s a steaming mug in front of him, and I wonder if he’s been up all night or if muscle memory still pulls him out of bed before sunrise.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough like gravel. “Coffee’s in the pot.”

“Thanks.”

I pour myself a mug—thick, dark, and strong—and slide into the seat catty-corner from him. The shower can wait.

“Madison okay?” he asks gently, and I love that he’s worried about her. Cares about her enough that she might actually be the reason he’s up before the sun.

“Yeah, she’s okay.” I try to keep the smile out of my voice, not wanting to reveal just how okay we left things. Although I’m guessing my walk of shame in yesterday’s clothes already gave that away. “Where’s Tommy?”

My dad’s eyes glint with amusement. “Booked a hotel near the airport last night. Said he had an early flight this morning.”

I snort. “No, he didn’t.”

“No, he didn’t,” my dad agrees with a smirk.

“What a little chickenshit.”

He chuckles, used to our feuds, then leans back in his chair, face growing more serious. “He was right though, you know.”

“Yep,” I say without missing a beat. “I definitely would’ve beat his ass if he stayed.”

He shakes his head. “Not that. I mean he was right to push you to tell me what’s been going on. I know you were trying to protect me, doing it out of love. But I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. That’s not fair to me.”

The guilt is immediate, heavy. “You’re right. It wasn’t.”

He tilts his head, trying to catch my eyes. “And it’s not fair to you either.”

I scoff, shrugging off any undeserved sympathy. “I don’t care about me.”

My dad sits forward, eyes steady, voice quiet but firm. “That’s another thing we need to talk about. You have to start caring about yourself, son. You can’t fix everything for everyone by carrying it all alone. Trust the rest of us to help. Trust me. If something’s too much, I’ll tell you. I’m not made of glass, James. But when you keep things from me like this, it feels like you think I’m useless. Like the diagnosis defines me. And that . . . that’s what kills me.”

His hand lands on mine—solid, grounding. He’s never shied away from affection, and today is no different.

I stare at the tabletop, eyes burning, throat too tight to speak. When I finally manage it, the words come out barely above a whisper. “I almost lost you. And that almost killed me. ”

When I look up, he sees all of it. Everything I can’t say out loud.

You were my first best friend. Without you . . . I don’t know how to keep going. I need you.

“It scared the hell out of me, Dad,” I whisper. “And I—I’ve been trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He presses his lips together, blinking fast, fighting back his own tears. “I know. But unfortunately we don’t get to control those things. So please, let me live. Let me show up for you. Let me take care of myself and tell you when I can’t. Because besides loving your mom, you boys are the best part of my life.”

He squeezes my hand—and just like that, I break. The tears come fast and I drop my head to his shoulder as he wraps his arms around me.

I didn’t cry the day he went to the hospital. My mom was a wreck and needed me to be strong for her while we waited to hear if the doctors had been able to stabilize him or not. Waited to hear if my dad was alive. And then once we found out he was going to pull through, there was a lot to be done right away. I went home and got his clothes. Packed the things my mom needed. Brought meals to the hospital and worked on the farm in between.

There was no time to cry. To feel the entire weight of what had happened.

I’m feeling it now, and I’m crying. Not quietly. Not politely. It’s an outpouring.

My dad doesn’t let go through any of it. “I love you, James. I’m so proud of you. You’re a good, good man.” His voice is rough but strong, like he’s trying to put me back together with every word. “And I’m proud of what you’ve done with the farm. I never meant to put so much pressure on you.”

I pull back, wiping my face with the back of my hand and willing these damn tears to stop. “You didn’t. Not really. I just knew how much it’s always meant to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I should’ve told you more often that you matter more. You’re more important to us than any legacy. If this farm is hurting your health or your heart . . . let it go. Life’s too short to let anything break you.”

“I appreciate that. I do.” I draw in a shaky breath. “But I do love it. I’m not ready to walk away from it yet.”

“Okay,” he says simply.

“But . . . I am going to take the contract with AFD.” I watch him carefully, gauging his reaction. I thought about it while falling asleep next to Madison last night. About how I want to have more freedom to live my life without being strapped to this farm. How I want the restaurant to have a fighting chance.

So I tell my dad, “I know it’s not the way you or Grandpa did it, and maybe the community will see it as selling out . . . but the economy is different now. I need the stability, at least until the restaurant gets off the ground. Later on, maybe I can go back to direct sales. But for now, Tommy is right. This needs to be done.”

I hold my breath.

My dad doesn’t hesitate longer than a blink. “It’s a good thing I handed the farm over to you and that you have a smart brother who cares enough to push you toward change. You’re the first one strong enough to follow through with it.”

The air finally rushes out of my lungs.

I will carry those words with me for the rest of my life.

He knocks his knuckles once against the table, then stands, coffee in hand, and walks to the counter. He grabs something and brings it back, setting it gently in front of me.

My word search book.

“I finished the last column for you,” he says with a wink.

And just like that, I’m eight years old again, watching him sit on the porch in the early morning light, pen in hand. He’s the reason I do these puzzles. And he’s the reason I always will.