Fond Memories

Ryan drags his shiny new girl Lydia home like he’s swinging a trophy. She’s buzzing—can't wait to hit the right meet-the-parent milestone. He watches her hair the whole walk up, fussing over every curl he told the stylist to nail. Inside, Nate’s slumped at the piano, fingers dragging sad little notes. Ryan makes the intros; Nate squints at her, swears he’s seen that face somewhere. Lydia plays it sweet, begs him to keep playing. Nate mumbles that Megan used to light that piano on fire. Lydia doesn’t flinch—she sits, claps, keeps him talking. Ryan lets them bond, then whisks her off and drops a box: heels, silk dress, sewn to her curves. Lydia strips and slides in. Ryan tweaks her hair again, grins like a man who just cheated the house. When they parade back, Nate’s jaw hits the keys. He blurts “Megan.” Lydia’s stomach flips. Ryan doesn’t dodge—spells it out plain: Dad’s been gutted since the funeral; she could fill that hole. Lydia spits fire, head for the door, but Ryan reminds her of the grief still chewing her own family raw. Sympathy slows her feet. He melts away. Nate inches closer, voice cracking on every “Megan.” Lydia thinks of her own loss and feels the wall slip. When he asks—real quiet—if he can touch and kiss her, she answers yes and hands the next hour to exactly the wrong man.