Page 191 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Straight to the center. That’s him too.

I look down at the bottle in my hand, turning it once against the table.

“That’s the thing,” I admit. “I think I know.”

Neither of them interrupts.

“I want to be there,” I say. “Mine or not, I want to be there. For her. For the baby, if she keeps it. For whatever things turn into.”

Caleb whistles softly through his teeth.

Dad just nods once, giving me room.

“I’ve spent a long time building a life where I can leave whenever I need to,” I go on. “And all of a sudden, that feels less like freedom and more like… an excuse.”

Dad glances away toward the yard.

Caleb shifts in his chair.

“I’m happy on the road,” I say, because that part matters too. “Or I was. Hell, I don’t even know. I know how to do it. I’m good at it. It pays well enough. It’s mine. But I can’t keep disappearing for days and weeks at a time if I’m serious about building something with her.”

“With them,” Caleb says.

“Yeah,” I say. “With them too.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, processing. “And how exactly does that work?”

I grin faintly. “When I’ve got it figured out, I’ll draw you a diagram.”

“I hate diagrams.”

“You hate complexity.”

“I hate emotional math,” he corrects.

Dad cuts in before Caleb can spiral into whatever opinion he’s forming. “You thinking of quitting the trucking?”

“Maybe,” I say.

Caleb blinks. “Seriously?”

“Or at least changing something. Shorter routes. Local hauls. Hell, I don’t know.” I exhale and scrub a hand over my beard. “That’s the problem. Trucking’s what I know. It’s what I’ve done for years. It’s decent money. It’s freedom. You walk away from that, you better know what you’re walking toward.”

Dad’s quiet for a moment.

Then he leans back and looks at me in a way that makes me feel fifteen again and about to get told something I won’t fully appreciate until later.

“You don’t have to know the whole road,” he says. “Just the next turn.”

Caleb groans immediately. “He’s doing porch philosophy.”

Dad ignores him.

I can’t help smiling. “That one from Mom?”

His eyes flick to mine, softer now. “Yeah.”

Makes sense.