Human Nature

1

The living room smelled of old leather and fresh coffee, the afternoon light cutting through the blinds in pale slats across the carpet. Tucker sat on the edge of the couch, his posture too straight, too careful, like a man trying not to disturb the air around him. 

William Bailey sat across from him in the worn leather armchair that had molded itself to his frame, and the silence between them was the kind that could either bless or bury a man.

William finally broke it, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You're twenty-two, Tucker. Both of you just walked the stage. You've got debt, you've got entry-level salaries, and you've got the kind of optimism that hasn't been tested by a leaky roof or a colicky baby at three in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Tucker didn't flinch. "And I've also got four years of a long distance relationship. Four years of phone calls every night, of driving six hours just to spend a weekend together. Three summers of working double shifts at the warehouse so I could afford a ring that doesn't embarrass her."

"You're young, Tucker. There's so much life ahead of you. Travel, career changes, figuring out who you are—"

"I know who I am, sir." Tucker's voice was steady now, his blue eyes locked onto William's. "I'm the man who loves your daughter. I'm the man who wants to build a life with her. We've got job offers lined up, we've got savings, we've got a plan. But more than that, we've got each other. We've been ready for this for a long time."

The living room clock ticked. Somewhere in the kitchen, Miranda's mother was humming while she washed dishes, probably straining to hear every word. William thought about his little girl, the way her face lit up when Tucker walked into a room, the way she talked about him like he hung the moon. He thought about grandkids, about Christmases with little ones tearing open presents, about passing down his old fishing rods to a grandson.

"William." His wife's voice drifted in from the kitchen. "Don't be a hardass. You were twenty-two when you proposed to me."

William let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You had to bring that up, didn't you?"

He stood, walked over to Tucker, and extended his hand. The kid shot up like a rocket, grabbing it with both of his.

"You take care of her," William said, his voice gruff. "You love her. You protect her. And you give me grandbabies I can spoil rotten."

Tucker's face split into a grin so wide it looked like it might hurt. "Yes, sir. I swear it. I'll spend every day of my life making her happy."

"Good." William pulled him into a quick, back-slapping hug. "Now go on. She's out back, probably pacing a hole in the patio. Go put her out of her misery."

Tucker was already moving, throwing a "Thank you, sir" over his shoulder as he bolted through the kitchen. William watched him go, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

His wife appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel. "See? That wasn't so hard."

"Don't start," William grumbled, but he was still smiling. "Let's just hope he knows what he's getting into."

The patio door slid open with a soft whisper, and Tucker stepped out into the warm afternoon air. Miranda was leaning against the wooden railing, her back to him, dark hair spilling down her shoulders in waves that caught the sunlight. She was wearing that old sundress, the yellow one with tiny white flowers, the same one she'd worn on their first date to the fair. He'd told her she looked like sunshine that day. She'd blushed so hard he thought she might combust.

She didn't turn around, just tilted her head slightly, listening to the birdsong filtering through the oak trees that lined her parents' backyard. "Hey, you," she said, her voice soft and dreamy.