Chapter Text
May 1st, 1997
Notre Dame, Indiana
Lucas had never planned on taking a road trip halfway through the state with his parents at the big old age of twenty-six.
As it turned out, plans had a way of changing when your dominant hand was wrapped in a cast, and your family doctor told you - politely but firmly - that driving was off the table for at least another month. The accident had been fast, stupid, and entirely “his own damn fault”; Max had said as much, reminding him pointedly that he was, in fact, very much not indestructible.
So not only did they have to worry about the medical bill and the expenses to fix his recently acquired (and pretty rad, if he said so himself) Yamaha, but there he was, riding shotgun in his folks' old car. At the same time, his dad drove, and his mom navigated, bickering relentlessly as they entered the imaginary town of Notre Dame for Erica’s college graduation.
He didn’t mind, not really. It was endearing.
In the time between finishing college and now, Lucas had discovered how easy it was to live close to people and still miss them. He hadn’t been far from his parents, but time had a way of thinning itself out, stretching into obligations, polite smiles, and half-kept plans. Erica, most of all, had been MIA for quite some time - a few hundred miles away, buried in coursework and growing into herself at a pace they only caught in fragments. In that sense, fate’s intervention had worked out neatly enough. Whatever else it was, this trip gave him back something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing so much.
He wished Max could have come, too.
The thought arrived uninvited, gentle but persistent. She hadn’t seen Erica in a while, either. He imagined her sitting at home, hours folding into one another, the quiet stretching long between moments of movement. She’d been better lately - not fixed, not untouched by what had happened, but steadier. Stronger in ways that didn’t announce themselves out loud. Still, his worry lingered, reflexive and familiar, surfacing whenever he let his mind drift too far ahead.
The road stretched in front of them, unspooling in a straight, indifferent line. Lucas let the thought fade before it could harden into guilt, pulling himself back into the present as the song playing on the radio faded, replaced by the low hum of the engine and the distant murmur of Charles and Sue talking up front. Lucas barely registered it - his hands rested loosely in his lap, his gaze unfocused, the familiar ache settling somewhere between memory and fear.
Then the car slowed, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The landscape shifted as the university loomed ahead, solid and immovable, like a line drawn in the ground. Bricks and glass replaced the open road, banners strung between lampposts, students crossing the street without urgency in clusters, laughing, unaware.
The world narrowed again, solid and immediate. Lucas exhaled, grounding himself.
Whatever he was leaving behind - whatever waited for him when he got back to Hawkins in a few hours - this moment was here now.
The University of Notre Dame looked like it had been built to endure.
Stone buildings rose clean and symmetrical under the mid-spring Indiana sun, ivy climbing their sides like it had been invited there on purpose. Bells rang somewhere distant and ceremonial. Everything felt curated - history preserved and polished until it gleamed. Lucas took it in with the trained eye of someone who’d learned, early on, to read institutions like people.
As they parked, he scanned the manicured lawn bordering the quad where the graduation ceremony was set to take place. Everything about the place felt intentional - old, dignified, overwhelmingly white. A performance of tradition, more than anything else.
It reminded him, bittersweetly, of Chicago.
Back then, he hadn’t gone there chasing prestige. Not really. UChicago had seemed like the practical choice back then - close enough to home that his parents could still reach him in a few hours, far enough that Hawkins and what it held for him and Max didn’t press in at every corner. A city dense and layered enough to disappear into; a place he’d convinced himself would be safer. More open. Somewhere he and Max could exist without being stared at like a debate someone didn’t want to have.
It had promised diversity in its brochures. Smiling faces of every color, language, and background, arranged neatly across campus pamphlets. And there had been financial aid - real, tangible support - that would help cover both his tuition and hers. Lucas had believed it. Wanted to believe it.
The reality had been heavier.
The South Side taught him fast that proximity didn’t equal protection. That diversity didn’t mean equity. That being black in academic spaces still meant proving - over and over again - that he belonged there for reasons beyond his skin, his body, his varsity jump shot.
He learned to keep his student ID visible at all times. Which buildings could he walk in and out of freely, and which ones would earn him suspicious looks. There were nights he couldn’t walk Max back to her dorm without feeling the weight of eyes on them, sensing the unspoken calculations happening behind polite smiles. White classmates who swore they were progressive until they had to reconcile the fact that the black guy in their seminar wasn’t just passing through - he was brilliant.
They loved to talk about his athleticism. Rarely about his papers.
Spoke of talent, like he hadn’t bled for every inch of progress he’d made - the hours he spent studying, training, or revising in his dorm room so that people wouldn't have to wonder if he actually deserved his scholarship or not, his relentless self-discipline; it all didn’t count for shit when compared to the narrative they were comfortable with.
Lucas learned how to swallow that rage early. Learned how to outperform expectations with his jaw clenched and his back straight - because being exceptional just meant survival, not praise.
And still - still - it had been easier than staying in Hawkins in the early 90s.
Because in Chicago, at least, Max could walk beside him openly. They could hold hands without whispering or hiding behind excuses. Even when the world pressed in, they pressed back together. They had each other, and for a while, that had been enough.
Until it wasn’t. Until even that closeness began to feel fragile.
Until safety for them came to mean staying inside. Curtains half-drawn. Sleep measured in hours lost rather than rest gained. Until hospital waiting rooms and those hushed voices hollowed something out of them both - something that never quite filled back in.
Now, watching Erica laugh with her friends in a sea of white gowns and proud families, Lucas felt the contrast settle deep in his chest.
Notre Dame was different from Chicago in shape, in tone - but not in structure. The same polished exclusivity. That same not-so-quiet (nor hidden) resistance to bodies like theirs occupying spaces meant to be inherited, not earned.
And yet - there she was.
Brilliant in a way no institution could dilute.
Lucas squared his shoulders, pride blooming thick and warm in his chest.
If Chicago had taught him how to endure, Erica had taught him how to transcend.
They hadn’t survived these places by accident; they’d made room where there was none.
He shifted in his seat and exhaled slowly, quickly leaving his place as they joined the crowd.
The quad buzzed with anticipation, a low hum of voices and rustling programs as families leaned together, adjusting caps and snapping pictures, careful not to wrinkle the moment. It was beautiful in that overwhelming, slightly alien way - like stepping into someone else’s legacy.
The Sinclair family stood out immediately, of course.
The only black family going to the front rows, clustered together in their bright colors amid a sea of expensive, behaved linen pastels. No one said anything outright; no slurs, no confrontation, or anything of the sort. Just the looks, the second glance, the quick recalibration, the polite surprise that lingered a beat too long.
Lucas knew those by heart.
“Three hours,” his mom muttered towards his dad beside him, fanning herself with the program. “Three hours in that car with one hour to spare, and you still drove like you were late for something!”
Charles laughed faintly. “You didn’t have to come, then.”
She shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Boy, please!”
Lucas laughed at his parents’ antics, watching them bicker with the same ease they always had. Admiring how even after all this time together, they still bantered like teenagers.
He hoped - quietly - that one day, that would be him and Max.
The weight of the ring case he'd brought with him felt heavier in his blazer’s pocket, warming up the place where it sat in his chest.
Erica sat a row ahead, robe falling perfectly from her shoulders. She didn’t turn around - didn’t have to. Lucas knew she was focused; probably had been since dawn.
Valedictorian. It still sounded surreal in his head.
His little sister had been sharp with him ever since they’d parted ways - gentler too, in a way that told him she knew more than she ever asked. Erica and Dustin had been the two people who clocked Max’s silence early. The way their phone calls were shortened, how Lucas stopped mentioning plans for the near future, or their short updates.
They’d been supportive to a fault, even when they didn’t know what exactly was going on. Between the two of them, he was proud to say that more than extraordinary people surrounded him.
His dad leaned over slightly, nodding at Lucas’ wrist. “You gonna tell your sister why you showed up here half broken, or you want me to do it?”
Lucas flexed his fingers inside the cast. “Dad, come on. I told y'all, it's not broken.”
“You have a cast,” Sue said flatly. “On your dominant hand, as you said yourself.”
“I don't think the bike checked if I was right-handed before it threw me off,” he muttered sarcastically.
Erica turned around just enough to glare at him over her shoulder and whisper. “You couldn’t have waited until after my graduation to try and die?”
Her brother grinned, whispering back. “I survived. That's character development.”
“More like idiot development,” she shot back, facing forward again.
His dad chuckled. “You’re lucky at least you still have your reflexes, or it could’ve been worse. Coaching high schoolers all day will dull them if you’re not careful enough.”
“I still got game, just so you know,” the son argued.
“Oh, now look at Mr. Big Shot over here,” Sue teased on his other side. Lucas noticed Erica snort at that - the women in his life just loved ganging up on him.
The ceremony began, names flowing past in a blur until the announcer paused - just long enough for the silence to sharpen.
“Let’s give it up for valedictorian of the Class of 1997 - Erica Susane Sinclair, Nuclear Science and Engineering.”
Applause rose as the man spoke, polite at first. Then louder. Then uncertain, recalibrating again as soon as they saw his sister getting up.
Her coiled, dark curls cascaded down her shoulders against the harsh white of her robes - she wore shining golden earrings and a small necklace of the same color, with her signature ‘E’ dangling from it. The look was greatly complemented by her dark brown and gold eyeshadow and her sharply-lined brown lips full of lip gloss - her way of standing out without seeming too flashy. Lucas didn’t think she needed to make much of an effort to take the attention of the crowd, anyway.
He stood immediately and applauded, wooed and whistled, as hard and unapologetic as he could, until his palms and throat stung. His parents followed; his father focused on capturing the whole thing on camera, while his mother threw her daughter encouraging phrases along the way. Erica walked up to the huge podium with her chin lifted, composed and unbothered, like the weight of the moment wasn’t pressing down on her shoulders - it probably really wasn't, Lucas figured.
She began calmly.
“I stand here today, valedictorian of this graduating class,” the girl began, voice steady. “As a woman. A black one, at that. As someone who was often told - explicitly or otherwise - that I was nothing but an exception.”
Murmurs quickly rippled through the crowd at the sharpness and bluntness of her words. Erica didn’t even flinch. Her mom hummed and nodded, encouraging her to keep going.
“There were rooms I walked into where I was the only one who looked like me, where my excellence was treated as surprising instead of expected in an institution with pristine standards such as this one. Where mistakes were magnified, and successes were attributed to sheer, dumb luck.”
Lucas felt something tighten in his chest as he heard his little sister's voice go on without even trembling.
“I need to say that I didn’t do this alone,” Erica continued. “I did it with friends who reminded me why I started this journey in the first place. With a family who drove hours to visit me too frequently and asked way too many damn questions,” the crowd laughed lightly, unwinding a little at the unexpected jab. “ Even though they didn't understand why I followed this path, they supported and believed in me even when the thought that giving up would be easier crossed my mind.”
She paused, letting it land.
“I still did it though, because I believe in a world where everyone is equal in the eyes of science - a world where knowledge crosses the border between our differences and leads us to progress. And I did it knowing that someone like me being here is not a reward - it’s a duty. A responsibility far bigger than me.”
Some of the applause was louder now. Less polite, more fractured. A few people nodded as she spoke and clapped harder than others.
Lucas scanned the crowd and caught it again - the majority of the crowd's tight smiles, crossed arms, the discomfort masked as contemplation.
He’d seen it before.
At Max’s dorm, when campus security stopped him and asked who he was supposed to be visiting while the other students walked freely, and then told him he couldn’t wait inside.
At his basketball games, when his teammates who couldn't even throw the ball right joked about his “natural predisposition” instead of recognizing the hours he’d put in alone on the court, the intensive workout routine he'd established early on that almost broke him to pieces.
In any store he walked into, as soon as he neared something deemed “too expensive,” he was followed and watched, labeled as suspicious.
He’d learned quite young that just surviving wasn’t enough - you had to be better than everyone around you. Quieter, smarter. Relentless, stronger.
That's exactly what his sister was - if not more - and he couldn't be happier.
“So today we gather here to celebrate not only our capacity to overcome our obstacles and achieve our victories,” she continued as her parents teared up. “But also to welcome growth - to welcome a bright future, where nothing could ever stop anyone that's been deemed too different from being a part of something as liberating as getting an education and making a difference in the world.”
Erica smiled and took a step forward, pressing something like a small button on her palm. The crowd was taken by murmurs and interrogations when they saw a fine spray of water mist erupt from the front of the stage, splashing the girl lightly as she twirled in place.
Lucas' breath hitched as he watched his sister's previously white and pristine robe and cap getup slowly turn darker, achieving a beautiful, onyx shade of black that contrasted against the rest of the all-white scenery.
He could see the staff appalled by their surprise as the crowd erupted in gasps and cheers at the performance.
Erica took her diploma from the dean's hand as he stood, perplexed, jaw agape, and held it up in a fist, resilient. “We're graduating, y'all!”
She finished to a standing ovation from her peers that lasted almost a whole minute as she descended the steps.
After they’d handled all the diplomas, as the banter of families flooded the quad and students mingled with their peers, Sue caught up with the rest of the extended family that had attended the ceremony. Charles stood a little apart from the crowd, not saying much at first, his hands folded around his paper cup, watching Erica laugh with one of her professors, as if she belonged anywhere she chose to stand.
Lucas joined him, shoulder to shoulder.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see that,” the older man said softly.
“See what?”
“My baby girl telling a room full of people how the world ought to be,” Charles smiled, but there was something else there - something older. “Makes you realize how fast life comes at you.”
His son nodded. Then cleared his throat as some silent moments went by, tentative.
“Mom says you get quiet like this when you’re thinking about the war.”
His father huffed a breath. “Your mom says a lot of things, doesn’t she?”
Lucas waited - he’d learned patience from him, after all.
“I was a bit older than Erica is now when they sent me to Vietnam.” Lucas nodded for his father to continue. “Thought adulthood was about being tougher than everyone else. Loud, determined. Proving something. Turns out it’s mostly about learning when to stand still - and when to stand in front of somebody else.”
His son felt that settle in his chest as the older one turned away.
“War strips the pretending out of you, y’know?” Hesaid. “You learn real quick that bravery isn’t about not being scared. It’s about doing what’s right anyway, especially when it costs you.”
The younger man swallowed. He saw himself there - every choice he’d made, every time he stood up for himself and his friends, every kid he’d coached, every fight he’d stepped into - even when walking away would’ve been easier, and definitely safer.
“I guess I’ve been trying to live up to that,” Lucas said quietly.
Charles looked at him then, really looked. “Son,” he said, voice firm, “you didn’t live up to it. You made it your own.”
He felt the pride in that - not loud, not showy. The kind that stays.
Across the quad, Erica caught their eye and lifted her chin, defiant and bright all at once.
His dad straightened. “That’s the job,” he said. “Protect the people you love, teach them how to protect themselves. Hope the world gives them a better fight than the one you had. Remember not to take anything for granted.”
Lucas nodded. In that moment, he knew exactly where he’d learned how to be brave.
One of his aunts from Indianapolis clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting their intimate conversation and engaging the men in casual banter with the rest of their people.
“So, politics, huh?” Aunt Lee Anne teased about his degree, as usual, which most of his extended family didn't even bother to remember the actual name of. “You actually gonna save the world or just write about it?”
He could feel the heat creep on his nape as he laughed lightheartedly at the irony of that statement.
As if all the other times weren’t enough…
Lucas ended up choosing to major in Public Policy Studies - a relatively new degree, and an underestimated one, at that - with a Health and Society minor, especially drawn to physiotherapy and physical wellness subjects; the way the body told its own stories: from damage, to recovery, and the resilience in the middle - what debilitating injuries meant for people’s future lives and for their role in society, how minorities were treated once they’d been deemed too broken to function.
The choice had clicked into place the moment he realized he could help people like Max and his own friends, who had once suffered damage deemed irreparable and still managed to go on with somewhat normal lives - disabled people, athletes, trauma survivors, patients learning how to trust their bodies again. Maybe even build something together someday, a joint practice with her psych degree anchoring the other side of the process of healing; something that would help their community.
Most people didn’t see the value in that kind of work, especially if you ended up coaching teenagers and hauling balls around all day instead.
“Leave the boy alone, Lee Anne,” their other aunt, Barbara, rolled her eyes, not amused by her sister's unfiltered tone.
Lucas smiled, used to it. “Well, someone’s gotta explain why the system's broken.”
“I know that's right,” his father clapped him on the shoulder with a firm hand, beaming proudly. “He's his daddy's son, alright!”
“You walked with the Panthers once, you phony,” Lee Anne teased with a snort.
“Hey,” Charles called in a mock-serious tone. “Don't hate me ‘cause you ain't me.”
“And he was also scared of the hoses, too!” Barbara continued, also mocking casually.
His younger cousin, Lee Anne's kid - a certified brat just like his mother - snorted and muttered under his breath so that only they would hear. “Should’ve gone into engineering. At least then you’d actually have a real job.”
Erica finally came back to them after being borrowed by the university staff so they could discuss how in the hell she did what she’d done (and probably hand her the cleaning bill for the stage).
“Beat it, knucklehead,” she shooed the young teen away behind her parents’ backs as they kept bickering back and forth with their aunt. She slipped an arm through Lucas's as their relative walked away, squeezing. “Ignore him,” she said softly. “You make things make sense.”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Guess we all do our part.”
“I’m serious, Lucas. What you do is important,” Erica shot back, fixing him with a look that cut straight through the joke. “Whatever it is that you do, you're always doing it to your fullest extent.”
Lucas stilled.
For all her mouth, she saw him. Had always seen him. He looked at his sister, still seeing that soft, childish face with round cheeks, curious eyebrows, and a defiant smirk - fierce, unyielding in a way that felt earned rather than performed - and felt the pride settle deep in his bones, heavy and grounding.
“Hey,” he said, stepping forward and blinking back the sting in his eyes. “I’m supposed to be the supportive sibling today!”
He took her by the shoulders, tugged her recently turned black cap off, and ruffled her slightly damp hair just enough to make her yelp.
“Lucas! It’ll take me even longer to fix it now-”
She shoved him. He shoved back. It devolved into a brief, stupid scuffle that ended the way it always did: with him pulling her into a tight hug, her face pressed against his chest.
“I’m so proud of you, sis,” he said with a bright smile. “For real. You’re the smartest person I know.”
He felt her hesitate. Then she pulled back quickly, blinking hard so as not to tear up, rolling her brown eyes like emotion was something mildly embarrassing she’d accidentally stepped in with that irreverent streak of hers.
“Bet Dustin would beg to differ, though,” the older sibling tried to smooth the tension.
At the mention of his best friend, her face softened despite herself. Somewhere between D&D nights and late phone calls about college stress, Dustin had become hers, too - another thread in the messy family Lucas loved more than he ever said out loud.
Lucas laughed. “Speaking of him, I can see you took a page from his book with the theatrics,” he gestured to her robe. “How’d you even do that, anyway?”
“I think you're forgetting I am, as of today, officially a scientist,” she shrugged, smug. “It was just some water-soluble polymer and a little bit of elbow grease; no big deal, really.”
Her older brother nodded, pretending to know what any of that poly-whatever mumbo jumbo meant.
“He’s gonna lose his mind when you get back,” Lucas added. “Start calling you Doctor Sinclair or something.”
“As he should!”
They stood there a moment, watching their parents argue animatedly with another family over where to take pictures. Their dad gestured wildly. Their mom laughed way too loudly.
Distracted.
Lucas cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said. “Come with me for a sec?”
Erica eyed him suspiciously but followed as he steered her a few steps away, toward the edge of the road past the quad, where the noise dulled, and the trees offered a sliver of privacy.
“What’s up?” She asked. “If this is a lecture about responsibility, I literally just finished a degree in nuclear science. I don't do irresponsible.”
He huffed a laugh, then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Actually…” Pulled out a small and obvious red velvet box. “It's even better.”
Erica froze, her eyes widening and glowing in instant understanding as he opened it.
“No!” His sister yelled-whispered.
Inside, the ring caught the sunlight - simple and small, elegant, chosen with more thought than he’d ever put into anything in his life, just so it would be perfect for his Max.
Erica stared. Then looked up at him. Then back at the ring.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, as it finally settled in her head that she'd officially be a sister-in-law. “Oh my God!”
“I haven’t asked yet. I just-” He swallowed, now suddenly aware of his heartbeat. “I wanted you to know, first things first.”
Her hands flew to her mouth as she took her time examining the delicate diamond, seeming to ignore what it meant for Lucas for her to give the first go-ahead for such a huge thing to happen in his life. “You’re proposing!”
“Planning to,” he nodded. “Soon, I think.”
She laughed, sharp and bright and wet-eyed. “Man, you’re such a sap!”
“Yeah,” he laughed along. “Thanks, I guess.”
His sister looked at him then - not teasing, not deflecting. Just honest. “So… You’re ready for this?”
Lucas thought of Max’s laugh. Of the way she challenged him. Of their agitated mornings and the hard conversations - the ones that started in hospital beds and ended in silence thick enough to bruise. Of the fact that loving her had never felt like shrinking, only growing - how it never meant pretending they hadn’t lost something along the way, only choosing to stay anyway. How terrified he was to ever spend even a day too far from her.
“I am,” he said. “Scared as hell. But I’m positive, that’s for sure.”
Erica nodded slowly. “You’d make a good husband.”
A beat of silence passed.
“And a great dad, too, of course,” she added more somberly, as if it were obvious - the most normal thing ever to think about.
The words hit him harder than he expected - he didn't think she'd actually say anything of the sort out loud. The silence lingered between them longer than it should have. Erica didn’t flinch, and neither did he. They’d both learned how to sit with ghosts without naming them.
Lucas wanted it so badly. He could see it, almost feel it, suddenly and vividly, what had been taken away from Max so soon - something solid, chosen. A life built deliberately. A family that knew how to show up.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think so.”
She reached out and punched his arm lightly. “Guess we’re really growing up, huh? We should go to a club or something after this, seeing as we never drank together and I'm of legal age now or whatever.”
Before he could answer, their mother’s voice cut across the quad.
“Absolutely not!”
They both turned.
“You’re not dragging my daughter to a club today,” she continued. “Graduation or not.”
“You’re no fun!” Erica pouted loudly.
Lucas laughed, tucking the ring safely away as they headed back toward the noise - toward family, toward celebration, toward whatever came next.
After Erica took her time going up to her colleagues and professors - accepting her handshakes, hugs, and well-deserved praise she so clearly savored - the road trip back to Hawkins finally started around 4 P.M or so. The sun was already sinking, the sky bruised light pinks and oranges as Charles loaded Erica’s last bag from her dorm into the trunk with the kind of care reserved for very fragile things and children you’re proud of.
Indiana stretched ahead of them in long, obedient miles, green and yellow cornfields blurring into one another like they were all part of the same unfinished thought.
His dad had taken the wheel, as usual. Lucas folded himself into the backseat beside Erica, his head tilted uncomfortably toward the ceiling due to his height, his casted wrist propped on a pillow his mom had insisted on bringing, as if it were an absolute medical necessity rather than a mild inconvenience.
Erica sprawled out shamelessly with her legs open, claiming all the space like she hadn’t just spent four years learning how to survive in a shoebox dorm room with the messiest roommate known to man.
Ten minutes in, the radio crackled and landed on an oldies station.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Erica protested immediately.
Sue turned the volume up in response, unfazed and stubborn, just like her daughter.
Guess she had to get it from somewhere.
Stevie Wonder filled the car, bright and insistent.
Lucas groaned. “You do realize we have ears, right?
“You also have culture,” his dad said, tapping the steering wheel in time. “And you’re about to respect it, young man!”
Their mom harmonized effortlessly, as if she’d never stopped singing in the church choir. Charles sang with confidence and enthusiasm, getting about half the lyrics wrong and all the vibes right (which, really, was the only thing that mattered). Erica held out for thirty seconds exactly before rolling her eyes and belting the bridge like she’d been waiting her whole life for permission.
By the second chorus, they were all singing. Loud. Off-key. Shameless.
Lucas leaned back, laughter bubbling out of him before he could stop it.
The station rolled naturally into Marvin Gaye, The Supremes, and Al Green. Windows cracked open as the darkening road hummed. The car became a time capsule - voices layered, generations overlapping, the past stretching itself comfortably into the present.
About an hour in, when the energy softened into something warmer, Sue twisted around in her seat and tapped Erica’s knee.
“Alright, my little brainiac,” she said. “Your turn. Play something from this century, will you?”
Erica’s smile turned wicked. “Careful. You asked for it.”
She dug into her bag and handed their mom a tape - scratched, hand-labeled, edges worn soft from years of use.
Lucas recognized it instantly.
A mixtape - one he and Erica had made together before she left for college; R&B, hip-hop, pop, blues - songs carefully ordered, argued over, refined. Max had helped with transitions and levels to achieve maximum musical cohesion, insisting that it mattered how one song felt as it slid into the next.
Sue slid it in. Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” burst through the speakers, bright and buoyant.
“Ah, I love this one!” She said, eventually snapping her fingers to the rhythm.
They were grooving within seconds. Erica danced in her seat, smug. Their mother laughed, clapping along. Even Charles bobbed his head, pretending not to enjoy it too much.
A few tracks in, one of Lucas’s songs came on - Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road.”
The opening harmonies slid softly into the car, smooth and aching, the kind of song that didn’t demand attention so much as ask for it. The rhythm was slow, patient. A song about staying, about refusing to let go even when the ending had already been named.
Lucas felt it settle in his chest the way it always did - heavy, familiar. It reminded him of long nights with the radio turned low, of sitting awake while Max slept in a hospital bed that wasn’t really sleeping at all. Of loving someone quietly, steadily, when there was nothing else to do but wait. The song didn’t dramatize the pain; it held it, the way Lucas had learned to. Calm on the surface, breaking underneath.
The car quieted - not uncomfortably, just attentive.
His dad hummed along under his breath, thoughtful, eyes still on the road. “This one’s yours?”
The boy nodded. “Yeah.”
“It’s good,” his mother said after a moment. “Sad, but good.”
“Figures,” Erica muttered from the backseat - she didn’t reach to change it, though.
Lucas stared out the window as the song played, watching fields give way to trees, thinking about how much music had always meant in his life - how it had been a bridge when words failed him. In his and Max’s house, music wasn’t just background noise. It was a language both of them learned during their teenage years that meant survival. Records playing while grief sat heavy on the couch. Cassette tapes passed back and forth like secrets. Loud enough to drown out what hurt. Soft enough to sit with it.
Loving Max had taught him that music didn’t need to fix anything to matter either - sometimes it just needed to be there.
And he was happy. Really happy. With her. With this - this messy, loud, loving family. With a life that felt solid beneath his feet, even when it scared him a little.
They talked after that. Not in any loaded, dramatic way - just casual banter and threads woven between miles.
Charles and Lucas talked about the next basketball season. Sue talked about work, about a promotion she might finally get, and whether she even wanted it anymore.
Erica talked about grad school. About staying in Indiana. About maybe not.
Lucas talked about his time in Chicago. Thinking about possibly teaching in the future. About how some days he felt exactly where he was supposed to be - and others like he’d missed an exit miles back and was too stubborn to admit it.
At one point, Max came up - not dropped into the conversation so much as eased into it, the way you might test the temperature of water with your toes before stepping in and taking a dive.
His mother was the one who said her name, eyes still on the road ahead through the windshield. “How’s Max doing? I really wish she'd been able to come…”
He could feel Erica looking knowingly at him, observing his next steps through the dance that was this conversation.
“She’s good,” he settled for - the word practiced, careful. “Busy with her patients. Still pretending she doesn’t need sleep. Still better at pretending she’s fine than anyone I know.”
Erica snorted softly. “Shocking!”
Lucas smiled, fond despite himself. “Her body's been better too; she doesn't feel nearly as much pain as she did back when her physical therapy first started, so that's good. We’re-” He hesitated, then let it come out naturally. “Great, actually. Living together’s been… nice. Like we finally stopped running on borrowed time. Of course, some days are easier than others, but...” Through the rearview mirror, he took a glance at his father. “That’s the job, right?”
Erica didn’t joke this time. She just nodded once, small and deliberate, like they’d agreed once ago on how much of the truth belonged to the people outside their little bubble.
Charles huffed a laugh from the driver’s seat, shaking his head in an amused fashion.
“See, I’d tell you to be mindful of them white girls,” he said, teasing but not unkind, “but it’s pretty clear that one already’s got you hooked.”
“Dad!” Lucas groaned automatically, heat creeping up his neck.
“I’m just saying,” his father went on, grinning, eyes still on the road. “Whatever she did, she did it right. You ain’t been this settled ever since you were a kid.”
Sue reached over and swatted her husband’s arm lightly with a smile. “Charles!”
“What?” He protested. “I like Maxine - that’s high praise, just so you know.”
Lucas laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably correct,” Erica chimed in, smirking. “You are down bad.”
“Et tu, Brute?” He shot back, earning a bark of laughter from his dad.
Sue glanced at him in the rearview mirror, her expression warm and knowing in a way that made his throat tighten. “I’m glad,” she said. “You’ve always been better when you’re not alone.”
“Yeah,” Charles added. “That girl grounds you.”
Lucas thought of mornings in their shared kitchen. Of Max, half-asleep, bright orange hair a mess, leaning into his space like it was second nature. Of her laugh echoing off the walls that finally felt like home. Of the ring, safe in his pocket.
“She does,” he agreed softly.
The road stretched on, darkening as the sun slipped fully below the horizon. Headlights cut through the dusk. The mixtape rolled into other songs, switching genres. Backstreet Boys, TLC, Jackson Five - the works. The rhythm of the tires against the asphalt was steady enough that Lucas’s thoughts began to drift despite himself.
The boy rested his head back against the seat, one hand curling unconsciously over his cast, the other imagining the future in shapes he was almost brave enough to name. A proposal. A yes. A life built properly, carefully, with love and patience and room to grow.
For the first time in a while, he let himself think about the few, passing moments he’d ever thought about leaving.
Not because he wanted distance from Max, but because staying had started to feel like holding his breath. Like bracing for something that never quite happened, but always threatened to and broke both of them to hope for. She had been doing better, slowly. The kind of better that revealed itself in careful increments: answering calls without long silences, sleeping through the night more often than not, laughing without immediately shrinking back afterward. He’d learned with time not to name the improvement out loud, only celebrate it silently. Some things still felt too fragile to speak.
Still, the worry never left. It lived in the quiet moments - the way she sometimes stared too long at nothing, how her voice softened when she thought he wasn’t listening. Healing wasn’t a straight line; they, of all people, knew that better than anyone. They’d lived long enough in the aftermath of things to understand it.
The thought of stepping away, even temporarily, always twisted something in his chest. It didn’t feel like choosing himself - it felt like testing whether love could survive being out of reach, and what the hell would he do that for, anyway?
He knew love didn’t guarantee safety - they’d already learned that in the most painful ways possible - but he also knew that walking away had never saved either of them.
He didn’t say any of it out loud; he didn't want to jinx it.
But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was in bated breath, outrunning what came next.
The road hummed beneath them. The music kept playing.
And for a while - just a while - the future didn’t feel like something to fear, but to look forward to, to embrace.