The feeling of returning home was severely underrated, Moxie decided.

        Rocky ran in front of them up the steps of their old childhood home as if he had done it endlessly before. Milena King stood there waiting for her first grandson with open arms and could barely guard herself against the onslaught of doggy kisses. Mischa King, on the other hand, watched in amusement from his crouched position in the garden. A new hobby, he had once said over the phone. Moxie had teased him about being so old.

        "Hey, baby," he said after discarding the garden tool in favor of hugging his daughter.

        Moxie welcomed the embrace, holding on a little tighter and for a little longer than usual. The flight over was mostly uneventful, as Mick had popped a few sleeping pills and made himself a lousy travel partner. It left Moxie to her own devices, thoughts running as wild as they had been for the past couple of weeks.

        While Cruella had been doing a lot better—as much as possible given that trauma she had recently been working through—Moxie had a lot on her mind. She knew deep down that her girlfriend would have preferred it if she hadn't kept her own past bottled up to remain turbulent under the surface, as Cruella would have undoubtedly liked to help Moxie as well, but a big part of her didn't feel ready to do so yet. She figured her heart was working against her brain by feeling like it needed to not bulldoze over Cruella's moment. But once her brain caught up and realized it wasn't a timed race of who arrived at the finish line first, Moxie accepted that she needed to open up to some other important people first.

        "How was the flight?" Mischa asked. He anchored his hands against each shoulder in only the kind of comforting way he was capable of. A gentle but firm reminder that she had returned home, into the arms of one of her favorite people in the entire world. "Did your brother pass out?"

        Moxie rolled her eyes playfully. "Of course. Always. The last time he didn't knock himself out, he almost threw up on a flight attendant's shoes. They had to push him off the plane because he couldn't stop apologizing."

        "One day. One day he'll make an entire flight without having to drug himself to sleep."

        "Hopefully. But I'm not betting on him. Respectfully." Moxie glanced back at him playing with Rocky and their mother in the yard. An endless void of new dog toys likely awaited them inside. She didn't want to think about how she was going to pack everything in her suitcase. "I'm starving. And thirsty."

        "When are you ever not?" Mischa scoffed.

        "Please lead the way, sir—"

        "You lived here for years."

        "—or else I'll be forced to raid your entire kitchen."

        "Like that's ever stopped you."

        Moxie smiled and tapped his chest. There there.

        With a huff, he dusted off his hands and gestured for her to hurry ahead while he grabbed her bags from the car. They packed light since they were only there for a week. Not long enough, in her opinion, but they had work obligations to take care of back in LA.

        A recording of the last F1 Grand Prix was playing on the television with Brendon Ellis in the lead, of course. Moxie spent so long looking up to the greats that she struggled to stop and realize how she was coming up alongside so many of them now. F1 championship titles and top Grammy Awards belonged to people she called friends. Brendon Ellis had impressed the world so much these past couple of years, thanks to his newly crowned championship title and being well on his way to a second, that he was about to throw out a first pitch at the upcoming Blue Jays game. (He won that race, too.)

        One of the best parts about coming back home was seeing everything she had grown up with.

        One of the worst parts about coming back home was seeing everything she had grown up with.

        Getting older meant a lot of things to different people. Not every aspect troubled the minds and hearts of everyone. Not everyone had the privilege of getting older. Moxie didn't take that for granted.

        Seeing it laid out so clearly in front of her was a lot to take in, though. The longer she spent living in other cities, the more she felt like an outsider in the house she grew up in. Like walking through a dream of her memories. If she reached out her hands, everything she touched might evaporate into dust, until completely replaced by her apartment in Los Angeles. And yet, something about the experience of returning to her childhood home brought a warmth into her. As if she were returning to an old pet's gravesite in a backyard that had a garden planted around it. She fought through her conflicted feelings to live in the moment while still appreciating her past.

        Moxie was staring at one of their old photos on the wall when her father entered the room, juggling their bags between both hands. Moxie and Mick stood with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders and big, toothy grins stretched across their baby faces. They wore matching swimsuits that would disintegrate in the wash a few years later due to overuse. Their mother stood behind them, carrying a large birthday cake.

        Her eyes shot up—far in the back right corner of the photo stood Patrick Callaghan. Uncle Patrick.

        "I was joking, you know," Mischa grunted. Mick's suitcase didn't go easy on him. "You can grab anything to eat. We're grilling tonight, but Mom went grocery shopping and stocked up for both of you."

        Moxie shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the picture, which didn't take much effort. The less she looked at that man, the better. She didn't want to risk talking herself out of what she planned.

        "Yeah, yeah. I just... thought I might've forgotten something at home." She walked over to the kitchen and grabbed the first snack in reach. Thankfully, her father was too distracted to notice her behavior.

         The rest of the gang followed soon after. Moxie sat in the kitchen, munching from a bag of All-Dressed chips. Others liked people watching. Moxie liked family watching. She relaxed in front of the sight of her people moving and growing together. The way they secretly smiled at each other over the silliest reasons. How their laughs blended together in perfect harmony.

        "Mox," Milena shouted out from the living room. "Your pick of the movie for tonight. Whatcha want?"

         Mischa King did a drive-by pick up of her snack trash. Moxie smiled. She was back home.

Dinner went smoothly. As much as was possible in the King household after a long time apart. Moxie couldn't remember what film she picked. Technically didn't pick one. She had closed her eyes and pointed at some random spot on the DVD wall. Milena seemed impressed with the "choice," so that counted for something.

        You alright? Mick texted her. His eyes remained trained on the screen. Their teenage years had been spent perfecting the art of secretly texting each other in plain sight. Somehow, their parents had never caught them. Or maybe their parents hid their all-knowingness too well.

        Yeah.

        Are you sure?

        Is this your way of telling me I look like shit?

        Maybe. Who knows

        Love that for me.

        Seriously, though. You sure you're good?

        Pretty sure, she replied. Before adding, Just tired. Might go to bed early.

        Stop being such a grandma.

        Some of us didn't sleep the entire flight because we're too chicken shit to fly.

        Uncalled for, I think.

        Boo hoo.

        Okay. If I catch you sneaking off to call your girlfriend, I'm telling Mom.

        God, shut uuuuuuuup.

        Mischa slapped his thighs and announced loudly, "Need more popcorn. Anyone else?"

        The giant bowl of popcorn being hogged by Milena did not go unnoticed, especially when she immediately raised her hand and said, "Me. I want more."

        He leaned over Moxie on his way over to the kitchen. "Her greed knows no bounds."

        "I heard that."

        "Over the sound of your popcorn chewing? I'm impressed."

        Rocky ate the pieces of popcorn that bounced off the back of Mischa's head on his way out.

        Moxie checked the clock. It was late, and she was tired. If she slipped away for the night, no one would be the wiser. She had a few days before they met up with their friends for baseball. She could hold off on the conversation for a bit, maybe give herself time to gather her thoughts, as if she hadn't spent the entire flight planning exactly what to say and how to say it.

        Before she talked herself out of it, Moxie excused herself thanks to a fictional headache. Mick didn't bother calling her out for it. Her mother was too busy eating all of the popcorn and dissecting every detail of the movie. Moxie entered the kitchen quietly, not wanting to alert the others, and she held up a finger to her lips.

        Her father squinted at her, but stayed otherwise quiet.

        "Do you mind if we... talk about something?"

        Mischa shifted into dad mode instantly. Not just dad mode. Dad mode.

        "Of course."

        She shook her head. Or was that just her fingers shaking? Either way, she shoved her hands behind her back.

        "Not here. In private."

        His brows pinched together. "Sure. Should I be worried?"

        Moxie wanted to throw up. She didn't know how to answer that question. She didn't want to.

        "If you're emotionally attached to that movie right now, we can n—"

        He grabbed her hand and walked her over to the nearest room—his office.

        Moxie quietly shut the door behind her and turned to her father. All the breath escaped her lungs in a mad rush to replace it with the truth, something she spent years burying beneath her skin and bones. She didn't know if she was truly ready for this, but she knew that if she didn't jump into the deep end now, she would never claw her way back up to the surface.

        "We need to talk... about Uncle Patrick."