Nebraska slls like corn and cold.
Penny's dad ets us at the airport in a pickup truck that's seen better decades. Wyatt Teller, weathered and solid, handshake like a vice.
"Stuart. Heard a lot about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Mostly." He grins. Penny punches his arm.
The drive to their house is forty minutes through flat nothing. Fields harvested bare. Sky stretching forever. Penny's on her phone texting soone—probably Bernadette, based on her laughing.
"You own businesses," Wyatt says. Not a question.
"Two comic book shops. Pasadena and Burbank."
"Comic books." He considers this. "That profitable?"
"Surprisingly yes. Turns out geeks have disposable inco."
"And you consult for movies?"
"Marvel Studios. Authenticity work. Making sure the props and references are accurate."
"Huh." He's processing. "Penny ntioned you're doing well."
"I'm doing okay."
"Better than okay, sounds like."
We pull up to a house that's exactly what I pictured. Two-story farmhouse, white paint peeling slightly, wraparound porch, tire swing in the yard.
Three cars already parked out front.
"Family's here," Wyatt announces. "Hope you're ready."
"Ready as I'll be."
Penny squeezes my hand. "They're going to love you."
"Or they'll hate and you'll be stuck defending all weekend."
"That too."
The house is chaos.
Penny's mom Susan is directing traffic in the kitchen. Her brother Randall is watching football with three uncles. Various cousins are scattered through the house. Kids running. Dogs barking. The whole Norman Rockwell thing.
"Everyone!" Susan calls out. "This is Stuart. Penny's boyfriend."
Fifteen faces turn. Evaluate.
Then Susan pulls into a hug. "We're so glad you're here. Penny talks about you constantly."
"All lies," Penny says.
"Mostly lies," Susan corrects. She hands a potato peeler. "You can help. We need these done in twenty minutes."
"Yes ma'am."
I'm peeling potatoes next to Randall's wife Jennifer. She's asking about LA. I'm describing the city. Making it sound exciting but not pretentious.
The Attractiveness power's working. I can feel it in how people lean in when I talk. How easily the conversation flows. How Uncle Mike—discussing corn prices with Wyatt—keeps glancing over like he wants to include .
"Stuart, you farm?" Mike calls over.
"No sir. City kid. But my grandfather did."
"Yeah? Where?"
mory supplies nothing. Make sothing vague.
"Small operation in upstate New York. Vegetables mostly. I used to help sumrs as a kid."
"Good work, farming. Honest work."
"Hard work," I agree.
"Everything worth doing is."
Uncle Mike approves. I've passed so test I didn't know I was taking.
Dinner table seats twenty. Extended family, friends, neighbors. The whole community gathering thing that doesn't happen in LA.
Turkey, mashed potatoes, three kinds of pie. Conversation flowing over each other. Kids arguing. Adults laughing.
Halfway through, Wyatt stands. Taps his glass.
"Wanted to say sothing. We do this every year—go around and say what we're grateful for. But this year, I want to start." He looks at . "I'm grateful Penny found soone who treats her right. Soone with a good head on his shoulders and a solid future ahead. Stuart, we're glad to have you here."
The table's silent. Then everyone's nodding. Murmuring agreent.
Penny's crying. Quiet tears she's trying to hide.
Under the table, she finds my hand. Squeezes.
Susan raises her glass. "To Stuart. Welco to the family."
"To Stuart!"
They drink. I'm overwheld. Penny's leaning against , still crying.
"You okay?" I whisper.
"They never did this for Dan. Never welcod him like this."
"I'm not Dan."
"You're really not."
Later. Kitchen cleanup. I'm drying dishes while Susan washes.
"Penny's different with you," she observes.
"Different how?"
"Confident. Happy. She used to call us upset about her life. Her career not going anywhere. Her boyfriends being—" She pauses diplomatically. "—challenges. Now she calls excited. About auditions. About her friends. About you."
"She's doing all that herself."
"With your support." Susan hands a plate. "That matters. Dan never supported anything. Just criticized. Made her smaller."
"I'm trying to make her bigger."
"It's working." She's quiet for a mont. "You two thinking long-term?"
"We're taking it one day at a ti."
"That's code for yes but you're being cautious."
"That's code for we're six months in and I'm not proposing on Thanksgiving."
She laughs. "Fair. But Stuart? When you do propose—because you will—Wyatt and I will be thrilled."
"Noted."
"Also—" She's scrubbing a pot now. "—Penny ntioned a New York audition."
The air in the kitchen shifts.
"Yeah. Next week."
"You worried?"
"Should I be?"
"I'm asking you."
"I'm—" The words stick. "—I'm happy for her. It's her dream. But yes. I'm worried."
"About long distance?"
"About whether we survive it."
Susan sets down the pot. Turns to face fully.
"My sister did long distance with her husband. Two years. Different states. They made it work."
"How?"
"By deciding it was worth it. And then doing the work." She picks up the pot again. "If you two decide it's worth it, you'll figure it out. If you don't—well. At least you'll know."
"That's not comforting."
"It's honest."
Fair.
That night. Penny's childhood bedroom. Twin bed, posters from high school still on walls. We're squeezed in together because her parents insisted I not take the couch.
"Your family's great," I tell her.
"They love you. Did you see Uncle Mike? He never likes anyone. You talked corn prices for twenty minutes and he was riveted."
"I mostly listened."
"That's the secret." She's tracing patterns on my chest. "Stuart?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for coming. I know Nebraska's not exciting but—it matters. That you t them. That they like you."
"It matters to too."
"My mom cornered you in the kitchen, didn't she?"
"How'd you know?"
"Because she does that. What'd she say?"
"That you're different with . Happier."
"I am."
"She also ntioned the audition."
Penny goes still. "And?"
"And nothing. Just—she knows it's happening."
"Everyone knows it's happening. I've been talking about it nonstop." She sits up slightly. "Stuart, next week—"
"I know."
"If I get it—"
"We'll figure it out."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
She settles back against . "I'm terrified."
"Of the audition?"
"Of what happens after. Either I don't get it and I'm devastated. Or I do get it and we—" She doesn't finish.
"One week. Then we know."
"One week."
Outside, Nebraska's doing its night thing. Wind through bare trees. Dogs barking distant. The quiet that doesn't exist in LA.
Penny falls asleep first. I lie awake, staring at her high school posters.
This feels like an ending.
Her family welcod . Her mom ntioned marriage. Everyone's treating this as long-term.
But next week might destroy all of it.
Can't think about that now. Just be here. Appreciate this.
The belonging.
The acceptance.
The warmth.
While it lasts.
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