Page 177 of The Incredible Ordinary

“You know, none of this would be happening if you all had made a list and checked you have everything during these past few days,” Aiden says.

“Nobody likes a know-it-all,” Milán says, buttoning his shirt he’s now wearing.

“He’s right, though,” I say because unlike everybody else, I’m dressed and ready to go.

Milán sends Aiden a stern look. “Stop corrupting the minds of young people.”

“It almost feels likeyoushould’ve been my brother,” Aiden says, and I grin at him.

Dad points at me as he leans against the counter. “You’re suspiciously calm for someone graduating in two hours.”

I shrug. “I did my part. I passed everything.”

“Passed,” Rory scoffs as he passes through the kitchen again, still with only one shoe. “You’re the valedictorian, you nerd.”

I make a face at him, but he’s already gone. He’s one to talk with his genius-level SAT score and track coaches from all over the country begging him to join their team in the fall.

“Nervous about your speech?” Dad asks me.

I shake my head. “I’ve practiced so much that I can recite it backwards if I have to.”

“You’re not the only one,” Rory yells from the hallway. He sticks his head in the kitchen again. “I wake up in the middle of the night with your voice in my ear, reciting the speech. It haunts me.”

“You volunteered to help,” I point out.

Dad studies me for a second like trying to figure out if I’m secretly panicking and just trying to hide it.

I’m not. Not really.

Maybe I will be by the time we make it to school, but for right now, I’m just kicking back and watching the chaos unfold around me. It’s nothing unusual. Mornings like these are kind of our thing.

Five years ago it was quieter in this house. Not quiet. Never that. We’ve always had plenty of people around, but when Milán and Rory, and to a degree Aiden, were added to our usual chaos, the house is full.

Dad grabs his tie from the back of one of the chairs and loops it around his neck. He starts tying it. Milán walks over before he can really mess it up.

“You twist it the wrong way every time,” Milán says, the kind of teasing affection in his eyes that makes me smile every time.

He reaches out his hands and takes the tie, fingers moving with quick, practiced ease. It’s such a normal thing I don’t think either of them notices.

I do.

I’ve noticed for years.

The small stuff.

Before Milán and Rory first started coming around, there was a part of me that thought love was about big things. Trips. Gifts. Grand gestures.

Big, visible stuff.

The stuff people post pictures of.

Big, visible moments where everyone can clearly seethis is the part where the love happens. The kind of things that feel like proof. Like if someone loved you enough, there would be obvious signs—surprises, big plans, dramatic speeches in the rain, that kind of thing.

And maybe some of it is.

It’s how my mom loves people. It’s how she shows it, at least.

But I’ve learned the important things are the quiet ones. The stuff nobody points out. The everyday things.