Travis Parker And Something Real

Obligatory Disclaimer (Because Apparently We Can't Have Nice Things)

Everyone in "Something Real" is 18 years or older. Fully grown. Emotionally questionable at times, but legally adults. If you're looking for drama involving minors, congratulations--you're in the wrong story and you should probably rethink some life choices.

Also, don't steal this story. Seriously. If you do, I hope you step on every LEGO ever manufactured, barefoot, at three in the morning, while carrying a plate of nachos you just made. And no, I will not feel bad. I spent too many nights arguing with imaginary people in my head to have someone else slap their name on it like they invented storytelling.

Enjoy the story. Respect the hustle. Don't be a goblin.

PSA: If you're hunting for graphic sex scenes, you took a wrong turn somewhere. Something Real is about love after disaster, not lust after dinner. (Plenty of sarcasm, though. Free of charge.)

For those who missed the precursor story, Travis Parker vs. Not-Date Date, it's available here: https://www.literotica.com/s/travis-parker-vs-not-date-date.

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Name's Travis Parker. I used to think I had my life figured out--wife, kids, a steady job, a mortgage large enough to require its own zip code. Then Monica blew it all to hell with a guy named Big Rick (because apparently midlife crises come with bad nicknames now), and I found myself back at square one, wondering if the best parts of my life were already behind me. Somehow, my kids--Traci, Francis, and Beth--managed to hold the pieces together when I couldn't, proving they were tougher than I ever gave them credit for. And just when I'd decided maybe happy endings were for other people, Maggie walked in--smart, stubborn, and not afraid to call me on my crap. She made me believe that the light at the end of the tunnel wasn't just another train--it was a second chance. And this time, I wasn't about to miss it.

**************

Laundry is supposed to be one of those mindless, peaceful activities. You know, something soothing. Like zen meditation, except with the faint smell of fabric softener and the slow death of your will to live. I stood there at the foot of my bed, wrestling a fitted sheet like it was a live anaconda, while Maggie calmly folded towels like some kind of domestic goddess. I swear, fitted sheets are a government conspiracy. They can't be folded. They can only be beaten into a rough rectangle through sheer spite.

"This thing is fighting for its life," I muttered, trying to pin one corner without falling over. "Pretty sure if I fold it wrong, a black van pulls up outside and the Men in Black come to 'correct' me."

Maggie didn't even look up. "You know they make YouTube tutorials for that, right?"

"Yeah, and I believe in Bigfoot sightings more than those things working." I huffed and flailed again. "This is domestic terrorism."

She snorted softly, then, in that same deadpan voice she uses to recommend where to hide a body, said, "We should get married."

The pillowcase in my hands escaped like it had been waiting for the moment. It floated to the ground, landing with a humiliating little flop. I blinked at her, my brain flashing blue screen of death. Somewhere deep in my mind, a goat screamed. Also a siren. Maybe fireworks. Definitely the faint echo of Francis yelling "Don't panic!"

"You're serious?" I croaked, my mouth so dry it felt like I'd swallowed a box of crackers.

Maggie shrugged, folding another towel with infuriating ease. "Yeah. You're it for me. No grand speech, no flash mobs, no skywriting. Just... you and me. Simple."

I opened my mouth to say something--anything--but all that came out was a wheeze that might have been English in another life. I rubbed the back of my neck, searching her face for any sign she was joking. She wasn't. She looked at me like she had just asked if I wanted coffee. Comfortable. Certain.

"You sure?" I finally asked, my voice cracking like a nervous teenager at prom. "I mean...you do know you're proposing to the guy who just lost a wrestling match to a fitted sheet, right?"

"That just makes you relatable," she teased, giving me a sideways grin. "Plus, who else would let me win at Mario Kart and pretend I earned it?"

I laughed--actually laughed--and it broke through the static in my head. God help me, I loved her. And even though every survival instinct screamed Run!, I found myself stepping toward her instead.

"Okay," I said, a little breathless. "Yes. Let's get married."

Her grin widened, and before I knew it, we were laughing and hugging, right there in the middle of half-folded towels and weaponized pillowcases. Her arms wrapped around my neck, mine around her waist, and for a moment, everything--the fear, the past, the fitted sheet war--faded away.

"I should probably warn you," I said against her hair, "I fully intend to sneak bacon into the wedding menu."

She leaned back enough to look at me, eyes sparkling. "Travis, that was never in question. In fact, it's part of the appeal."

I kissed her forehead, feeling more grounded--and more free--than I had in years. "God help you," I muttered affectionately. "You're stuck with me now."

"Good," she said, tugging me closer. "That was the whole point."

We didn't talk much after I said yes. Not because there was nothing to say--God knows I had enough thoughts buzzing around my head to power a small city--but because somehow, it felt good just sitting there with her. No big plans, no spreadsheets, no pressure. Just two idiots in love, folding laundry and accidentally agreeing to upend their lives together.

Of course, the second the shock wore off and Maggie wandered into the kitchen to make coffee, reality hit me like a linebacker on payday. I was getting married. Again.

I paced the living room, hands stuffed in my pockets, trying to convince myself I was cool, calm, and collected. Instead, I looked like a man rehearsing for a very low-budget courtroom drama.

What was I supposed to say to the kids?

Hey, remember how you finally stopped flinching every time I looked happy? Surprise! Step-mom 2.0 incoming!

Maggie poked her head back around the corner, a mug in each hand, smiling that small, secret smile that always knocked my defenses flat. "You're thinking too hard again," she said knowingly.

I caught one of the mugs she tossed me and grunted. "It's not thinking. It's... strategic pre-worrying. Totally different."

She laughed and sat cross-legged on the couch, motioning for me to join her. "We'll tell them together," she said, simple and sure. "No drama. No speeches. Just honest. They love you. They'll get it... eventually."

I sat down beside her, feeling the caffeine start to work its way into my bloodstream. I wasn't sure if she was right. I wasn't sure about anything, really. Except for one thing: if I had to brave the fire again, I couldn't think of anyone else I'd rather walk into it with.

"Tomorrow," I said finally, lifting my mug in a solemn toast. "We tell them tomorrow."

Maggie clinked her mug against mine and smiled. "Tomorrow," she agreed. And just like that, the impossible didn't seem so impossible anymore.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself right up until morning hit me like a tax audit wrapped in a hangover. I barely slept--mostly because my brain decided 3 a.m. was the perfect time to stage a full-blown anxiety parade. By the time we slid into the diner booth, I wasn't even sure if I was nervous or just running on pure existential dread and weak coffee fumes.

I stirred my coffee for the third time, buying myself a few more precious seconds of peace before detonating the brunch bomb. Across the table, Beth was scrolling on her phone, Francis was inhaling an omelet like it owed him money, and Traci was sipping her black coffee with the same grim seriousness you usually see right before someone issues a formal declaration of war. Maggie sat next to me, completely calm, like a commander about to unleash chaos on an unsuspecting village.

I cleared my throat. "So... Maggie and I have some news."

Beth's head snapped up instantly, the phone forgotten. "You're pregnant!" she shrieked so loudly half the restaurant turned to stare.

Maggie nearly snorted her mimosa up her nose. I choked on my coffee. "No! God, no. Jesus, Beth, why would that be your first guess?"

Beth just grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Well, you're that age, Dad."

Francis leaned back in his chair, grinning like he already knew. "You're getting married, aren't you?" He held out his fist without waiting for confirmation. "Congrats, old man."

I bumped his fist, shaking my head in disbelief. "You couldn't let me have the moment, huh? Had to spoil the reveal?"

Traci, on the other hand, looked like she had just bitten into a lemon dipped in vinegar. She stared at me, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. "Really?" she said, the word coming out like a legal objection.

Beth, ignoring her sister's growing storm cloud of disapproval, clapped her hands together. "I'm helping with the wedding planning. Non-negotiable. I'm thinking a rustic-chic theme with fairy lights, lots of greenery--maybe a champagne wall?"

Francis piped up through a mouthful of potatoes. "Or--and hear me out--you replace the vows with a lightsaber duel. First one to disarm the other wins."

Maggie, watching all of this unfold with the serene satisfaction of a general whose troops had gone rogue exactly as planned, sipped her drink and murmured, "Told you they'd take it well."

As the chaos continued--Beth was now threatening to color-code the entire reception, Francis was looking up "legitimate officiants who also do magic tricks"--I caught Traci's eye across the table. She wasn't laughing. Wasn't even pretending. Just quietly pushing her scrambled eggs around her plate like they were responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to her.

I waited until Beth was sketching wedding layouts on a napkin and Francis was too busy ranking Star Wars duelists, then leaned over toward Traci. Kept my voice low. "Hey, can we talk for a second? Just you and me?"

She hesitated, her fork pausing mid-scrape. For a second, I thought she might blow me off completely. But after a long beat, she nodded stiffly and slid out of the booth, grabbing her coffee like it was a shield.

I followed her toward the patio outside, heart hammering harder than it should have. This wasn't a casual 'So, what do you think about cake flavors?' chat. This was a 'Please don't hate me for moving on' conversation. One I wasn't sure I was ready for--but one I knew we both needed.

Behind us, Maggie gave me the smallest nod. I think it was supposed to be reassuring. Mostly it just felt like she was sending me off to fight a dragon with a butter knife.

Deep breath, Parker. Time to face the hard part.

The patio was quiet, just a few stray tables and the low hum of traffic beyond the fence. Traci picked a table in the farthest corner like she was minimizing the risk of friendly fire. She sat, arms crossed over her chest, coffee cradled like a weapon she might deploy at any second.

I sat down across from her, leaning my elbows on the table, trying not to look like a guy gearing up for battle.

For a minute, we just sat there, the silence stretching, heavy and uncomfortable. I finally cleared my throat. "Look, Traci... I get it. This is fast. It's a lot."

She stared at her coffee, her jaw tight. "It's not that you're dating again," she said after a beat. "Honestly, you deserve to be happy. God knows you spent enough years trying to survive Mom." Her voice cracked a little, and she shook her head. "But marriage? After everything? It just feels like you're rushing into something because you want to fix... all of it."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she lifted a hand to stop me. "I'm not saying Maggie isn't good for you. She probably is. But if it goes south... I can't promise I'll be around to watch it happen again." Her voice was tight, almost trembling. "I barely held it together last time."

Hearing that gutted me more than I expected. I reached across the table, palm up, offering--not grabbing. Just there if she wanted it. "I would never ask you to stay if it hurt you, Traci. You have every right to protect yourself." I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. "Hell, half the time I don't know how you managed to hold us all together when everything blew up. You were stronger than I ever was. You gave me strength when I didn't think I had any left."

For the first time, her eyes met mine. And there it was--the hurt, the love, the stubbornness I knew better than anyone. My kid. My fighter.

"You don't owe me anything," I said quietly. "Not now. Not ever."

She blinked fast, then set her coffee down with a soft thud and stood up. For a terrifying second, I thought she was walking away. Instead, she circled the table, hesitated, and then wrapped her arms around my shoulders in a tight, fierce hug. "I'm still standing with you," she mumbled into my neck. "Just... don't make me watch you break again, okay?"

I hugged her back just as tightly. "Deal, kiddo," I whispered. "Deal."

As I sat there, feeling the weight of her hug still lingering on my shoulders, I realized something I should've seen a long time ago. Traci wasn't just surviving the wreckage--we all were. She grew stronger in the fire while I was still picking ash out of my teeth. And maybe that was the hardest part about moving forward with Maggie. It wasn't just about trusting myself to get it right this time. It was about trusting that my kids--my stubborn, brilliant, battle-scarred kids--could heal too. Maybe even better than I ever could.

When I pushed the door open and stepped back into the warm noise of the restaurant, it was like someone had turned the colors up a little brighter. Beth was waving her hands around in a passionate argument about floral centerpieces, Francis was trying to convince Maggie that "lightsaber officiants" were a legitimate wedding industry niche, and Maggie--God bless her--was just smiling like none of it scared her off. I didn't feel weighed down anymore. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn't dragging my past behind me like a busted anchor. I was just... here. Right where I was supposed to be.

Of course, that peaceful, grounded feeling lasted exactly three hours--right up until Beth declared we were going dress shopping and Maggie handed me a coffee like a man about to face a firing squad.

I have never seen so much lace outside of a haunted Victorian doll collection. It was everywhere--cascading from hangers, drooping over displays, even oozing from the ceiling like some aggressive Pinterest project gone feral. The boutique smelled faintly of desperation and overpriced dreams, and I was already calculating how many Advil it would take to survive the next two hours.

Beth was in her element, stalking the rows of dresses like a lioness hunting indecisive prey. "This one's nice!" she called, holding up something with enough sequins to be classified as a public safety hazard. Francis trailed behind her, hands jammed into his pockets, muttering under his breath, "I could be eating pancakes right now." He shot me a look that screamed You dragged me here. I will remember this betrayal.

Maggie, ever the calm eye of the tulle hurricane, held up a simple dress and glanced at me. "What about this one?"

I cleared my throat. "It's... very white." Brilliant analysis. Pulitzer-worthy, really. Francis snorted into his sleeve while Beth gave me a look like I'd just failed a basic humanity test.

"Try it," Beth demanded, shoving a second dress--this one bedazzled within an inch of its life--into Maggie's hands. "And this one too. For science."

Francis leaned closer to me and stage-whispered, "Science is a lie. This is fashion anarchy."

While Maggie disappeared into the dressing room, I collapsed onto a ridiculously pink velvet chair that looked like it had personally witnessed six hundred emotional breakdowns. Francis flopped into the chair next to mine and immediately pulled out his phone, possibly googling "How to fake a medical emergency in a bridal boutique."

Then the curtain pulled back, and Maggie stepped out.

All the sarcastic remarks died in my throat. She wore a sleek, simple dress that hugged her in all the right ways--elegant without trying too hard, timeless without feeling stiff. She shifted under the boutique lighting, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks.

"Well?" she asked, her voice light but--if you listened closely--just a little uncertain.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Closed it. Opened it again. "Wow," I finally managed, which felt wildly insufficient for how hard my heart was currently trying to beat its way out of my chest.

Beth gasped dramatically. "Holy crap, Dad! That's your 'I'm having an emotional moment but pretending I'm chill' face."

Maggie grinned at me, one eyebrow arched. "High praise?"

I stood up, still stunned. "You look..." I shook my head helplessly, feeling like words were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. "You look perfect, Mags."

Francis leaned toward Beth and mock-whispered, "Should we get the tissues now, or wait until he full-on cries when they swipe the credit card?"

"Shut up," I muttered, but I was smiling. Smiling like an idiot who knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was the luckiest damn man alive.

The first time I did this--wedding, marriage, all of it--I remember feeling like I was racing a clock I didn't set. Like I was ticking boxes because that's what you were supposed to do: meet someone, settle down, shut up about it. This... standing there, watching Maggie smile at me like she knew exactly who I was and still wanted this life with me? It didn't feel like running out of time. It felt like finally starting it.

It figured that right when my heart was full, my kids were ready with battle plans for turning the wedding into a three-ring circus--and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Beth practically slammed her notebook down on the tiny boutique table like she was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "First option: Galactic Battle Royale. Think laser swords, metallic tuxes, maybe even a fog machine during the vows."

Francis nodded solemnly, like a man who had witnessed true genius. "And we can train a hawk to deliver the rings. Very medieval. Very majestic."

I leaned back in my pink chair, giving Maggie a look that clearly said Save yourself. It's too late for me.

To my absolute horror--and maybe just a little pride--Maggie grinned and leaned into the chaos. "Counter offer," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Woodland Goblin Aesthetic. Everyone gets fake ears and questionable fashion choices. Travis gets to carry a sword."

Beth gasped. "A wedding AND cosplay? Mom would die."

Francis nodded. "Better. Dad might."

Maggie laughed, but then her smile softened. "Or," she said, setting the fake notebook aside, "we could just do something simple. Us. Family. Friends. No goblins. No hawks. Just... real."

For a second, even Beth--high priestess of chaos--looked thoughtful. Francis shrugged and said, "Yeah. That actually sounds pretty good."

I looked around the table at the three people who somehow, against all odds, made my messy life feel whole again, and nodded. "Simple sounds perfect."

Turns out, the only thing I ever needed was right in front of me--no grand gestures, no fireworks, just real love and the people who never gave up on me.

We didn't need fireworks or a thousand-dollar cake or a hawk in a tuxedo. We just needed each other--standing side by side, laughing through the awkward parts, holding steady when the nerves kicked in. As Beth and Francis launched into mock debates over who would cry first at the ceremony, and Maggie leaned into my side, smiling like we already had everything we needed, I knew this wasn't just another chapter starting. It was a whole new story. And this time, it was ours.