Chapter Sixteen
~ Josiah ~
Our new cottage was supposed to be too small for this many people.
That was what the old-timers said, every time they drove past our stretch of river road—claimed it was barely more than a glorified hunting cabin, and that the place would flood come the first good thaw.
But tonight, the walls bulged with a heat and noise that made it feel twice its size.
Every inch vibrated with the McKenzie clan, their spouses, the odd straggler from the local art council, and an even odder smattering of former exes and lost causes who’d never quite detached themselves from the family’s gravity.
The air inside was dense: wood-smoke, bread, and wet wool from half a dozen coats piled haphazard on the rack by the door. The windows fogged in fat droplets, blurring the view of the river and the silver thread of moonlight that cut across it.
I tried to stay in the background, but it was hard when every other person in the place either wanted to shake my hand or punch me in the ribs.
Even harder with Ransom on his fourth whiskey, leading a chorus of increasingly obscene river shanties in the kitchen while Harlow bellowed harmony and let every guest in arm’s reach admire his latest tattoo sleeve.
Bo’s paintings hung on every wall. He’d arranged them himself—on the day of the party, he’d spent four hours moving canvases from one side of the living room to the other, obsessing over sight lines and glare.
The result was a house that felt like a museum curated by someone who’d only ever seen real museums on TV. In the entry, a red-and-black triptych screamed across three feet of plaster; in the hallway, a single, sepia-tinged portrait seemed to watch everyone who passed with judgmental, sunken eyes.
On the mantle, a watercolor of the river in spring—half-melted snow and the ghostly smear of trees reflected in the water—sat next to a photo of us from the year before, both of us squinting into the sun and holding up a trout that, by all rights, should have gone back in the river to think about its life choices.
Bo hovered at the edges of the room, never in one spot long enough to be cornered. His hair was grown out now, the sharp angles of his face softened by a few months of actual meals and a life that no longer required him to sleep with one eye open.
He wore a black sweater, tight at the wrists, and the collar I’d given him—a real one, not just the stand-in from the hardware store—sat snug and proud at his throat.
I caught him once, near the bookshelves, refilling a tray of cheese and avoiding the eyes of everyone who tried to thank him for the food or compliment his “bravery” at putting himself on canvas. His mouth twitched at the word, like it was a joke only he got.
“You hiding?” I said, quiet, leaning close enough that nobody else could hear.
He rolled his eyes but didn’t turn. “I’m doing crowd control. Nobody needs to see what’s in the art room.”
“You mean the room you insisted on painting wall-to-wall in Vanta-black?” I teased, smiling because it was the only way to make him relax in public.
He snorted. “Yeah. That one.”
I watched the color rise on his neck, just above the leather. He didn’t wear it loose anymore. He didn’t wear it for shame, either.
“You want me to kick everybody out?” I asked, mostly joking.
He smirked, but the edge in his voice was real. “Could you?”
I laughed, but before I could say yes, Ransom staggered out of the kitchen, sloshing bourbon and dragging a pair of the art council women behind him. “Jo! There you are. You gotta see what Bodean’s got hanging in the pantry.”
Bo shot me a look: save me, or kill me, your call.
“I’ll be right there,” I said, and Ransom gave a lazy salute before stumbling back into the kitchen.
I glanced at Bo. “Need a minute?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Five, maybe.”
I let him go, watched him thread his way through the knots of bodies, always a little to the left of where he was supposed to be.
The next hour blurred past in the way only McKenzie parties could: too much food, too much whiskey, and enough stories about the river to fill a small encyclopedia.
Even the old man—Burnell—made it out, parking himself in the chair by the fire and holding court on the subject of why the government couldn’t be trusted to keep a bridge standing for more than a decade at a time.
Aunt Georgia brought her own peach cobbler, which Harlow demolished in three bites and then spent the next half hour groaning on the floor. Grandma Minnie sat by the window, watching the river and sipping from a thermos I suspected contained something stronger than tea.
I did my best to keep an eye on Bo, but every time I looked, he was in a new place: showing Uncle Cy the woodworking on the doorframes, pointing out the patch job on the chimney, setting down a fresh drink for his cousin who’d just come in from the city.
Never still, never at rest.
It was Knox who cornered me, out on the enclosed sun porch. He leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old army jacket, watching me with an expression that could have been either judgment or concern. Or both.
“You holding up?” he asked, after a long minute of silence.
“Fine,” I said. “This is about as good as it gets for us.”
He grunted. “Not what I meant. I mean, you and Bo. You look… solid. Didn’t think he’d last this long.”
I shot him a look, half insulted. “He’s tougher than you think.”
Knox nodded, accepting that. “He’s happy. First time I’ve ever seen him like this.”
The admission hung between us, heavier than the ice in my drink.
I let it sit, then said, “He’s still waiting for the catch. The fine print. It’ll take time.”
Knox looked at the river, then back at me. “He doesn’t need time. He just needs to know you’re not going anywhere.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just nodded. We stood there, not talking, both of us looking through the fogged glass at the moonlight on the water. Somewhere behind us, Bo’s laugh cut through the din—sharp, a little wild, but honest.
When I went back inside, the noise had shifted. The whiskey had dulled the edges, and even the harshest critics from the art council were losing the thread of their sentences.
I found Bo in the living room, pressed up against the bookshelves, talking to Grandma Minnie about the history of the cottage. His voice was low and rapid, the way it got when he was excited or scared or both.
He caught my eye, and for a second, I thought he might come over. But instead, he just nodded toward the back door, a tiny signal in the chaos.
I watched him slip away—past the kitchen, through the mudroom, out onto the back porch. Nobody else noticed. Nobody else ever did.
I waited a minute, then followed.
The cottage didn’t really have a back porch so much as a handful of cracked pavers and two stumps I’d chainsawed into passable seats.
But that’s where I found Bo, crouched against the rail in the cold, arms locked around his knees, head pressed down like he was trying to squeeze his thoughts out the top.
The night was glassy and bright. The moon hit the river at just the right angle to make it look like a strip of aluminum foil wound through the black.
I stood in the doorway, watched his breath come in fast, uneven clouds.
When I stepped outside, the only sound was the ice ticking on the eaves and the faint, human racket from the party inside.
I didn’t say his name. I just sat behind him, legs stretched out on either side, and folded him back against my chest. He resisted for half a second, muscle memory, but then let go. I wrapped my arms tight, palms flat on his chest, and pressed my mouth to the side of his head.
He was shivering, and not from the cold.
“Talk to me, baby boy,” I said. My voice was rough, low enough it almost didn’t count as speech.
He let the silence fill for a minute, then, “Do you think it’s possible to get too lucky?”
I squeezed, not letting him shift away. “No such thing.”
He snorted. “I do. Sometimes I feel like if I blink, I’ll lose it all. The house, the family. You.”
He turned in my arms, face up. His eyes were slick and wet, but the rest of him was hard, tense, already braced for the blow.
He wore the collar outside his shirt tonight.
The leather was smooth, deep brown, the brass D-ring catching the moonlight.
I’d buckled it there myself before the party, kissed the edge of it, promised him he’d never have to hide again.
He touched it now, fingers light, like he wanted to prove it was still there.
“You think I’m going to disappear?” I asked, quiet.
He looked away, jaw tight. “Sometimes I worry I’ll wake up and it’ll be like it never happened. Like I’m back in that nightmare with Harley, and you’re just—” His voice snagged, trailed off.
I grabbed his chin, forced him to meet my eyes. “He can’t touch you again,” I said. “Not from where he’s sitting.”
He managed a ghost of a smile. “Yeah. ‘Twenty to life,’ right?”
“Twenty to life,” I agreed. Then I softened, brushed my thumb over his cheek, slow. “You know the best part?”
He waited, silent.
“He’s getting exactly what he gave you. Every day.”
That got his attention. “What do you mean?”
I let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. “Let’s just say I have friends who believe in poetic justice.”
His eyes widened, and then—slowly, warily—he grinned. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
He let the words sink in, and I saw the conflict play across his face: the relief, the hint of guilt, the satisfaction he didn’t want to name.
“Does that bother you?” I asked, running my hand up the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape.
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It should, but it doesn’t.”
I pulled him in, kissed him deep and slow. I didn’t care that it was freezing, or that the air inside was still thick with people who’d probably notice if we vanished for too long.
I wanted him to feel it.
All of it.