Chapter Seventeen #2
The air up on the bank was warmer than it had any right to be, considering it was late September and the last thunderstorm had rolled through just hours before.
I stood with the sun hitting the back of my head, letting it dry out the sweat still prickling my hairline. Jo didn’t move from his spot by the trail, but his eyes tracked me the whole way, dark and steady, arms folded like he was the sentry at a checkpoint only I was cleared to cross.
I could have gone straight to him, but something in Knox’s voice kept me hovering on the edge of the path. Maybe I was waiting for the other boot to drop. Maybe I wanted to make sure he wasn’t about to yank back every inch of acceptance I’d just been handed.
He didn’t, though. Instead, he picked up a stick, twirled it between his fingers, and said, “You know, Newt’s not half as vanilla as he looks.”
I blinked, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. Knox just smirked, half a dimple showing, and tossed the stick into the weeds.
“He’s a control freak,” Knox continued, like he was just talking about the weather. “Wants a spreadsheet for every meal, a bullet journal for our sex life, and God help me if I don’t log my carbs in the morning.”
It was my turn to snort. “Is that why you always look so miserable at breakfast?”
He shrugged, deadpan. “It’s not the oatmeal I mind. It’s the part where he makes me sit still for three minutes before I eat it.”
I imagined the look on Knox’s face—Marine-trained, battle-hardened Knox—being made to meditate in front of a bowl of cold oatmeal. I laughed so hard my ribs hurt.
He watched me, eyes crinkled at the edges.
“See, the world’s full of idiots who think being a man means you gotta run shit.
That you gotta be loud, or mean, or always the one in charge.
It took me a long time to figure out that letting someone else lead doesn’t make you weak.
” He paused, then added: “Sometimes it’s the braver choice. ”
I was quiet, letting that sink in. I felt like I’d been holding my breath for three years, and finally someone had pried my mouth open and let the air in.
I tried to say thank you, but the words got stuck in the back of my throat. So I just looked at him, and he looked at me, and we both knew that the rest didn’t need saying.
Then, softer, almost like an afterthought: “You picked a good one,” he said, nodding at Jo.
I followed his gaze. Jo was still in the shadows, pretending to watch the clouds, but the muscles in his jaw had unclenched. He’d heard every word.
I reached up, ran a finger around the inside of the collar, and felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Not from shame—never again from shame—but from the way it meant something now, the way it didn’t have to hide.
“He sees me,” I said, the words coming out like a secret I’d kept since I was a kid. “Sometimes he knows what I want before I do.”
Knox snorted, this time with real affection. “Good. Maybe he can keep you from torching the barn again.”
“That was one time,” I shot back, but I was grinning now, the ache in my chest replaced with something sharp and bright.
The creek bubbled on, indifferent to our private little moment, but I swear the sun got a shade warmer, and the grass started to smell like the end of summer instead of the edge of rot.
We sat for a while, Knox and me, just staring at the water. He told me about about our twin cousins learning to drive and how they’d already put a dent in Ma’s old Buick.
I told him about the temporary bakery gig I’d started recently, how Rosie was training me to do the sourdough starts so I could make homemade bread, how I sometimes caught myself smiling oddly and then panicking, thinking someone would notice.
He said they’d all noticed. Said nobody had ever seen me this happy.
The words landed soft, but they carried.
When we finally stood up, I realized I’d stopped hunching my shoulders. The collar sat right where it always had, but now it felt like a medal instead of a muzzle. I squared my spine, let my arms hang loose at my sides, and tried to walk like someone who belonged.
Jo was waiting at the top of the path, same as before, but this time when I looked at him, he didn’t have that watchful, careful tension in his stance. He just smiled, wide and private, like it was just for me.
Knox reached out, squeezed my shoulder, then did something he hadn’t done since we were kids. He ruffled my hair. Not hard, not mean—just a quick mussing, like a dad who forgot his son was too old to be tousled.
“Go get your man,” he said, and wandered off toward the house, whistling a tune I recognized from the old barn radio.
I walked up the path, the moss springy under my boots, and stopped in front of Jo. He didn’t move at first. He waited, the way he always did, until I gave him permission.
“I’m good,” I said, voice steady.
“I know,” he answered, and reached for my hand.
We stood there, side by side, looking at the world. The river was brighter, the sky bluer, the whole valley alive with the sound of water and birds and the wind in the cottonwoods.
I glanced at Jo, and he grinned. “You look taller,” he said, teasing.
I grinned back, reached up, and tugged on the collar. “Guess I finally figured out how to wear it.”
He leaned in, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and let his lips linger there, warm and dry and solid. We walked back to the house together, my head up, my back straight, and my hand in his.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t care who saw.
~ The End ~