Chapter Fifteen #2
We slid into the chairs at the head of the table. Jojo squeezed Carter’s hand as he passed, then set down a bowl of salad big enough to drown in. “Hope you’re hungry,” Jojo said. “I made three different dressings. One’s vegan, but—” He hesitated, eyeing my plate. “Never mind. Just try them all.”
Carter’s face did this thing when he was truly happy—a kind of glow, eyes wide, like he was still surprised anyone remembered the details. He loaded up a plate, then tried every dressing, nodding like a judge on a game show.
Rawley uncrossed his arms and leaned in. “Figured we’d celebrate the beginning of you getting out of my house,” he said, voice as dry as the kindling stacked by the porch.
“Can’t get rid of us that easy,” I said, and the table laughed, the old pack mentality rolling over everyone like a warm front.
The food kept coming—baked chicken, a tray of roasted root veggies, even a loaf of bread with a crust that shattered under your teeth. Jojo beamed when Carter went back for seconds, only to bring out a whole pie for dessert and announce, “Winner gets bragging rights and the first slice.”
Hooper and Jojo squared off, pie slices loaded like ammo, faces set in grim resolve.
They went at it with speed and precision, chunks of crust flying, whipped cream smearing the corners of their mouths.
Carter egged them on, pounding the table until Jojo, barely five-foot-nine and hundred plus pounds soaking wet, edged out Hooper by a single mouthful.
Rawley groaned, “Never challenge a breastfeeding omega to an eating competition,” which got him a playful swat from Jojo and another round of cackling.
Burke, ever the showman, told the story about the time they broke into a Turkish arms dealer’s safe by pretending to be exterminators. He sanitized it for the audience—no mention of the blood, just a lot of slapstick about fake mustaches and spilled termite bait.
Carter laughed so hard he nearly dropped his plate, cheeks flushed, hands cradling his belly as if to keep the baby from wriggling loose.
I watched him from across the table, the way he’d gone from the shy, skittish creature who’d barely spoken to anyone, to the anchor of the whole goddamn circus.
He held court as naturally as breathing, bouncing ideas off everyone, talking up the rainwater collection and solar panels he wanted for the house.
Even Rawley, who still couldn’t talk about feelings without using a crowbar, listened, grunting approval and throwing in the occasional “solid plan” when Carter mapped out the future.
There was a moment, right at the end, when the talk died down and the night air took over. The sun had dropped below the ridge, the last light still caught in the high clouds, streaking the sky in colors nobody could name.
Carter caught my eye, the last forkful of pie halfway to his mouth.
“You ever think,” he said, “that maybe this was what it was all for?”
I shrugged, not trusting myself to answer.
He smiled, soft and sure. “Me too.”
After dinner, we sat out under the string lights, everyone refusing to go inside, even when the mosquitoes started in. I listened to the low buzz of my old teammates swapping stories, the rise and fall of laughter, the click of bottles against the table.
For the first time since the world went off its axis, I felt the pulse of something bigger than fear. Something like hope. The house would be done before the snow. The baby would be here any day.
Everything else was just bonus.
By the time Jojo brought out dessert, half the table was in a food coma, the other half still actively plotting how to steal the last of the garlic bread without losing a finger. The pie—peach, with a crumble that glistened in the lantern light—went down like contraband.
I ladled two servings for Carter, because his appetite could have shamed a lumberjack, and spooned the first bite straight into his mouth.
He closed his eyes, groaned, and mumbled, “That’s illegal, Macon. You can’t just…” He trailed off, eyes fluttering open with the kind of bliss only sugar and butter could conjure.
“Want more?” I asked, voice pitched low.
He just nodded, and I obliged, feeding him another forkful. A dot of whipped cream clung to the corner of his mouth; I wiped it away with my thumb, then, because why not, licked it clean with a slow drag of my tongue.
Burke caught the move and hooted. “Get a room, you two!” He balled up his napkin and chucked it across the table, hitting Carter square in the chest.
Rawley, who’d been pretending not to notice, snorted. “They’ve already done that,” he said, pointing at Carter’s belly. “That’s how we got into this mess.”
Everyone cracked up, even Jojo, who clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the giggles. Carter just went pink, but he laughed too, holding his stomach as if to keep the baby from joining in.
Hooper, always the wild card, raised his glass. “To the future spawn! May he have his mother’s brains and his father’s ability to break a man’s arm in under five seconds.”
“Not a high bar,” muttered Rawley, but he tipped his beer anyway.
The world narrowed to this: the table, the pie, the laughter. I’d been in a thousand mess halls, war zones, and bars, but I’d never felt anything close to the heat coming off this battered plank table in the Montana dusk.
A new voice joined in, gravelly and edged with something older than the hills.
Walter Jenkins, the caretaker from the Hargrove place, had wandered up the drive without anyone noticing.
He set a six-pack on the table—homemade, labels peeled off, probably more fuel than drink—and pulled out a battered harmonica from his shirt pocket.
He played a riff, then nodded at Jojo. “You still remember that song your mother used to sing?”
Jojo blushed, but nodded. “Only the dirty verses.”
Walter grinned. “Those are the best kind.” He played the first few notes, and Jojo launched into a Montana folk tune, the kind that made you want to stomp your boots and punch the ceiling.
The chorus was easy, and soon the whole table joined in—even Carter, who had no musical ability, but made up for it with volume.
The words were about mountain men and river women, about chasing dreams and losing bets, about winters so cold the whiskey froze in the bottle. It was a song built for the end of the world, or the start of a new one.
I found myself singing along, voice rusty but true, and when Carter threw an arm around my neck and pulled me in for the last verse, I let him. I let all of it happen, the noise, the affection, the freedom of not having to look over my shoulder every goddamn second.
The song ended, and for a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the spell broke, and the table exploded back into talk—plans for the house, jokes about baby names, threats to bring the pie to the next town hall and see if anyone there could do better.
The sun dropped below the ridge, turning the world violet and gold. I watched Carter watch it, eyes bright, face relaxed in a way I’d never seen. He leaned against me, head tucked under my chin, and whispered, “I never thought family could feel like this.”
I squeezed his shoulder, careful of the healing tattoo there, and said, “This is just the beginning.”
He smiled, and I felt the universe shift around that point of gravity.
The peace held, for a while.
Long enough for Jojo to sing another verse, for Walter to tell a story about a mountain lion he’d once chased off with a shovel, for Rawley to sit back and just watch it all, arms folded, pride radiating off him like heat.
Long enough for me to forget, for just one moment, that the outside world was waiting to claw it all back.
The spell broke with the crunch of tires on gravel.
Every head turned, silence rolling out like a wave. Down the drive, the headlights flared, the light glinting off a car so black it looked like it absorbed light. Mercedes, new model, Texas plates.
Carter stiffened at my side, breath caught.
“Stay here,” I said, and stood up, every inch of me locked and loaded.
The car rolled to a stop, engine idling. The door opened, and out stepped a man in a suit—blue, sharp, every edge pressed so crisp it could have been cut from steel.
Barrett.
He looked at us, at the table, at Carter with his head high and eyes clear. Then he smiled, just a little, and said, “You got any pie left?”
The table relaxed, and Jojo, ever the diplomat, waved him over. “Pull up a chair, stranger. You look like you could use a drink.”
Carter exhaled, the tension leaking out in a rush.
Barrett came to the table, sat beside Carter, and nudged his shoulder. “Heard you’re building a house.”
Carter nodded.
I sat back down, never taking my eyes off him.
He leaned in, voice low. “Dad’s coming up in a week. Maybe two. He’s pissed, but he’s not stupid.”
“Is he bringing trouble?” I asked.
Barrett shook his head. “Not yet. He’s coming alone. Wants to see it with his own eyes.”
Carter looked at me, panic lurking at the edges. “Are we safe?”
Barrett’s face softened. “As safe as you can be. Just… be ready.” He forked a piece of pie, chewed, and made a face. “That’s criminally good.”
The table rolled on, conversation shifting back to the safe zone. But the spell was gone, replaced with a new kind of energy—sharp, focused, ready for whatever came down the drive next.
I kept my arm around Carter, felt the thump of his pulse under my palm.
We were a family now.
And I’d burn the world to keep it that way.