Chapter Fourteen
Elise
We were back in our regular clothes, but we didn’t look the same.
My silk shirt clung in places it shouldn’t after being soaked and sun-dried, the fabric softened and slightly transparent at the shoulders.
My hair had escaped its tie completely and hung in wind-tangled waves down my back.
Brady’s shirt was rumpled, his hair messy in the best way, and his face was flushed.
We both looked a little wilder, a little less curated, and a little more alive.
We found a quieter edge of one of the picnic tables, far enough from the loudest chaos to hear ourselves think but close enough to still be inside it. Plates appeared in front of us: ribs lacquered in sauce, chips slick with oil and salt, coleslaw drowning in dressing, and yes, hot dogs.
Brady picked one up and held it between his fingers like a challenge. “Take a bite,” he said lightly. “I double-dog dare you.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “If I do, you have to sing me a song. Right here. No backing out.”
I expected him to laugh, to deflect, to turn it into a joke. Instead, he grinned. “Deal.”
The noise of the party dulled at the edges.
I looked down at the hot dog in my hand. Processed protein suspension. Mechanically emulsified. Enclosed in synthetic casing. Sodium levels well beyond recommended daily intake. I knew exactly what it was.
I lifted the bun. The smell was smoky from the grill, and my brain automatically cataloged ingredients while my pulse beat faster.
It’s just a hot dog.
I took a bite.
The snap of the casing startled me first. Then salt. Then smoke. Then something unexpectedly savory and satisfying. I chewed slowly while Brady watched in silence.
“It’s . . .” I swallowed. “Not terrible.”
His grin widened into something boyish and pleased. “Told you.”
I wiped my fingers on a napkin, suddenly aware of how close he was leaning across the table. His knee brushed mine beneath the wood and remained there, warm and steady.
“Your turn,” I said quietly.
He didn’t hesitate. He shifted closer, not theatrically, just enough that I could hear him without raising his voice. Around us the party continued: laughter, distant shouting, someone dropping something metal that clanged against concrete.
Then Brady began to sing.
His voice was soft and low, meant only for me rather than the crowd. “When the night gets cold and the world feels wide . . . I’ll be the one right here by your side . . .” His voice wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. It was honest. There was no irony in it, no protective layer.
A few people nearby quieted slightly. I felt their attention shift to us. There was a subtle pause, a smile from across the table, someone nudging a friend. Brady never glanced at them.
He looked at me. No one had ever chosen me publicly like that. In my world, affection was private, strategic, carefully controlled. This felt reckless in a way I didn’t know how to measure.
The final note lingered between us before dissolving into the air. He reached forward and brushed a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. The touch lingered.
I forgot to breathe.
Then he stood abruptly, as if he needed the reset more than I did. “I’ll get us fresh drinks,” he said lightly. “Be right back.”
I watched him walk away, his broad shoulders cutting easily through the crowd. People greeted him as though he had always belonged there.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Keaton.
Are you back yet?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Not yet.
Should I worry?
I glanced up at the yard, noted the noise, the disorganization, and the absence of visible boundaries.
No. I’m having fun. Don’t let me find out you’re tracking me.
Fun. Who are you and where is my sister?
A small smile threatened.
Ha. Ha. I mean it. Give me some space. I’ll text when I get home.
An aggressive thumbs-up appeared almost immediately. I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Fun.
The word felt unfamiliar in my mouth.
Brady returned with two cold sodas, condensation sliding down the sides. We ate cake that was dense, double chocolate, and unapologetically rich while Sam tore into presents with reckless joy, paper flying as adults cheered loudly.
My gaze drifted to Thomas Steele standing near the grill, laughing with his wife. At one point he turned completely away from the yard, away from entrances and exits, and bent to say something to Sam.
His back was exposed.
There was no scanning, no recalibration, no subtle accounting of who stood where. My father would never stand like that. He always knew where every exit was, who had arrived, how the room was positioned. He placed himself accordingly.
Thomas Steele wasn’t counting anything.
He was simply present.
The contrast hit like cold lake water.
Keaton’s voice echoed in my memory.
Are you happy, Elise?
I had answered: I’m not unhappy.
At the time, that had felt sufficient.
Now it felt evasive.
These people were messy and loud, off-key and unfiltered. They interrupted each other, overlapped, touched without hesitation.
And they felt safe.
What if safety wasn’t the same thing as living?
When it was time to leave, I felt myself returning to something more contained. My posture straightened. My voice cooled by degrees.
Still, the silk felt different against my skin.
Sarah hugged me again at the gate, and this time my muscles didn’t lock as hard.
Thomas offered the same easy smile. “Come back anytime. You’re always welcome.”
They assumed I would.
Because they didn’t know who I was.
I turned once more before stepping through the gate, taking in the drooping banner, the mismatched chairs, Sam still sticky with frosting, Brady next to me laughing at something someone said, head tipped back and entirely unguarded.
I shared a last name with these people, but that was where our similarity ended.
I didn’t know what to do with the fact that part of me would miss them.