Chapter Twenty-Three #2
She stood, looking out over the sea of faces, and for a second her eyes glistened. “Can I have your attention?” she said, voice slicing through the noise like a cleaver. “We’re going to do this right. Hands, heads, please. Time for grace.”
You could hear a pin drop. Not because anyone here was especially pious, but because no one ever crossed Ma.
Everyone bowed, a dozen sets of hands linked under the table or clasped in a makeshift chain of community. I kept my head up, though, because someone had to keep watch for roll-thieving or pie sabotage.
I let my gaze drift, cataloguing the set of faces at the table. Knox, jaw set like he was waiting for incoming fire, but a hint of smile at the corner. Harlow, gaze soft, fingers fidgeting with the napkin as if he was holding court with the mashed potatoes.
Newt, chin tucked, looking for all the world like he’d finally found a place where he wouldn’t have to duck.
Dan, shoulders relaxed, one arm flung over the back of Harlow’s chair—an anchor in a storm.
Even Pa, who usually weathered these meals with a sort of stoic endurance, was grinning, cheeks pink from the heat or the moonshine, hard to tell.
And Floyd. Floyd was the only one not pretending to pray, either. He looked back at me, mouth twitching at the edge, eyes warm as bread fresh from the oven. Under the table, his hand slid over to mine and squeezed. Not hard, just enough to say: I see you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Ma rattled off the grace, nothing fancy, just a litany of thanks for good food, good company, and “the promise of tomorrow.” The last bit was a new addition, and the way her voice caught on it told me she’d practiced in the mirror.
“Amen,” she finished, and the table erupted.
Dishes started to empty at an alarming rate. There was no real etiquette, unless you counted “eat fast, or you’re going hungry.” Every time a plate passed me, Floyd made a show of serving me first, muttering, “Gotta keep my artist fueled.”
He loaded up my plate with reckless abandon, ignoring my protests until I threatened to cut him off with a fork to the hand.
Across the table, Levi challenged Newt to an eating contest, which ended in a tie and an exchange of fist bumps.
At the far end, Harlow got into a whispered debate with Dan over whether you could use BBQ sauce as salad dressing.
Pa hoarded the gravy boat with an intensity that bordered on psychotic.
It was loud and hot and absolutely not the life I’d ever imagined I’d want. But watching Floyd joke with my family, leaning into the noise instead of away, I realized something had shifted. This was his, too, now—this madness, this mess. It belonged to us.
He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow, like, what?
“Nothing,” I said. “You fit. That’s all.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “Told you. I’m persistent.”
“You’re a menace, Hardesty.”
His thumb rubbed the inside of my wrist, and I had to fight the urge to drag him under the table and make a scene that would haunt Ma for years.
As the meal wound down, Ma started in on the usual attempts at matchmaking for the remaining single cousins, and Levi made an ill-fated attempt at stealing the last drumstick, only to have Ma slap his wrist with a serving spoon.
The conversation tumbled over itself, a jumble of insults, laughter, and, occasionally, actual words.
Grace, I thought. This was it, right here. Not the prayer, not the silence, but the noise that came after—the part where nobody pretended to be anything other than exactly who they were.
I squeezed Floyd’s hand. He squeezed back, easy as breathing. Yeah. This was home. And it was finally big enough for both of us.
The party moved outside, as it always did. Somebody—probably Ma—declared the air too nice to waste indoors, and within five minutes the kitchen was a ghost town and the backyard had turned into a full-scale encampment.
Pa had been working on the bonfire since dusk, laying out a mountain of orchard trimmings and scrap wood in the burn ring behind the barn.
The flames shot up fast, licking at the evening sky, and the heat drove us all back in a widening ring.
The whole yard smelled like apple blossoms and wood-smoke, with an undertone of charred sausage from the failed attempt to toast leftovers on a stick.
Floyd claimed a blanket near the fire, tugging me down with him, and when I sat he wedged himself between my legs with the ease of a man who had given up on pretending to need personal space.
He leaned back into my chest, arms folded over my shins, and exhaled with a contentment that buzzed through me.
For a guy whose job was basically being the last line of defense against human stupidity, he’d gotten real soft, real quick.
The rest of the family fanned out in concentric circles.
Harlow manned the perimeter, keeping a watchful eye on the younger kids as they played tag in the orchard.
Knox nursed a beer and played poker with Dan and two of the cousins, his laugh low and lazy.
At the center, Ma and the aunts swapped stories, their voices rising and falling in a cadence older than any of us.
Levi, predictably, had made a beeline for the guitar someone left propped against the back porch. He fumbled a little, but you could see the focus in his face.
Knox had been giving him lessons, and even though the kid’s fingers were still awkward, he picked out the chords to “House of the Rising Sun” with a determination that made me want to buy him a thousand-dollar Stratocaster just to see what he’d do with it. He sang, too. Not well, but with heart.
Floyd nudged me with his head. “That’s your fault, you know.”
“What is?”
“The guitar. The singing. The fact that he’s not sulking in the barn or plotting to hotwire the sheriff’s truck.”
I snorted. “Credit where it’s due. You and Ma did the heavy lifting. I just set a bad example.”
He reached up, tracing the line of my jaw with one finger, casual and intimate. “You gave him a place. That’s what he needed.”
We watched Levi for a minute. He caught me looking and grinned, then deliberately hit a sour note to make the younger kids groan. There was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there before, as if the old skin was finally starting to slough off and make room for something better.
Floyd’s voice, when it came, was soft enough that I almost missed it. “I never knew it could be like this.”
“Like what?” I asked, even though I already knew.
He shrugged, and I felt the movement through my ribs. “A family that just... accepts. No conditions, no pretending. You fuck up, they tell you, but they still pull you in at the end of the night.”
“That’s what love is supposed to be,” I said, and for once it didn’t sound cheesy in my mouth. “Otherwise it’s just paperwork and genetics.”
He twisted, looked at me, and I caught the shine in his eyes. “I want to be good at it,” he said, and I realized he didn’t just mean us. He meant all of it—the mess, the noise, the whole sprawling tribe.
I tightened my arms around his chest. “You’re doing fine. Better than me, half the time.”
He huffed a laugh. “I doubt that. You’re the glue, Ransom.”
“Bullshit. I’m the gasoline. You’re the one keeping everyone from burning the place down.”
“Match made in hell, then,” he said, and I kissed the crown of his head.
The fire died down to embers as the sky tipped fully into darkness. Stars punched through the night, indifferent and cold, but down here it was nothing but warmth and noise. Conversation faded to a murmur, the little ones crashed out on lawn chairs or sprawled across their parents’ laps.
Levi drifted over, the guitar slung across his back. He hesitated at the edge of the blanket, looking everywhere but at us.
“Hey, kid,” Floyd said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Levi shoved his hands in his pockets, then ducked his head. “I wanted to, uh. Say thanks. For...” He shrugged, mouth twisting in the effort to find the words. “Just. Thanks. For giving me a chance. For not giving up, even when I was a little shit.”
“You’re still a little shit,” I said, but I smiled.
He kicked at the grass. “Yeah, well. Just... thanks. Both of you.”
Floyd stood, surprising all of us, and pulled Levi into a hug so tight the kid squeaked. “Anytime,” Floyd said, voice rough.
I joined them, making a ridiculous three-way knot of arms and elbows. Levi let himself be folded in, just for a second, before wriggling free and muttering, “God, you guys are embarrassing.” He scampered back to the fire, but not before I saw the grin he tried to hide.
Over his shoulder, I caught Ma watching us, tears shining in her eyes as she leaned against Pa. He had his arm around her, and they looked like the last two people on earth who’d ever believe in happy endings. But maybe they did, now.
Floyd settled back onto the blanket, this time leaning his head in my lap. “You know,” he said, “I almost missed this.”
“The bonfire? The apple blossoms? My knees in your back?”
He shook his head. “The feeling. I spent so long thinking I had to be something else to deserve it.”
I ran a hand through his hair, slow. “What changed?”
“You,” he said. “This.” He gestured, encompassing the yard, the fire, the family, all of it.
I didn’t have a snappy comeback for that. Not right away.
The silence was good. It didn’t need filling.
Floyd leans into me, voice low, "Billy and Vivian both got sentenced today. Years, not months. I didn't think I'd care, but—I'm glad it's over. Levi deserves a clean slate."
I lets the words hang, then say, "You ever want to talk about your own parents?"
Floyd shakes his head, eyes a little sad, but his fingers squeeze mine. "No. I want to build better memories, not dig up old ones."
I nod, a silent promise between them. "Works for me."
At some point, Ma shouted for dessert. “Pie! First come, first served! If you want whipped cream, you better beat Levi to it!”
We hauled ourselves upright, brushing grass from our jeans, and headed for the back porch. Floyd snagged my hand, fingers twining with mine, and I didn’t care who saw. I doubted anyone would bother to mention it even if they did.
Inside, the kitchen was a war zone again, the air thick with the scent of baked fruit and sugar.
Levi was already licking whipped cream off his knuckles, Newt and Dan were engaged in a full-scale pastry negotiation, and Harlow was carving slices so big I wondered if Ma was hoping to just kill us off with diabetes.
Knox caught my eye across the table. He nodded, slow, like maybe he’d finally decided I wasn’t going to ruin everything after all. Floyd loaded up two plates, and we escaped to the porch swing, plates balanced on our knees, feet tangled together in the dusk.
“Think we’ll ever get tired of this?” he asked.
I licked cherry pie from my thumb. “Probably. But if we do, we can always burn it all down and start over. You up for it?”
His grin split his face. “With you? Any day.”
I leaned over, kissed him, and tasted sugar and smoke. It was messy and imperfect and absolutely right. And for the first time, I let myself believe it would last. The stars burned overhead, but down here, love was the brightest thing going. And that was enough.
~ The End ~