Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The scent of frying fish and woodsmoke drifted across the Brody backyard, mingling with bursts of laughter and the high, breathless voice of Parker as he chased fireflies along the fence line.
Mac paused beside Connor, her hand brushing his arm as she took it in.
The yard was full without feeling crowded. Folding tables stretched beneath strings of bare bulbs, their light warm and forgiving. Paper plates, mismatched chairs, a cooler someone had already propped open with a shoe.
Callum stood at the fryer with his dad, both of them focused in that easy, competent way of men who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t need to prove it. Brynn carried a bowl of coleslaw toward the table, already laughing at something someone had said before she even reached it.
It felt…practiced. Not staged. Like this had happened a hundred times before, and no one had ever thought to call it an event.
“I’m so glad you could join us,” Prim said, stepping up with a smile that was warm without being curious. She didn’t look Mac over. She didn’t ask questions. She simply reached out and squeezed her arm, as if Mac’s presence required no explanation at all.
“She’s a smart gal,” Max called from the fryer, lifting a golden fillet onto a platter. “Didn’t want to miss the catch of the summer. Parker reeled in a walleye that nearly dragged him off the dock.”
“That’s a generous retelling,” Callum said dryly, but his grin gave him away.
“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Mac said and realized she meant it.
Callum wiped his hands on a rag and wandered over. “I’m glad Addie asked you to join us.”
Beside her, Connor gave a short laugh and shook his head.
Callum studied him for a beat, then clapped him on the back. “That’s what happens when you hesitate. Your little sister ends up doing the asking for you.”
Connor opened his mouth, then closed it, smiling despite himself. “Where is Addie, anyway?”
Mac glanced around, doing a quick count without meaning to—and noticed what was missing.
“She’s inside,” Prim said. “FaceTiming with a friend. They’re talking about prom.”
“Prom?” Mac echoed before she could stop herself.
Prim nodded. “The community one. The Living Center is sponsoring it this year. High school gym. Everyone’s invited.”
“It’s not high school prom,” Brynn added, joining them again. “It’s for anyone who wants to go. Locals, visitors. The money from ticket sales goes to the Giving Tree.”
Mac felt something small and unexpected settle in her chest.
Prom.
She’d heard the word a thousand times, of course.
It had floated around her when she’d been growing up, like background noise.
Pictures in magazines, conversations she never quite joined.
By the time most girls were circling dresses and dates, she’d been circling training schedules and tournaments.
The future had always been something she prepared for, not something she anticipated.
She’d never thought about that as a loss. Not really.
Until now.
“Oh,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else.
Prim tilted her head, studying Mac with the same gentle attentiveness she seemed to bring to everything. “We’re all pitching in,” she said. “Decorations, food, setup. I think everyone in this family has been roped into doing something.”
Connor groaned. “I knew it.”
Prim patted his arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something for you and Mac to do.”
The words landed lightly, meant kindly.
And yet, Mac felt the faint pressure of them all the same—not a push, exactly. More like the sensation of being counted.
She could help. She probably would. But she didn’t want her yes to be automatic.
Later, when everyone gathered around the picnic tables, Mac set down her plate and listened to the swell of voices.
Conversations overlapped and tangled. Someone argued about batter versus breading.
Someone else passed the tartar sauce like it was a precious commodity.
Parker climbed onto a chair to announce he’d caught another firefly, which no one believed but everyone applauded anyway.
Mac sat between Connor and Brynn, her shoulder brushing his now and then, grounding her in the noise.
She didn’t have to perform. She didn’t have to lead. No one asked her to explain herself.
She realized—absurdly—that this must be what it felt like to attend something simply because you were invited.
Across the yard, Addie finally emerged from the house, phone still in hand, eyes bright with excitement.. She slid into a chair and launched into a rapid-fire explanation about dresses and music and how the gym was going to look “actually cool this time.”
Mac watched her, struck by how much of what she said was about looking forward, about imagining a night that existed only to be enjoyed.
Connor leaned toward her. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
And she was. Mostly.
But beneath the warmth and laughter, something new stirred—not fear, not regret. Just the quiet awareness of rooms she’d never stepped into before, now standing open.
The fish fry wound down the way good nights did—slowly, without anyone announcing the end.
Plates were stacked. Someone carried a folding table toward the garage.
Parker was still outside, stubbornly trying to catch one last firefly, even though the jar on the picnic table already glowed with enough light to satisfy him.
The fryer hissed once more before Callum shut it off, the sudden quiet making the backyard feel larger.
Connor leaned against the porch railing, a beer warming in his hand, and watched Mac cross the yard with Addie.
They’d drifted toward the driveway without discussion, the way people did when there was something unspoken pulling them. Addie grabbed a basketball from beside the garage and spun it on her finger, dropped it, laughed and tried again.
“You up for a game of horse?” she asked.
Mac smiled. “Only if you promise not to take it personally.”
Addie grinned. “I always take it personally.”
Connor watched them line up at the edge of the driveway, the hoop mounted above the garage door throwing a soft cone of light across the concrete. Mac rolled her shoulders once, more habit than preparation, and bounced the ball lightly before passing it to Addie.
She didn’t say anything instructional at first. She didn’t need to.
Addie took the first shot—banking it in cleanly—and whooped. “H.”
Mac nodded, approving. She took her turn without ceremony and sank an easy jumper.
Connor smiled despite himself.
Everyone there had seen Mac play. But this was different.
There was no crowd, no scoreboard, no pressure to dominate the moment.
She moved easily, adapting to the cracked concrete and the slightly crooked rim without comment.
When Addie missed, Mac didn’t rush in with correction. She waited. Let the miss settle.
They played quietly for a few minutes, the sounds of the yard drifting around them—laughter from the porch, the clink of bottles, Parker announcing a “giant” firefly that looked suspiciously small.
Addie missed a longer shot and groaned. “Ugh. I hate that one.”
“You rushed it,” Mac said, not unkindly. “You were already thinking about whether it would go in.”
Addie frowned. “How do you not think about that?”
Mac shrugged. “You do. You just don’t let it drive.”
Connor leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the railing.
This was the part he hadn’t expected.
Mac wasn’t loud with Addie. She wasn’t trying to impress her. She didn’t soften herself, but she didn’t harden either. She met Addie where she was—frustrated, eager, trying to get it right—and spoke to her like someone worth taking seriously.
Addie tried again. Missed. Groaned louder.
Mac took the ball, spun it once and handed it back. “Again.”
Addie shot. Missed by less.
Mac nodded. “Better.”
They were midway through the game when Connor noticed the shift.
Mac’s phone buzzed on the small table by the garage, where she’d set it without thinking. The vibration was soft, barely audible over the noise of the yard, but Mac heard it.
Connor saw it in the way her gaze flicked toward the screen, just long enough for something to tighten behind her eyes, before she turned back to the hoop.
Addie didn’t notice.
“Your turn,” Addie said, passing her the ball.
Mac set her feet. Breathed. Shot.
The ball rimmed out.
Addie blinked. “Hey. You missed.”
Mac’s mouth curved. “I do that sometimes.”
They kept playing, but Connor’s attention sharpened. Mac took another shot—deeper than she’d normally take in a driveway game—from an angle that made the backboard feel slightly dishonest.
It clanged off the rim.
Addie stopped. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
Mac glanced toward the garage, where her phone buzzed again, then back at Addie.
“No,” she said simply. “My focus is split.”
Addie’s eyebrows pulled together. “By what?”
Mac didn’t answer right away. She bounced the ball once, twice, then handed it to Addie. “When you’re on the court,” Mac said, “you have to be there. If your head’s somewhere else, the shot knows.”
Addie looked at the hoop, then back at Mac. “So…what do you do?”
“You reset,” Mac said. “Or you step away until you can focus.”
Connor felt something shift in his chest.
This wasn’t just coaching. This was a worldview.
Mac took the ball again, adjusted her stance and waited a beat longer than before. She shot.
Swish.
Addie threw her hands in the air. “Okay, okay. Fine.”
They finished the game. laughter replacing frustration as Addie finally sank a shot she’d been struggling with. When it was over, Addie collapsed onto the edge of the driveway, breathless and grinning.
“I hate how right you are,” she said.
Mac laughed softly. “You’ll thank me later.”
Addie glanced toward the porch, then back at Mac. “You should coach. Like, for real.”
Connor held still.
Mac’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her eyes shifted. “I do,” she said. “In ways that work for me.”