16. A Place in the Family
A PLACE IN THE FAMILY
LUCA
The first camera shutter cracked through the market noise while Ava chose between two jars of orange-blossom honey.
My shoulders tightened on instinct.
Across the aisle, a man in a baseball cap lowered his phone too quickly. Another stood near the flower stall with a lens aimed past the sunflowers. I tracked exits, distance, crowd density. Old habits.
Riley noticed.
"We can go," she said quietly.
Ava held up both jars. "This one has a dolphin sticker."
"Then the decision has been made," Riley told her.
Ava placed it in our basket. Our basket.
The thought lingered where the camera click hadn't.
Saturday sunlight warmed Riley's bare shoulder beside mine. Her yellow sundress moved around her knees when she walked, and every man within a twenty-foot radius had found a reason to look twice.
I had counted.
Not because I was jealous. Because I was a liar.
Another shutter snapped.
Riley's fingers brushed mine as we moved toward the produce stalls. She started to pull away, probably assuming the contact was accidental. I turned my palm beneath hers and threaded our fingers together.
Her steps faltered.
I kept walking.
For half a second, the market narrowed to the soft press of her palm and the hitch in her breath. Then Ava tugged on my other hand, pointing toward a pyramid of mangoes.
"Can we get the small yellow ones? Riley says they're sweeter."
"Riley's usually right."
"Usually?" Riley glanced up at me.
I looked down at our joined hands. "I can't give you absolute power. You're already difficult enough to manage."
"You've never managed me a day in your life."
"I'm aware."
Her mouth curved, but uncertainty lingered in her eyes. "Luca, they're taking pictures."
"I know."
"This won't stay a farmers' market story."
"I know that too."
She searched my face, waiting for me to retreat. To tell her we should separate before the image became evidence.
Yesterday, I might have. I had spent weeks treating affection like a security risk, as though hiding what she meant to me could keep Ava safe—or keep Riley from becoming someone else I could lose.
Ava leaned against my leg while the vendor bagged our mangoes. Riley's thumb moved once across my knuckle, tentative enough that I could have pretended not to feel it.
I tightened my grip.
Behind us, the shutters accelerated. Let them.
I had been photographed bloodied, furious, half-conscious, and triumphant. The world had claimed every brutal version of me and sold it as entertainment.
They could have this one too.
A father carrying honey and mangoes. Riley at his side. Her hand in his because he wanted it there—and because he was done pretending he didn't.
I turned toward Riley.
"You okay?" she asked.
I lifted our joined hands and pressed my mouth to her knuckles.
"I am now."
Donny met us at the park thirty minutes later with a paper bag full of empanadas and the grin of a man who had been handed premium blackmail material.
He dropped onto the picnic blanket beside Ava. "So. The internet says you two are in love."
Riley nearly choked on her lemonade. I kept slicing mango.
Ava looked between us. "The internet says lots of things not true."
Donny pointed at her. "Exactly. Smartest person here."
Riley wiped her mouth with a napkin, cheeks turning pink. "Those pictures have been up for less than an hour."
"Forty-three minutes," Donny said. "But who's counting?"
"You, apparently."
"I have alerts."
"For your brother's dating life?"
"For potential family emergencies." He reached for an empanada. "This qualifies."
I handed Ava a slice of mango before she could ask why. The juice ran over her fingers, and Riley passed her a napkin without looking away from Donny.
"There is no emergency," I said.
Donny leaned back on one elbow. "No? You're holding hands in public, buying artisanal honey, and cutting mango into child-safe slices. One linen shirt away from a family Christmas card."
Riley's blush deepened.
I looked at her.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly very interested in arranging strawberries on Ava's plate. Anyone else might have missed the way her mouth softened around a smile she was trying to hide.
I didn't.
"Should I be worried?" Donny asked. "You didn't even threaten me."
"I'm considering it."
"There he is."
Ava bit into her mango. "If they were married, would Riley still live with us?"
Silence settled over the blanket. Riley's hand stilled above the strawberries.
Donny's teasing expression faded, but only for a beat. "Usually, that's how it works."
Ava nodded as though confirming a practical detail. "Good."
One word. No hesitation.
Riley looked at me then, her eyes open and unguarded enough to make my chest tighten. She wasn't laughing anymore. Neither was I.
Marriage had once meant vows beneath white flowers and the arrogant belief that loving someone hard enough could keep them safe. After Zoe died, the word became a locked room I refused to enter.
Then Riley came along and rearranged the furniture without asking permission.
Donny cleared his throat. "Well, I guess that settles it."
I should have shut him down. Made a joke. Put the walls back where they belonged. Instead, I shrugged and reached for Riley's hand beneath the edge of the blanket. When she laced her fingers through mine, I let the half-smile come.
Donny saw it. So did she.
The house felt different after we got home.
Not louder. Fuller.
The market had followed us home in paper bags and sun-warmed fruit, but what stayed with me was Riley's hand in mine and the fact that I hadn't let go.
Ava carried the honey to the kitchen like it was treasure, while Riley set the mangoes beside the sink. I stood there with the market bags cutting into my fingers, watching them move around each other with the ease of people who had done this a hundred times.
Maybe they had.
"Shoes," Riley reminded.
Ava stopped halfway to the pantry, looked down, then doubled back to line her sandals beside Riley's near the door.
Mine were already there.
Three pairs.
Something in me didn't want to look away.
By dinner, Riley had music playing low while I drained pasta and Ava stood on her stool tearing basil into a bowl with fierce concentration.
"Small pieces," Riley said.
"I know."
"She knows," I added.
Riley bumped her hip against mine. "You're supposed to support me."
"I support accuracy."
Ava carried the basil toward the stove. "Daddy, move. Riley said steam can burn."
I stepped aside.
Riley took the bowl, stirred the leaves into the sauce, then handed Ava the cheese without asking. Ava sprinkled exactly three pinches before setting it down. Riley slid her the napkins. I passed over the forks.
No instructions. No confusion. Just rhythm.
At the table, Ava asked Riley to cut her pasta, then stopped her.
"Daddy does smaller bites."
Riley passed me the fork without offense. I cut the noodles while she wiped sauce from Ava's sleeve.
Ava took one bite, chewed, then looked between us.
"We are good at dinner."
Riley smiled. "High praise."
"I mean together."
The fork paused in my hand.
Ava returned to her plate as if she hadn't changed the temperature of the room.
Riley looked at me.
There was no panic in her face. No joke waiting to soften it. Only the same quiet recognition that had passed between us on the picnic blanket.
We were good together. Not just in bed.
Technically, we hadn't made it to a bed yet. Apparently, I had a preference for desks and terrible timing. But desire made everything simple.
This was different.
Spilled sauce and small bites. Shoes lined beside the door. Knowing when Ava needed help and when she needed space.
Here too.
I had spent so long measuring danger that I nearly missed the shape of safety.
Riley reached for the water pitcher at the same moment I did. Our hands touched. Neither of us pulled away. Ava kept eating. And for one impossible second, the future didn't feel like something waiting to take from me.
It felt like this.
By the time the movie reached the first song, Ava had abandoned her spot on the rug and climbed between us on the couch.
She insisted she wasn't tired. Five minutes later, her head rested against Riley's thigh, her socked feet stretched across mine.
Riley looked down at her and whispered, "She made it longer than I expected."
"By three minutes."
"You timed her?"
"I know my daughter."
"You also started this movie after bedtime."
"She negotiated."
Riley smiled. "You're easy."
"Only with her."
Riley's gaze lifted to mine, warm and questioning, but Ava shifted closer before either of us could follow the moment. One arm fell across Riley's lap while her heel pressed into my ribs.
I covered her feet with my hand.
Riley drew the blanket higher over Ava's shoulder, then tucked the edge across my leg without seeming to notice she had included me. I noticed. I noticed every small way she treated the space between us like it belonged to all three of us.
The room settled around us. The television flickered blue and gold across the walls. Butter and sugar lingered in the air from the popcorn Riley had burned before I took over. Outside, traffic hummed far below the windows, distant enough to feel like weather.
Ava's breathing deepened.
Riley looked down at her, and something in her face changed.
Longing had a quieter shape on her. It softened her mouth and made her go still, like she was afraid one wrong movement would disturb whatever future she had let herself imagine.
I knew because I was imagining it too.
More nights like this. Riley's legs tucked beneath her on the couch. Ava growing too long to fit across both of us but trying anyway. Burned popcorn. Bad animated songs. Arguments over which movie counted as a classic.
A life that continued.
The thought should have sent me reaching for every exit. Instead, I looked at Riley and felt something inside me stop fighting.
Her gaze lifted to mine.
Neither of us spoke. Ava slept between us, warm and trusting, connecting us more honestly than any promise I could have made out loud.