Chapter 4
CALVIN
The dining room feels like Mardi Gras by the time I arrive for breakfast, with plates clattering, mismatched mugs steaming, and half a dozen conversations colliding.
Riot stands at the head of the table, clipboard in one hand, napkin-covered scribbles in the other, as if he’s about to auction prize hogs. He slaps me on the back so hard half the water in my glass nearly splatters to the floor.
“Geez, morning, Your Majesty,” I retort, feigning a gut punch that makes him wince.
He grins like I just landed from Mars. “Stewart, you’re officially on the board!” He pivots the clipboard to reveal two columns: Explode or Implode.
“Cara and half the wedding party are betting on you and Jules. High stakes this weekend, buddy. You’re in my kingdom now.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What’s the bet? Whether I break my own rules before brunch?”
Cara, bagel in hand, slides her grid closer. “Nope. Implode: epic disaster, drinks thrown, tabloid fodder. Or explode: can’t-keep-our-hands-off, legendary reunion.” She winks at Jules.
A few groomsmen murmur, “My money’s on both.”
Mrs. Dorsey glides past with a tray of drinks. “I'll bet on both. I’ve seen it happen before,” she chirps.
Jules sits with arms crossed, lips tight, but her eyes quirk with amusement.
She’s giving me the cold shoulder, so I aim my humor squarely at Riot as I slide into the only open chair.
“Happy to contribute to the weekend,” I say, lifting my mug. “Should I invoice you for my services, keeping you all entertained? And by the way, the only stakes I’m interested in are medium rare.”
Riot throws back his head and laughs. “Medium rare. Classic Stewart! Safe bet. Winner gets a round at The Rusty Tap and bragging rights until Juneteenth.”
Cara leans between us, eyes flicking from Jules to me. “We’re all rooting for you, Cal… but try not to make it too obvious if you lose.”
Riot winks. “Don’t worry. I’m swinging by the store later. Tissues and lozenges on me. You’ll need them either way.”
Jules’s head tilts just enough for me to catch the barest hint of a smile. My heart stutters.
“Excuse me. If he’s getting paid, I expect a cut too,” she calls out, “considering I’m once again dragged into one of his games.”
The table bursts into laughter, and even she can’t fight the grin breaking through.
She holds my gaze, challenge and laughter tangled on her lips.
Breakfast feels part royal court, part circus, part reality show. I’m both guest of honor and underdog, every pair of eyes weighing whether the legend of Calvin Stewart still holds true.
I’m five minutes into forced smiles and rehearsed nods when my performance muscle finally seizes up.
What exactly we’re accomplishing this morning, I still can’t tell.
Relief floods me when Mom appears at my side with reinforcements: two steaming mugs of dark roast and a basket of pillowy blueberry-lavender scones, sugar crystals sparkling like tiny beacons.
Riot spots her first and bellows, “Hey, it’s the best man’s mom! Morning, Mrs. Stewart. Are you putting your money on Calvin to implode, or explode?”
Mom sets the tray down with gentle authority and meets his challenge with that serene smile of hers.
“With Calvin,” she says, tilting her head at me, “there’s always hope for a positive outcome.”
Then she turns back to Riot, eyes soft but firm. “With you… well, I’ll wish Maddie good luck.”
A ripple of cheers breaks out, and half the table calls, “We love you, Faith!”
I lift my mug to Mom and let the warmth seep into my shoulders. For the first time this morning, I don’t have to perform. I just get to breathe.
She smiles, settling into the bench beside me. “Glad you get to take a seat. You’re always the teacher.”
I grin around the rim of my mug. “The best teachers stay students.”
Mom slides the basket toward me. “Try a scone. If sugar can’t fix your confidence, nothing will.”
I tear off a fluffy wedge and close my eyes as the sweetness melts across my tongue. “This is dangerously good.”
She leans back, smiling.
“So… how are things going so far this morning?”
The scone’s warmth blossoms in my chest, right where Jules’s laugh still echoes.
I take a breath. “Truth? I’m on edge. I want to talk to her, just get her alone and break the ice… but I don’t want to push her.”
I flick a glance toward Jules at the corner of the table. Of course she’s watching. My cheeks heat, and my eyes dart away just as fast.
I feel foolish.
Mom witnesses the whole exchange.
“Well,” I manage, forcing a grin, “is that clear enough for you?”
Her hand finds my wrist, calm and warm. She nods toward Riot, still rallying the troops.
“See him? He’s all flash.”
Cara swats at Riot over some petty detail, and Mom smiles faintly.
“You don’t have to perform so hard, Cal.” Her hand squeezes my wrist once. “The right person feels peaceful, not confusing.”
I swallow, knowing she’s right. The tension drains, Riot’s boasting fading into the background.
Before the slides and slogans, I wrote poems about sunsets.
I remember falling for Jules back when my heart still felt simple.
When she left, the emptiness became a canyon. I tried to fill it with achievement, but the hollow never closed.
And now she’s here again.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to ruin me if I’m not careful.
I meet Mom’s eyes. Same look she’s given me my whole life. The one that never lets me hide from myself.
I lift my mug in salute.
“Just be.” I say.
She squeezes my shoulder. “To be or not to be,” she teases, then winks.
We laugh, the sound brief but real.
That’s the hard part.
I glance at Jules.
Our eyes snag, a beat too long, until the air feels heavier than it should.
I look down. Holding her gaze feels too much like giving something away.
A metallic clatter heralds Mrs. Dorsey’s entrance, her tray of eggs and toast teetering like a circus high-wire act. She hums Here Comes the Bride off-key as a coffee carafe wobbles in her other hand, earning spontaneous applause when she doesn’t drop it.
“Don’t mind the eggs, darlings. They’re a little enthusiastic this morning!” she chirps, plopping plates with a mischievous wink.
Through the patio doors, Cara and Maddie hunch over a whiteboard in the gazebo, armed with highlighters and color-coded sticky notes like generals preparing for war.
“Grooms and logistics don’t mix,” Mrs. Dorsey calls as she breezes past, patting Riot’s shoulder with buttery fingers.
“Isn’t it sweet how you two still play together?” She beams at Riot and me as if we’re five-year-olds squabbling over toy trucks.
Riot slings an arm around my shoulders, laughing. “If Calvin can survive city streets, I can survive Maddie and Cara’s checklist. Right, Stewie?”
I laugh despite myself, letting myself sink into it. This loud, imperfect mess I once ran from.
The smell of coffee, the sound of laughter, the warmth of home.
The one place that still knows me by heart.
And somehow, after all these years…
Jules still does too.