Emma #3
He stepped forward, and we hugged. It was a classic Carrow sibling hug—slightly stiff at first, neither of us sure where to position our arms after so much time in the dark, and he patted my back twice with an awkward thump, like he was trying to burp a giant infant.
It was ungraceful, emotional, and absolutely perfect.
Dinner was a masterclass in beautiful, chaotic domestic noise. My mother had cooked enough brisket and mashed potatoes to sustain a small medieval village, because she traditionally dealt with complex psychological emotions through massive portion sizes.
My father held court at the head of the long table, opening each one so slowly that I finally understood what he was doing: keeping every one of us at that table a little longer.
He loved the journal. He wept slightly over the pen.
When he held the bottle of bourbon up to the chandelier light, his eyes softened as he looked across the table at me.
"This is the real, top-shelf stuff, Ems," he said. And I knew with absolute certainty he wasn't talking about the liquor.
Ralph sat directly beside me. After the salad bowls were passed, his large hand slipped beneath the linen tablecloth and found my bare knee.
I instantly shot him a sharp, warning glare.
He was the absolute picture of angelic innocence. He nodded gravely as my father laid out his retirement plans, murmured something insightful about pension funds, and looked for all the world like a man with both hands folded politely in his own lap. They were not.
His warm thumb traced a slow, scorching circle over my kneecap. Then another, moving a dangerous inch higher.
I kicked his ankle hard beneath the wood. He didn't even flinch. His expression remained stoic, his eyes locked on my father, while his thumb continued its agonizingly hot, slow torment.
Oh, so that's the game we're playing, I thought, a wicked spark firing in my veins.
I quietly slipped my right foot out of my low heel. My bare toes found his solid, muscular calf beneath the table, tracing a slow line up the heavy denim of his jeans.
Almost imperceptibly, Ralph's fork paused midair.
He reached quickly for his water glass. His hand misjudged the distance, his knuckles knocking against the glass and causing the water to slosh dangerously over the rim. He caught it at the last possible microsecond, his knuckles white.
I turned sweetly to my mother, my voice the definition of pure grace. "Mom, could you pass the sourdough bread, please? It looks incredible."
After dinner, the farewells on the porch took another thirty minutes.
My mother hugged me three separate times, refusing to let go until Theo physically untangled her.
My father reached into his pocket, pressed his spare pair of reading glasses into my palm, and whispered, "You always used to steal these to look smart when you were little. Keep 'em, Ems."
I tried to protest, but he insisted he had four more pairs hidden in the garage.
Abbie demonstrated one final Taekwondo kick, this time at a safe, legally mandated distance from all heirloom lighting fixtures.
Theo stepped up to Ralph, shaking his hand firmly, holding the grip a beat too long as he murmured something quiet that made Ralph nod once in absolute agreement.
As we walked down the concrete path toward the truck, Ralph casually tossed his keys into the air. The familiar silver arc flashed under the streetlights, and I caught them on reflex against my chest.
"Doesn't the official girlfriend get an exemption from driving duty after surviving a family reunion?" I asked, unlocking the driver's side door with a smirk.
Ralph's lips twitched with amusement. He stepped into my space, reached out, and gently pinched the tip of my nose—a gesture so unexpectedly playful and ridiculously childish I stood there blinking in shock while he calmly walked around to the passenger side.
"I highly prefer you driving me, Emma," he called out, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses in the moonlight. "I happen to really like the view from over here."
"I didn't know the great Ralph Brandt possessed such a smooth, dangerous tongue," I retorted, climbing into the driver's seat.
"You'd be profoundly surprised what this tongue can do when it's properly motivated, sweetheart." He flashed a devastating grin and shut his door.
I sat behind the steering wheel, my face on fire, my mouth opening and closing around a witty comeback that flatly refused to form. I started the engine and drove exactly two blocks down the quiet, tree-lined avenue before Ralph told me to stop the car.
"Why? Did you forget something?" I slammed the transmission into park and cut the engine.
The truck plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. Ralph shifted in his seat, looking at me, his eyes dark behind the black frames of his glasses.
"That was dangerous," he said. "What you did under the table."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I think you're imagining things."
"Your foot was on my—"
"Prove it."
He looked at me. The car was quiet except for the engine ticking and the sound of both of us breathing a little too fast.
He proved it.