Chapter Seventeen #2
“You hush about the pickles,” Sadie said, chuckling. “She might hear you through the wind.”
Mary Jane giggled. “Then she’ll pickle me!”
Nora bent to kiss the top of her sister’s head. “Not if I get to you first, you little outlaw.”
Mary Jane squealed with delight, flinging a bit of flour that hit June in the arm. June gave a mock gasp and tossed a pinch back, and just like that, the kitchen lit up with flour-dusted mischief and cheerful voices.
Weston stood at the edge of it all, stunned by the brightness of it. He didn’t belong in a place like this, in warm kitchens, soft laughter, people who leaned on each other without thinking twice. But I want to. Even just to be near it.
His eyes found Nora again. She was wiping flour from Mary Jane’s cheek, laughing as the little girl squirmed and protested.
Her sleeves were rolled up, a strand of hair clinging to her temple.
There was nothing fancy about her; there were no ribbons, no jewelry, just that worn apron and a tired hemline trailing near her bare feet.
And still, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
It was the way she moved in this space that he adored the most. She was capable, kind, anchored, like she didn’t have to work to hold everything together, even though he knew she did.
He watched her tuck that loose strand behind her ear with the back of her wrist, smiling at something Sadie whispered in her ear.
It was a small smile, not for everyone to see.
Yet he felt it land somewhere deep in his chest, and it scared him a little.
Not because he didn’t want it, but because he did.
For a man who’d lost as much as he had, desire like that felt dangerous.
But even so, he stood there, watching her, and the thought came as clear as a bell ringing through fog: I could love her. Maybe not now. Not even tomorrow. But someday. And the thing that rattled him most was how easy it was to imagine.
Weston stood there longer than he meant to, letting the warmth of the room wrap around him like something he hadn’t earned.
None of them had noticed him yet. They were too engrossed in one another, in the flour and the laughter and the kind of ease that came from knowing you were safe.
And he didn’t mind. Watching them was enough.
Just then, Nora turned, reaching for a dish towel, and her gaze landed on him. Her smile faltered just a little, softening into a quiet grin. “Evening, Weston.”
He gave a nod, and added in a low voice. “Evening.”
Sadie turned next, lifting a spoon like it might be used to greet someone. “We were just talking about the fair in town,” she said brightly. “It’s this Saturday. And I promise you, Weston, it’s always a fine turnout.”
Mary Jane’s head popped up from behind a bowl. “And there’s goats, too!” she said with great importance. “And they wear hats!”
“Hats?” Weston asked, pretending to be curious.
June burst out laughing. “One goat wore a ribbon last year. Mary Jane tried to feed it a biscuit and it chased her clear across the yard.”
“I didn’t run,” Mary Jane declared. “I was playing fetch with it.”
The room filled with laughter again, and Weston found himself fighting a smile. He hadn’t smiled like that in a long time, not the kind that tugged up before you had time to stop it.
“They’ve got music, as well,” June added. “Dancing. Pies.”
“And a ribbon contest,” Mary Jane chimed in with sparkly eyes. “You should see the size of the pickles Mrs. Deffner enters every year.”
Sadie laughed. “We’re going. All of us. You should come, too.”
Weston shifted, his hand settling on the back of a chair. His fingers started curling around the wood. The invitation should’ve felt simple and harmless. But it hit something sore.
He could already see the faces, the narrowed eyes, the turned shoulders, the way people got quiet when he passed. Like he carried something contagious. Like whatever they thought they knew about him must be true just because he didn’t bother to explain otherwise.
And maybe he deserved some of that. He hadn’t exactly done much to change their minds. He’d drifted into town like a man with nowhere to be, with a past too heavy to speak aloud. He didn’t need reminding that most folks didn’t take kindly to outsiders, especially not ones with his kind of silence.
He looked down at the table, jaw tight. “I don’t think the folks in town are itching to see me,” he finally confessed.
The air quieted a little. He felt their eyes on him, but it was Mary Jane who spoke first.
“Oh, come on,” the child said, her little voice full of mischief and conviction. “You can’t let them win like that.”
Weston looked at her, surprised by how firmly she’d said it, like she believed it. Like she believed in him.
It shouldn’t have mattered; she was just a child, after all. But something about the way they all sat there, unbothered by the past he hadn’t spoken aloud, made his chest ache in a soft, quiet way.
He wasn’t used to people sticking up for him. Not even in small ways. And yet there she was, flour still smudged on her cheek, talking about fairness like it was something he still deserved.
He glanced around the room again. Sadie wasn’t looking at him with suspicion. June wasn’t whispering behind her hand. And Nora was watching him like she was waiting for the part of him he didn’t show.
He shook his head, trying to push the feeling down before it got too close to the surface. “I’m not worried about winning,” he said. “I’m worried about torches and pitchforks.”
“They’ll get over themselves,” Nora said gently. She was still watching him, and he could see support in her eyes. “It’s a chance to show them who you really are.”
Weston looked at her again, and something about the way she said it sounded like she really meant it. He stared down at the table, at the napkin someone had folded into a clumsy triangle. His chest tightened in that way it did when something good snuck in before he could stop it.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I ain’t much for crowds.”
“We won’t make you dance,” June said, grinning.
“Unless you want to,” Sadie added.
Mary Jane leaned forward on her elbows, cupping her chin in her hands. “Please, Weston?”
He glanced around the table at all four of them, faces full of love and light. Then he looked back at Nora. She didn’t say another word. Just waited for him to say what she was hoping for.
After a beat, he let out a slow sigh. “All right. I’ll go.”
The room erupted into cheers. Even Sadie gave a little clap.
Weston shook his head and sat down at the table. His ears were warm, his voice quiet. “But I ain’t dancing.”
Laughter followed, and to his surprise, it didn’t sting. It didn’t feel like they were laughing at him. They were just letting him be part of something. This is new.
He reached for a biscuit, mostly to have something to do with his hands, but the noise around him kept going.
Women talked about dresses and pie contests and who might show up drunk this year.
Nora caught his eye once, and something in his chest gave a slow, uncertain turn.
It’s just a fair, Crane. Just a Saturday in a small town.
But it felt bigger than that. The truth was, he didn’t know what to expect. Maybe the folks in town would spit in the dirt when they saw him. Maybe they’d whisper behind their hands. He wasn’t looking for trouble, but he knew it had a way of finding him all the same.
Still, part of him wanted to go. Not just because they asked, but because he wanted to see people like Cade again, to show them he was a man worth having his own story written in this town. Maybe even try becoming friends?
He didn’t trust it yet, not the warmth, neither the way the kitchen felt like it could hold him if he let it. On the other hand, the important thing was, he wasn’t walking away.
This time, I’m staying.