Chapter 34
If Pigs Could Fly
I did it. I committed the most reckless act of love I could think of: I made brisket. On three hours of sleep, with sore arms and sawdust in my hair, I pulled off a twelve-hour gamble involving smoke, meat, and my last shred of pride. If nothing else, it’ll sedate Gavin into a food coma so deep, he won’t have to think about Olivia for the next ten hours.
But when six rolls around and he’s not home, my stomach knots.
I call Yumi at Venture Haus. She tells me Gavin is holed up in his office, the door shut, showing no sign of leaving.
“Tell him there’s an emergency,” I say.
“An emergency?” she asks, skeptical.
“Yep. At the house.”
Fifteen minutes later, I hear a car door slam, the crunch of gravel, the sound of someone running toward something they care about.
Then the front door swings open.
“Ava?” he calls, already halfway down the hall. “What’s going on? You didn’t answer your phone.”
He’s breathless. His hair mussed. Chest rising fast beneath a soft, black tee. His eyes scan the house, sharp and worried.
And suddenly I feel the weight of what I’ve done—not just the trick, but the gesture.
Not just the food, but the invitation.
I take his hand. He’s warm and real and here, but he hesitates, still not sure there isn’t a crisis or a trap.
“Come with me,” I say.
Outside, I let go of his hand and step aside.
The madrona trees catch the last light of day, all copper and flame. The sea below murmurs against the rocks. Somewhere in the distance, one of the goats bleats, offended, maybe, that they weren’t invited.
I’ve dragged the patio table into the middle of the backyard, lit it with floating candles and strings of flickering votives overhead. The good china is out. Bottles of his favorite beer gleam with condensation. The outdoor fireplace glows beside us, throwing golden light across the seagrass.
The air smells like smoke and brisket, and something sweeter and tangier underneath—a secret barbecue sauce I didn’t even know I had the wherewithal to make.
He stops. Takes it all in. For a moment, he says nothing, then, “Who is all of this for?”
“You.”
“You did this for me?” he asks, softer now.
I nod. My heart is a cannonball rolling down a hill. My throat is full of words I haven’t figured out how to say.
He stares at me, quiet.
“I’m so sorry, Gavin. I heard about Olivia and Quinn. And I’ve been… awful. I was so busy being angry, I couldn’t see you were trying to protect me. You’ve been trying to protect me all along. You’re always looking out for everyone. Patricia. Jared. Isabel. Micah. Me.”
My voice catches. I didn’t plan this part. I didn’t expect to feel so much.
“I just wanted to do something for you,” I whisper. “Even if it’s small. Even if it’s just dinner.”
He exhales. A breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in his chest for days.
“There was no way you could’ve known,” he says. “When we drove to Vancouver, I’d heard the news, but Olivia wouldn’t confirm it. The next morning, I had messages from reporters—well, vultures—asking for confirmation. Some even offered me money.”
I wince. His voice is steady, but it hurts him.
“That’s why I’ve been distant,” he adds. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone. I almost told you on the road trip. But I didn’t even have all the pieces yet.”
I remember that call. The way he looked out the window, like the truth was too dangerous to touch.
“It’s humiliating,” he says. “But now that it’s out, I’m relieved.”
He glances away, and for a second, he looks younger, lighter.
“Maybe this will help,” I say, stepping aside.
Slow-smoked barbecue brisket glistening under the lights, okra fried to a perfect crisp, jalape?o purple potato salad with crème fra?che and vinegar.
It’s not fancy. But it’s mine. And it’s his. And it’s ours, somehow.
He steps forward. A grin curves slowly across his face.
“It’s all my favorites. How’d you know?”
“A little birdie told me.”
“Mom,” he says, knowingly. “I haven’t eaten in three days, so I’m making up for that tonight.”
“Good. I made enough to feed you and the goats.”
We take our seats, Gavin at the head of the table, me at his right. We fall into a rhythm, passing plates and pouring drinks, like we’ve done this every night for years.
And maybe, in some quiet universe, in another lifetime, we have.
He tries the brisket first, then the potato salad. Washes it down with cold beer. Turns to me. His eyes are soft, open, and clear.
“Like?” I ask.
“Love,” he says. His voice is low. Sure. The way you sound when you mean it.
He takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. Then glances over at me.
“This sauce is incredible. Where’d you learn to make it?”
The question opens a door in me I didn’t know was closed.
“My dad,” I say quietly. “He made it every summer. Said it came from his dad, a butcher in Texas, who traded two full briskets for the recipe from a guy named Papa Dee, whose barbecue was legendary. But Papa Dee never gave my grandfather the amounts, just the ingredients. Dad used to joke that the sauce was part science, part séance. You had to feel it to make it.”
I look down at my plate, then back at Gavin. “I think that’s what this is, tonight. It’s me trying to take care of someone the way he took care of me.”
Gavin doesn’t speak right away. Just reaches across the table and touches my hand. It’s the gentlest thing. The kindest.
Watching him eat, seeing joy return to his face like sunlight spilling through a window, I feel it hit me:
He deserves this. The care. A night without armor. And not just because he’s generous, because he’s good. Deeply, impossibly good.
This is what I know how to do. Feed the ache. Turn heartbreak into hunger, and hunger into something warm and shared. Kiki said it. Gavin did, too. And maybe now I believe them.
We eat like we haven’t in weeks. We talk about everything: music, dreams, the story of his escaped goats. Everything except Olivia and Quinn.
It’s the best time I’ve ever had with Gavin.
Maybe the best time I’ve ever had with anyone.
And I realize, with a sharp tug in my chest, that I don’t want it to end.
When we finally stop laughing long enough to breathe, I stand.
“I have one more surprise.”
He arches a brow. “There’s more?”
“Come on.”
I take his hand and lead him past the trees to the studio.
Warm light spills through the studio windows, soft and golden, like it’s beckoning us.
Gavin stops short. His breath catches. “I don’t even know what to say.”
Inside, the transformation is complete. Thanks to Duke and half the island. The smell of citrus oil and fresh-cut cedar still lingers.
The grand piano is uncovered, shining under the lights. The custom mixing board is connected and glowing in the sound booth.
But what stops him is the guitar. His guitar. Resting beside the stool under the suspended mic.
He steps forward, awestruck. “You did all this?”
“With a lot of work from all the islanders you’ve helped. They were happy to return the favor.”
When he picks up the guitar and strums it, I can tell he’s remembering the night at Doe Bay, when he sang I’m Not the Man I Want to Be.
“You give so much to everyone else,” I say.
He crosses the room slowly, running his hand along the polished edge of the mixing board, then across the keys of the piano. He presses a single note: a clean, resonant C.
I want to say something comforting, or profound, or maybe even flirtatious, but what tumbles out instead is this:
“I thought maybe after losing the love of your life, you could use a space that gives something back.”
He doesn’t move. His hand hovers just above the piano.
Then, he says, quietly, “Olivia was never the love of my life.”
“Oh,” I say, and it’s all I can manage, because the air between us suddenly feels dense with meaning. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
The silence stretches between us, thick as honey. I swear, if he touched me right now, I’d combust.
“Okay, great, so… dessert?”
He turns, his mouth twitching at the corner like he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Dessert,” he echoes, his voice lower now, a shade rougher.
Outside, I glance over my shoulder. He’s still behind me, and his eyes haven’t left me—not once.
We walk the short path, our footsteps crunching softly over the gravel, between the studio and the main house in silence, but it’s not empty. It’s charged; every step pulsing with the words we haven’t said.
At the porch, I push open the screen door. I don’t have to look to know he’s close. I can feel him, steady and electric.
“Dessert needs to be served warm,” I say, stepping inside with a slight wobble that’s part wine, but mostly the way he’s been watching me all night.
“You do have room for dessert, right?”
“Who needs six-pack abs,” he says, his voice low, amused.
“That’s the right attitude,” I laugh.
I open the oven and pull out the pièce de résistance: chocolate croissant bread pudding, golden at the edges, the custard set and gleaming. The scent alone could break hearts. I dust it with powdered sugar as Gavin watches, quiet now, brow furrowed like he’s trying to solve something.
“Is that—?” he asks.
“Your great-grandmother’s If Pigs Could Fly Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding,” I say, grinning.
“That’s impossible,” he replies.
“Clearly it’s not.”
“Mom always said it’s a secret recipe and she would never give it to anyone but family …” He trails off, a smile building on his face.
I am smiling, too. The Jones family is my family. And, taking care of Gavin in his time of heartbreak feels like what family would do.
“I really want us to be friends,” I practically whisper.
“What if I don’t want to be friends?”
He reaches up, brushes powdered sugar from my chin with his thumb, slow and deliberate. My breath catches. I try to answer him, but one needs air to speak, and I can’t seem to find any. I glance up at him. I can’t tell whether he’s thinking about kissing me or asking for a fork, so I change the subject as I cut into the dessert.
“Gavin, why didn’t you invite me to your engagement party?”
His hand lowers, but his eyes stay on mine. “Because I thought you’d be a distraction.”