Chapter 7
Ruby
I have been planning this for three weeks, and it is going to be magnificent.
The pastel balloon arch alone took four hours.
It's pink and blue and lavender. Twisted into a frame I anchored to the clubhouse doorway with zip ties and sheer determination while Candace held the ladder as Sloane read the instruction video out loud from her phone like a woman narrating a hostage negotiation.
The banner reads IT'S A KID! in hand-painted letters, because it is a kid, technically, and because specificity is the backbone of comedy.
The gift table is draped in a pink tablecloth I liberated from a baby shower at the Willowridge Country Club six months ago, and on it sits a stack of tiny onesies I modified by hand to fit a pygmy goat.
Nasty Nash Jr. is in his sparkly collar, tethered to the leg of the picnic table in the yard, eating a paper plate.
The clubhouse is losing its mind.
"I am NOT holding that animal," Kyle says.
He's backing away from the gift table as Nasty Nash Jr. strains toward him with the single-minded focus of a creature who has identified his nemesis and will not rest until every pair of boots in that man's closet has been consumed.
"Ruby. Ruby. Get your goddamn livestock away from me. "
"He's a baby. We're celebrating him. Show some respect."
"THAT ANIMAL IS DRAWN TO EVIL AND I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND."
"He's drawn to you, Kyle. Make of that what you will."
Rider is next to Kyle with his arms folded, shaking his head slowly, doing absolutely nothing to help.
Darla is laughing so hard she has to grab East's arm to stay upright.
The pregnancy is visible under her sundress but not slowing her down yet.
East has one hand on her shoulder and the other wrapped around a beer.
His face caught between genuine amusement and the kind of helpless glee that happens when the woman carrying your children is laughing too hard to breathe.
Knox is standing by the grill with his arms crossed and a look that says he is above this, which is a lie, because Knox Turner has never been above a damn thing in his life.
Sloane is already handing him a spatula.
Malachi sits at the head of the long table with Candace tucked against his side, his mouth doing that thing where it goes completely flat because he's fighting a smile that would damage his presidential gravitas.
James and Maggie are in their usual chairs, Maggie already unpacking enough food to sustain a small country, James watching the chaos with the quiet amusement of a man who has seen everything and decided to enjoy it.
Frankie is sitting cross-legged on the bench with a coffee, grinning into the mug every time Kyle screams. Amelia is beside her, laughing openly, her phone out like she's documenting the whole thing for blackmail purposes.
Victor is leaning against the fence with Olivia tucked under his arm, both of them watching the goat situation unfold with the expressions of people who have seen actual criminal enterprises and find this somehow more chaotic.
Arden is at the edge of the yard near the tree line, arms crossed.
If I didn't know better, I'd say he's amused, but with Arden it's hard to tell because his face has two settings: still and stiller.
And Nash is at the wall by the clubhouse door, arms at his sides, watching me.
His cut hangs open over a black T-shirt that fits him in a way I'm going to need to stop noticing.
The fabric pulls across his chest and shoulders every time he shifts his weight.
His jaw is set. His eyes are on me. I hold his gaze across the yard, and he doesn't look away.
Doesn't blink. Just holds, steady and warm until my stomach flips and I'm the one who breaks first.
My face hurts from grinning. The plan came together, everyone I love is in the same place, the balloon arch is holding, and the goat is alive. This is the best day I've had in weeks.
My eyes drift back to the wall. Nash is still watching me. My grin widens before I can rein it in.
"Okay!" I clap my hands. "Baby shower games. First up. Pin the tail on Nasty Nash Jr."
"That's not a real game," Knox says from the grill.
"It is now. I made the poster." I hold up the hand-drawn poster of Nasty Nash Jr. in a diaper and a crown. "Candace, you're first. Sloane, blindfold her."
Candace pins the tail on Kyle's back, which I am choosing to count. Darla wins the "guess the goat's weight" game by being the only person who picked him up, which East objected to on the grounds that she should not be lifting things. Darla overruled him with a look that could have dissolved steel.
"Musical chairs," I announce, dragging folding chairs into a circle in the middle of the yard. "Kyle, Rider, Frankie, Amelia, East. Five players. Four chairs. Let's go."
"Why me?" Kyle asks.
"Because you're afraid of the goat, and I think that's going to be relevant."
"What does that mean? Ruby. What does that mean?"
I hit play on the speaker. Dolly Parton.
"9 to 5." The five of them circle the chairs while the yard watches.
Frankie moves with the calm precision of a woman who has never lost anything in her life.
East is already trash-talking. Rider keeps pace, head down, focused.
Amelia is laughing before the first round even starts, and Kyle keeps glancing at her instead of watching the chairs, which is information I'm filing away for later.
I kill the music. All five dive. East shoves Rider sideways and drops into a chair. Frankie sits without breaking stride. Amelia slides into the third. Kyle and Rider scramble for the last one. Rider gets there first. Kyle is out.
"ROUND ONE?" Kyle throws his hands up. "I lasted one round?"
"You were looking at Amelia instead of the chairs," Frankie says.
Kyle's face goes red. Amelia bites her lip and looks at the ground, but her shoulders are shaking.
"I was NOT—I was assessing the competitive field."
"You were assessing something," I say.
I pull a chair. Round two. Dolly keeps playing. Frankie is out next, which shocks no one more than Frankie, who stares at the chair East stole from under her like she's considering arson. Round three takes out Rider, who accepts elimination with a nod and goes to stand next to Kyle.
East and Amelia. One chair. The yard is invested. Darla is chanting East's name. Kyle is very quietly chanting Amelia's, which he thinks nobody notices. Everybody notices.
I kill the music. They both lunge. East gets there first, drops into the seat, and throws both arms up in victory.
Amelia stumbles, catches herself on the back of the chair, and lands halfway in East's lap.
East freezes. Darla raises one eyebrow. Amelia scrambles up, laughing, face flushed, and Kyle is already at her side with a water bottle he produced from absolutely nowhere.
"You okay?" he asks earnestly. Slightly too fast.
"I'm fine, Kyle." She takes the water. Their fingers brush on the bottle, and Kyle's whole posture lifts an inch.
That's when Nasty Nash Jr. reaches the end of his lead, lunges, and headbutts Kyle directly in the shin. The sound Kyle makes is not a word. It's something between a yelp and a war cry that starts in his throat and ends somewhere in the tree line.
"SON OF A BITCH." He grabs his shin, hopping on one foot. "THAT'S IT. I want a restraining order. An actual restraining order. Ruby, your son just committed assault."
"He's Nash's son. Take it up with the father."
Amelia is covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes bright, and the laugh she's trying to hold in is shaking her whole body. Kyle looks at her, shin in hand, and his expression shifts from outrage to something softer when he realizes she's laughing. He stands up straighter. Let's go of his shin.
"I'm fine," he says. "That didn't hurt."
It absolutely hurt.
Halfway through the games, I glance toward the wall and Nash has moved. Closer to the picnic table. Closer to me.
"And now," I announce, holding up the final gift, "the pièce de résistance. The guest of honor's custom wardrobe."
I cross the yard to Nash. He watches me come.
His eyes start at my face, drop to my mouth, trail down to my legs, and come back up slow enough that the heat of it reaches me before I reach him.
I stop in front of him. My pulse is hammering.
His hands are at his sides. I think about those hands in my hair, around my throat, and my breath stutters.
I hold out the tiny onesie.
It reads NASTY NASH JR. in iron-on letters across the front.
"For your son," I say. "Congratulations, Dad."
His eyes drop to the onesie. Come back up to mine. His gaze slides to my mouth, stays there a beat too long, and my skin goes warm from my collarbone to my ears.
"He's not my son."
"He has your name. Lives at your clubhouse. He terrorizes your warden. By Mississippi common law, that's a dependent."
"Mississippi doesn't have common law dependents for livestock."
"That sounds like something a man in denial about fatherhood would say." I press the onesie into his hands. Our fingers brush. "You're welcome."
He folds the onesie with a single, precise motion and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.
He keeps it. My chest aches.
The cookout kicks in after the games. Knox mans the grill making burgers and dogs. Maggie's potato salad and her cornbread, which should be classified as a controlled substance, make an appearance. The long table fills. Plates pass. Voices layer.
Nash is at the end of the picnic table with a plate Maggie put in front of him. Burger. Fries. He hasn't touched it.
I walk past him on my way to the cooler. My hand drifts toward his plate. My fingers close around a fry.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, thumb pressing into the soft skin where my pulse is slamming. The grip holds me in place without any effort at all.