Chapter 6 #2
I draw my lips inward, a forced, awkward smile. “Well, my job was a bit different.”
He places the basket on the seat of the golf cart between us, moving with a sort of casual ease I will never master. “But no less challenging, I’m sure. I really admire the work you do. Helping all those kids.”
Heat blooms in my chest. My mom has never said those words to me.
I never needed her to—at least I didn’t think I did—and I guess I’ve always thought our complicated history with the foster system makes it even more difficult for her to be objective, but still, this moment and these words mean a lot.
I can’t say anything. I bite the inside of my cheeks to stop the tears stinging my eyes.
Pierce clears his throat. “You know, Rachelle and I always talked about adopting.”
My eyes flick toward him, focus sharpening. “I never knew that.”
A tiny, crooked half-smile adorns his lips.
“Oh, yes. Rachelle would’ve had a whole litter of kids if I’d let her.
” He sounds a bit like he’s complaining, though his voice is undeniably warm, his eyes glowing like they always do when he talks about her.
“We always said, ‘Maybe once the kids are older.’” The light fades from his face just so.
“But then…you know, work and life got in the way, and it was never the right time.”
“It’s not too late,” I say gently. “I saw plenty of people your age and older adopting.”
He rubs the back of his neck, his brows flicking up.
“Don’t let her hear you say that. I’m this close to retiring in peace.
” He exhales a tiny laugh through his nose.
“No, no, the babies are all on you kids now. They keep her happy and young, keep me spending.” He taps a finger on his knee.
“Speaking of, I hear we’re hoping for a new little Morning soon. ”
A faint prickle of heat hits the back of my neck. “We hope so, yeah. He wasn’t supposed to tell.” We never said that, though, to be fair. I guess I just assumed we were on the same page. Simon may as well have taken out a front-page ad.
“He’s just excited,” he tells me through a low, breathy chuckle.
Just as the house comes into sight, Pierce leans away from me, digging into his pocket again. He pulls his phone out, eyeing the screen, then blows a breath of air from his lips.
My gaze slides over to the screen, but he places it face down before I can make out what it says.
He parks the golf cart next to the house and waves me on. “You go on inside. I’ll be right behind you.”
Inside, everyone seems to be heading for the dinner table at once. I wash my hands at the kitchen sink before helping Rachelle by carrying the bowl of mashed potatoes to the table.
Today, the kids’ table is empty and has been pushed to the side of the room. Their chairs are squeezed in between ours, including Ruby’s high chair, which she’s busy announcing that she hates.
“Ruby, sweetie, we don’t hate,” Rachelle coos over the noise.
“Well, I do. I’m a big girl.” She slams her fists on the tray.
“That’s for babies, right, Mom?” Jett asks, watching Vic scoop a helping of cooked carrots onto his plate.
“You’re not helping, son,” Duncan tells him, ruffling his hair.
I squeeze in between Simon and Jett, scooting my chair up toward the table carefully. Jett’s swinging his legs under his chair so hard I’m convinced he’s going to topple it over if he’s not careful.
“That chair used to be mine,” Monty informs us all. “Isn’t that right, Nana?”
Rachelle beams. “It sure did.”
“’Cause I was the first.”
“Yes, that’s right,” she agrees, taking her seat at the head of the table. She looks over her shoulder, lips formed into an O. “Simon, where’s your father?”
“I don’t?—”
“He was outside,” I answer for him. “He said he’d be in soon.”
I notice a flash of worry on her face. Or maybe I imagine it?
Across from me, Monty cuts his chicken with a fork and knife like a seasoned professional, despite being in second grade. Jett, on the other hand, has taken to spinning his already-cut chicken in circles on his plate.
He jerks to the side, straight into me, as Ruby shoves a piece of bread his way, trying—I think—to offer him a bite.
“Ruby, honey, your brother doesn’t need bread in his ear.”
Jett, delighted by that image, promptly offers up his ear. “Yes, I do.”
Ruby pushes the bread against the side of her brother’s face, and both kids fall into a fit of giggles. Soon, most of the adults are laughing too.
Simon’s hand finds my waist under the table, stroking my skin gently.
“Hey, Ruby.” Duncan leans around Vic to beam at his daughter. “Look, shove it in your cheek, like a squirrel.” He tears off a small piece of the gluten-free focaccia and stuffs it inside his cheek, making a face.
Ruby’s head falls back with laughter, and soon, she and Jett both have cheeks full of bread.
“They’ll choke,” Vic warns, watching them nervously.
“I can do the Heimlich,” Monty says. “We learned it in school.”
“Well, that’s…efficient,” Vic mutters, eyeing Polly, who just snorts.
Preston reaches for the bowl of potatoes next to Polly, dropping a spoonful onto his plate before he passes the bowl to Duncan. “Where’s Dad?”
“Outside, apparently,” Rachelle says, her voice dry.
“Hurry up with those, would you, Squirrel Boy?” Simon teases Duncan from our end of the table. “I’ve been waiting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you withering away, Princess?” Duncan asks, moving purposefully slower.
“Squirrel Boy!” Jett cries, delighted, and again we lose the kids to fits of laughter.
Vic shoves her finger into Ruby’s cheeks, prying the bread free and easing my own set of worries.
All around, the room buzzes with noise—silverware clinking, children laughing, adults overlapping stories, and the men trading insults.
It’s the loud, steady hum I associate with all Morning gatherings.
Comfort and exhaustion wrapped into one single beat.
Across the house, the front door slams closed. A creak and a thump. The whole table falls silent, and even the ball of energy that is Jett goes still for a split second.
Pierce steps into the dining room, eyes distant, steps slow. I hold my breath, waiting.
Then it washes away all at once.
His smile returns, his eyes finding focus. “Sorry I’m late.” He kisses the top of Rachelle’s head. “Smells delicious.”
Preston watches his dad, giving a quick nod of acknowledgment. Pierce returns it—small, quiet, yet loaded with meaning I don’t understand. They always feel like part of their own secret club.
My stomach dips a little as he takes his seat, a flicker of worry, and then the chaos returns.
“Ruby’s in a baby seat, Grandpa,” Jett announces.
“Am not!” Ruby argues, slamming her fork down.
“You missed Squirrel Boy,” Monty says, laughing at his own joke.
Pierce lifts the tongs, choosing a piece of chicken as he casts a quick glance toward his grandson. “Squirrel Boy, hmm? Sorry to have missed him.”
The kids fall into laughter again, and the room seems to warm as if someone has flicked on the light.
Platters move around the table. Ruby demands more potatoes, though she hasn’t touched anything else on her plate.
Monty relays his lesson on the Heimlich to us.
Jett devours a third roll, dipped in his potatoes.
It’s loud and messy and somehow still perfect. One day soon, our child will be part of this. I can’t help smiling at the idea of watching them run and play and laugh with their cousins. Watching them so wholly be accepted by this chaotically warm family. It’s a dream.
My dream.
Still, as we settle further into the meal, I can’t stop my eyes from traveling to the end of the table, where Pierce is eating silently. Preston, too, is keeping an eye on him, entirely focused. Worried, maybe?
I force a smile and pass the salad bowl when Rachelle asks for it, acting normal. At ease.
Even as everything in me screams something is very wrong.