15. Cyaire
Cyaire
Earth, Wind & Fire’s September blasts from outdoor speakers somewhere behind me, the familiar opening horns rolling across the backyard before disappearing into a chorus of laughter, splashing water, and children shrieking as they race around the pool with dripping Popsicles clutched in sticky little hands.
Someone is singing along, badly if I’m being generous, and judging by the cheers that follow, nobody seems to mind.
I shake my head, smiling to myself as screams erupt as Cupid Shuffle blares from the speakers and everyone rushes to the end of the lawn to perform the all-too-familiar choreography.
Jamie’s parents’ house sits on a quiet stretch of Seattle waterfront, tucked behind towering evergreens that offer just enough privacy without stealing the view.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the back of the house, reflecting the afternoon sun as they open onto an expansive cedar deck that stretches the length of the property before giving way to a perfectly manicured lawn.
Beyond it, Puget Sound sparkles beneath an impossibly blue July sky, while a private dock extends into the water where two boats sway lazily against their moorings, their ropes creaking softly each time a passing wake reaches shore.
Farther out, sailboats drift across the bay with American flags fluttering behind them as the Seattle skyline rises in the distance, softened by the summer haze.
The entire backyard smells like charcoal, barbecue sauce, fresh-cut grass, and the salt carried inland by the breeze rolling off the water.
It’s spectacular, overflowing with joy and love, lived in, and enjoyed.
It feels like a home built to be filled with family, laughter, and afternoons exactly like this one.
If I had to guess, Jamie wouldn’t have allowed his parents to spend a dime moving across the country.
Everything I’ve learned about him over the last few weeks tells me he’s exactly the kind of man who would quietly buy them the home they deserved without ever making a production out of it.
It wouldn’t be about the house itself. It would be about giving something back to the people who spent their lives making sure he had every opportunity to chase his dream.
Yeah, that’s my Jamie. When exactly he became my Jamie, I can’t say. He simply did.
Long buffet tables stretch beneath the covered portion of the deck, disappearing under enough food to feed half of Seattle.
Every inch of the white linen tablecloth is covered with serving dishes overflowing with golden macaroni and cheese, collard greens simmered low and slow, candied yams glistening beneath toasted marshmallows, baskets of warm cornbread and buttermilk biscuits, crispy fried chicken, racks of slow-smoked ribs, brisket so tender it falls apart beneath the serving fork, potato salad, baked beans, deviled eggs, fresh watermelon, peach cobbler, chocolate cake, apple pie, banana pudding, and at least three dishes I don’t recognize before somebody appears from the kitchen carrying yet another tray, somehow finding room for it anyway.
Every time I think the buffet has finally reached its limit, another family member emerges from the house balancing a fresh serving dish and somehow manages to squeeze it onto the already overflowing table.
Jamie’s mother has personally handed me three separate plates since I arrived.
By the third one, I have no more room left.
“I swear I’m full,” I plead, throwing my hands up in surrender.
She plants one hand on her hip and fixes me with the kind of look only mothers seem capable of perfecting.
She’s shorter than I expected, her salt-and-pepper braids gathered into an elegant updo above a pair of black-rimmed glasses that frame the same warm brown eyes Jamie inherited.
A dusting of freckles stretches across the bridge of her nose and spills onto the tops of her cheeks, softening an expression that’s equal parts affection and absolute authority.
A floral maxi dress disappears beneath a well-worn apron, a striped tea towel slung casually over one shoulder before she reaches for it to wipe her hands.
“Baby, you got room for peach cobbler,” she says, ignoring my pleas with a bright smile.
“I promise you, I don’t,” I say, patting my overstuffed belly.
She gives me a look that suggests she has heard every excuse imaginable over the years.
“You’ll find room or I can always send some home with you and Jamie.” She nods her head at her words, pleased with my silence. How can I argue with that?
Judging by the knowing laughter that ripples around the table, everyone here has apparently lost that particular argument before me. Around here, saying you’re full is treated less like a statement and more like the opening move in a negotiation you’re destined to lose.
Now I’m stretched out in one of the lounge chairs beside the pool, convinced I won’t need to eat again until sometime next week, watching the afternoon unfold around me like I’ve somehow wandered into someone else’s favorite childhood memory.
Across the patio, Cameron has somehow become the unofficial entertainment committee.
A little girl has one of his hands, a young boy hangs confidently from the other, and two more children are attempting to teach him dance moves he is failing with remarkable enthusiasm while Tazja laughs so hard she nearly drops the drink in her hand.
Most people take one look at Cameron and see the broad shoulders, mirrored sunglasses, the earpiece, and the expression that politely discourages unnecessary conversation.
I’ve always known better. Beneath all that professionalism is one of the kindest men I’ve ever met and seeing him laughing with Jamie’s family instead of standing stiffly at the edge of the yard eases something inside me.
He gave up spending today with his own family to be here protecting me, yet somehow the Maxwells have managed to make him feel like one of their own anyway.
Watching him actually enjoy himself makes that sacrifice feel a little easier to carry.
My eyes find Jamie almost immediately. He’s standing beside the grill with his father, one of his younger cousins balanced comfortably on his hip while another little boy tugs impatiently at the leg of his shorts, determined to steal a hot dog before it’s ready.
Jamie catches him just in time, laughing as he gently redirects the little boy back toward the picnic table while his father continues turning burgers and ribs over the grill.
Somehow he’s holding three conversations at once, keeping one curious toddler entertained, stopping another from helping himself to lunch, and laughing at something his father says without missing a beat.
It all looks so effortless that I can’t help smiling.
This isn’t Seattle Vipers forward Jamie Maxwell.
This is simply Jamie, a son, grandson, and cousin.
A man completely at ease in the middle of the people who love him.
As though he feels me watching him, Jamie glances across the yard until his eyes find mine.
The smile that spreads across his face comes easily, warm and completely unguarded, and something inside me answers it before I have the chance to think.
For just a second, the noise around us fades into the background.
There are dozens of people filling the backyard, music pouring from the speakers, children running in every direction, yet somehow it feels like it’s only the two of us looking across the distance between us.
He lifts his free hand in a small wave before turning back to whatever story his father is telling, and I realize I’m still smiling long after he looks away.
I haven’t had a day like this in years. Most summers find me somewhere else entirely, moving from one city to the next, one country to another, another hotel room waiting at the end of another flight.
If I’m lucky, Julian and Malik manage to steal a weekend between concert tours and filming schedules, and we squeeze every hour we can out of it before one of us has to leave again.
Somewhere along the way, family became something we scheduled around work, around distance, around life.
Here, though, nobody has asked me about my next movie.
Nobody has wanted a picture or treated me like Hollywood’s newest golden boy.
To them, I’m simply the man Jamie brought home.
They don’t care about box office numbers, red carpets, or magazine covers.
They care whether I’ve eaten enough, whether my drink needs refilling, and whether I’m comfortable.
Somehow, that’s the role I’ve wanted more than any I’ve ever played.
“Mind if I join you?”
The voice pulls me gently from my thoughts.
I glance sideways as a younger version of Jamie lowers himself onto the lounge chair beside mine, still damp from the pool.
Water drips lazily from the hem of a pair of navy board shorts while he rubs a towel through a freshly faded haircut that catches the afternoon light.
He’s lean where Jamie is broad, still carrying the long limbs and slightly angular features of someone who hasn’t quite filled out yet, but the resemblance is unmistakable.
The same easy smile that seems to come naturally, without effort or calculation.
The same warm brown eyes Jamie jokingly calls the Maxwell eyes, though on this younger face, they hold a brightness that speaks of possibility rather than the careful restraint I’ve learned to recognize in his older brother.
Even sitting beside me in nothing more than a white tank top and flip-flops, droplets of chlorine water still beading on his shoulders, he already carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s headed.
“I’m guessing you’re Jacques.”
He grins, leaning back on the lounge chair with a satisfied groan. “Guilty.”