Fallon
Chapter thirty-six
Parade around town
Are we really about to do this? I can’t do this. It’s too much, too soon. The entire county is here—and then some—both sides of the street are brimming with neighbors, friends, and out-of-towners. The Fourth of July celebration is one of the largest, most highly celebrated events in the state.
Why did he make me think this was a good idea? If this town isn’t talking about us yet, they’ll surely be burning the candle at both ends to spread the word after today’s display.
I slink down in the passenger seat as Cyrus cranks the A/C, a pointless attempt to cool us down. I can’t even tell if my palms are sweaty from the condensation of my tea, ice now melted from the blistering heat, or the anxiety from the attention we’re already receiving.
There is no possibility of hunkering down in this contraption.
Jonah, Amos, Cyrus, and the kids worked for two days straight alongside Jules and me.
The smile comes naturally; we had so much fun building a caged box to resemble a jail cell in the truck bed.
At the same time, Jules and I broke away from the manual labor to fill bags with candy for everyone to toss out of the windows.
Why couldn’t Cyrus drive one of the stereotypical cars the Chief of Police drives in the movies?
You know, one of those cruisers with tinted windows?
At least that way, I could have had a chance of hiding.
For years, I’ve skirted the questions about who fathered Billy. All it’s going to take are the kids side by side in the back in their cute little matching outfits.
The parade official steps up to our truck, curdling the breakfast in my stomach. Ignorant of the prejudice I’ve suffered, Cyrus is grinning from ear to ear as Mr. Anderson looks between us. He’s going to have a coronary.
“Mr. Anderson, Happy Independence Day, Sir.” Cyrus pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. Mr. Anderson mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch. Cyrus stiffens. The air charges around him, the tension between the two men palpable.
His patience exceeds its limit with the mayor. He is now transitioning into that role, a role I am unsure about letting him take on. “Are you going to say good morning to Miss Lawson and I, or should we find you a coffee to perk you up a little?”
Mr. Anderson’s face twists into a mask of indifference, unaccustomed to anyone questioning his behavior. Skimming his clipboard, his cheeks take on a ruddy color.
“Morning, Chief.” His eyes dart my way, his contempt barely hidden. “Miss Lawson.”
Cyrus’s grin turns feral at his annunciation of miss. “Can’t wait for the day people stop callin’ her Miss Lawson like she doesn’t already belong to me.”
I choke on my sweet tea.
Oh, my God.
The look Cyrus gives me after saying it sends heat curling low in my stomach, possessive and certain enough to steal the air from my lungs. He can’t just claim me in front of people like that.
…Can he?
Mr. Anderson clears his throat before straightening from the window, ignoring Cyrus entirely.
“Things are getting started in a moment.” He gestures to the Salvation Army float ahead of us. “Wait until that float is clear of Maple Street. Safety is our top priority today.”
“Sure thing.”
He taps his binder on the window as he walks away.
“Jonah, have some decorum; you’re with kids.” Piquing my interest, we twist in our seats toward the open window.
Cyrus’s voice carries easily to the truck bed. “What was that all about?”
The kids, ever the adorable eavesdroppers, inform us before any of the adults can. “Jonah put his finger up to Mr. Anderson when he walked by,” Billy says, adorably pointing to her middle finger to demonstrate.
I narrow my eyes, waiting. He shrugs, “I didn’t care for his attitude.
” My heart melts. Jonah is defending my honor, and Cyrus is claiming me.
This, this is what I’ve been missing—a community.
Jules pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, sliding conspicuously closer to Jonah.
He notices and smirks. I wonder if they are ‘on again.’ Those two go back and forth so often, it gives me whiplash.
Making a mental note to find out later, I give Jonah the smile he deserves for abashedly defending my honor.
In perfect synchrony, we turn to the rubber ducky float disappearing around the corner. The lyrics to the Bad Boys theme song drifts out of the truck to the crowd as Cyrus turns the dial on the speaker.
Fingers intertwined with mine, he lifts our clasped hands, his warm lips brush against my knuckles.
His words skate over me. “While everyone’s eyes are on us today, I want your eyes on only me.
” I don’t look over. I don’t want to chance glimpsing my reflection in his glasses.
Why would I want to know what mortification and goofy love drunk looks like on my face?
The four of us wear different versions of the same shirt. Mine is strapless, the fitted top blending seamlessly into a floor-length skirt, claw marks slashed across the bodice with the American flag layered beneath them.
Billy and Liam wear matching versions with dark denim jeans, both of them painfully adorable.
And Cyrus…
Dear God, this man.
His tank is nearly identical to mine except for one detail—the back. Across his shoulders, in bold block lettering big enough for the entire county to read, is one possessive, humiliating word:
FALLON’S.
Jules quite literally fell out of her lawn chair when she saw it this morning.
One second she was sipping coffee, the next she was folded in half in the grass, laughing so hard tears streamed down her face while I stood there horrified, my cheeks burning hot enough to rival every shade of beetroot imaginable.
“I am dying to know what you’re thinking right now, freckles,” Cyrus calls over the music, his thick Southern drawl sliding over my skin like warm whiskey.
God help me, that voice does sinful things to my body.
“Secrets aren’t meant to be shared, darling.” I drawl out the syllables of ‘darling,’ to play with him.
“Seriously, though, where did you find our shirts? These aren’t the ones they had in town, I know. I looked.”
“Are you impressed?”
I shrug. “If I were, you would be the last to know.”
He looks indignant for a second, his hand covering his chest before clasping my hand again. “I told Mrs. Meadows that I would volunteer my services for ladies’ BINGO night at the church the entire month of August if she would make them.”
“An entire month?”
“What can I say, baby? The ladies love me; she requested I wear my swimming trunks and baby oil.”
“But BINGOS at night.”
“Precisely,” I snort, realizing he’s joking with me. It’s easy to laugh with him. That’s the problem. He still has that gravity around him—the kind that pulls without asking. I sit in the passenger seat and let myself lean into it, even though I know better.
Brightly colored candies rain down around us while both sides of the street overflow with lawn chairs, cheering families, and neighbors wrapped in sunlit embraces. Something inside me softens at the sight of it all.
Cyrus lifts my hand and presses another kiss to my knuckles. “Come on, Sugar,” he murmurs, grinning beneath his sunglasses. “Let’s give these people something to talk about.”
Heat blooms in my chest as we grab handfuls of black-and-white striped candy bags labeled COMMISSARY and toss them into the crowd.
The entire truck erupts into chaos—singing, waving, laughing loud enough to rival the music echoing through downtown. For once, I don’t even let the sneers Jordan and her little entourage shoot our way sour the moment.
Nothing could.
This is easily one of the happiest days of my life, and judging by the way Cyrus keeps looking at me like I hung the damn moon, I think he feels it too.
No one gets to rain on our parade.
After we empty the last few boxes of candy into eager hands, Cyrus parks the truck along Main Street downtown.
He and Jonah make an unnecessarily dramatic production out of ‘releasing the prisoners’ from the painted jailhouse in the truck bed while the crowd laughs and snaps photo’s on their phones.
Cyrus, especially, seems far too excited to announce to everyone within hearing distance that the ‘dangerous twins’ are officially back on the streets.
The sun hangs low over town, bathing everything in a soft wash of gold as dusk slowly settles around the celebration.
Billy and Liam are already out on the makeshift dance floor, twirling together like they don’t have a care in the world.
Funnel cake sugar clings to one’s cheeks, while the other sports a streak of dried mustard like it’s some kind of badge of honor.
Lani finds them laughing, takes a hand from each, and spins them beneath the string of lights as they all dissolve into laughter.
Everyone is happy tonight.
Even the air feels lighter.
A local country band plays somewhere near the courthouse steps, their music drifting through the warm evening and threading through the crowd like something gentle and familiar. The smell of fried food lingers on the breeze, sweet and indulgent, like summer refusing to let go.
I don’t realize I’ve said anything out loud until Cyrus shifts beside me on the blanket, leaning in close enough that his voice brushes against my ear.
“Perfection’s not even close to the right word for you, Sugar,” he murmurs, low and certain. “There isn’t a word big enough to hold what you are.”
My breath catches.
My fingers lift to my parted lips as I turn my head, meeting his eyes.
He looks at me like he means every single word. Like there isn’t a single part of him holding back. It hits something deep in my chest—soft, sharp, overwhelming all at once—and my eyes sting before I can stop them.
Cyrus doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for me slowly, like I might disappear if he moves too fast, and cups my jaw with a steady hand.
Then he leans in, pressing a quiet kiss to my forehead that lingers longer than it should.
When he pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression now—something certain.
“Please do me the honor of this dance.”
His blue eyes are dazzling as they hold mine, composure crumbling; I inhale on a hiccup. His gaze lingers with quiet reverence, and something inside me tips forward, helpless and inevitable.
The desire to dance with him tips my head in agreement, my bottom lip slips between my teeth as I nibble on it to have something to ground me.
He leads me onto the dance floor as the band slows the music down to a love song I know well.
Cyrus spins me around; time not diminishing how well we dance together, picking up where we left off all those years ago.
He spins me out, pulling me back into his arms, and we glide together around other couples.
As the song progresses, a little jingle in the melody makes Cyrus’s face morph into one of understanding.
“Fallon, this is the doorbell chime at your house.”
“Mm.” I glance over his shoulder, watching the kids dance with Lani. Avoiding his knowing gaze.
“Fal- honey, this is.” His words trail off, and I know. He remembers.
“The last song we danced to on our prom night, yes.” I confirm.
His eyes zero in on me, the smile plastered on his face, nothing short of breathtaking. I watch his expressions change as the pieces fall together. “How long have you had it as your chime?”
“Always.” My voice is small and uncertain, and the fear of scaring him off forces my facial expressions and emotions down, closing that part of me off. I peek up at him; his eyes hold such sincerity that I fear I may fall in them and never recover.
“Stop hiding from me, Fal,” he whispers against my hair.
“Hiding?” I tilt my head, feigning innocence, though we both know better. It isn’t that simple—not after everything. Not when letting him close still feels like stepping off a ledge, I used to swear I’d never approach again.
He leans in anyway, thumb brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His lips ghost mine in a quick, teasing kiss—barely there, but it lingers like he left something behind. The heat he created doesn’t fade.
“Every time you’re near me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine, “everything else gets a little quieter. A little less real. You’re…impossible to ignore, Fallon.”
Something in my chest tightens.
I force a grin. “Impossible to ignore, huh? Guess you clean up pretty well yourself, McCoy.”
A flicker of something darkens his expression—amused, intent. “Brace yourself, woman.”
“Oh--” I start to ask. I don’t get the rest out. His hand finds my jaw, steady and certain, and he kisses me—this time for real. No hesitation. No teasing. And just like that, everything else disappears.
The crowd. The music. The vendors calling out over the noise. The world itself blurs at the edges until there is only him, and the way he holds me like he’s always known exactly where I belong.
Somewhere behind us, fireworks crack open across the night sky.
Purple and Gold.
Even with my eyes closed, I feel them—sharp bursts of color painting the dark. When I open them again, they spill across the sky in waves of purple and fire, blooming over the mountains like promises too big to hold.
I lean into Cyrus’s chest without thinking. His arm tightens around me, warm and grounding, like he’s been holding me together without realizing it. My heart won’t slow. My thoughts won’t stop circling the kiss, the way it felt, the way I already want the next one before this one has even ended.
Around us, the kids and Lani cheer at the sky’s display, voices rising and falling with each explosion of color. Billy laughs somewhere to my left. Liam shouts something I can’t quite make out over the noise.
It should feel overwhelming. It does. And still, I don’t pull away from it.
I swallow down the edge of panic that tries to rise, letting it dissolve into the moment instead. Into the noise. Into the light. Into the warmth of Cyrus’s arms around me. A single breath steadies me.
Because this—this chaos, this noise, this imperfect, beautiful—it’s everything I’ve ever wanted without realizing I was allowed to want it.
His hand drifts down my arm, slow and absentminded, like he needs the contact as much as I do. He presses a soft kiss into my hair.
And something in me finally settles.
Not falling.
Not spiraling.
Just…still.
Like the world after a storm.
And in that quiet, undeniable certainty arrives without warning:
Even after all this time…
I am still in love with Cyrus McCoy.