5. My Knees Have Left the Chat
MY KNEES HAVE LEFT THE CHAT
Sadie
The back porch of the main house overlooking the grounds, had always been one of my favorite views in the world.
Between the ocean, the hills covered in vines, and the green pastures filled with grazing animals, it had always given me a sense of peace.
Tonight, however, I stepped out into it, the air strung taut with the salt of the harbor and the sweetness of wedding cake.
I was a bundle of nerves. I slid my hands down my torso, feeling the awkwardness of my borrowed dress courtesy of Selma, a human misfit piece jammed by force into a puzzle where every other edge fit just right.
The reception was a living thing, a current of laughter and clinking glasses, children darting underfoot, guests chatting, dancing and enjoying the open bar.
I stood on the porch, frozen, hugging a sliver of shadow along the railing.
I was acutely aware of myself as an interloper; everyone here belonged to some constellation of family or community, and I was a returning ghost, still haunted by this town and all its people.
One in particular.
Dawson Lockhart.
My eyes automatically tracked to him. He was on the dance floor with a woman across the sea of farm tables and fairy-lit trellises, a hundred yards and a thousand memories away. I thought I was prepared to see him again, but apparently, I wasn’t.
The second I laid eyes on him, my knees went weak to the point that I thought they might give out beneath me.
My heart stopped. Just stopped. There was a sucking sound in my chest, as if my ribs had collapsed, and suddenly the world was nothing but Dawson Lockhart.
The noise of the party faded to a distant, watery roar, the clatter of plates and the buzz of wine-loosened conversation sank into the lavender-flecked dusk.
Time stood still. The earth tipped, and I hung, for the first time in years, in the gravity of him.
He looked good. So good I had to swallow twice before I could remember how breathing worked.
He was taller than I remembered—maybe it was the way he carried himself now, shoulders squared and head unbowed—the thick brown hair, the strong jaw darkened by a day or two of stubble.
He wore a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. The woman in his arms was beaming up at him, but he wore the broody expression he used to get when he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He looked the same, if you squinted—the same hazel eyes, the same slanted dimple in his left cheek—but he was completely different, like someone had rewritten his DNA when no one was looking.
“Hello, beautiful!” The voice crashed in from my left, loud and friendly as a pair of arms scooped me up and spun me bodily off the ground before I could so much as squeak. I braced for impact, but instead landed on my feet, dizzy and windblown and face-to-face with Damon Lockhart.
At least, I was ninety-nine percent sure it was Damon. He and Dean were mirror images—same brown hair and brown eyes, same devil-may-care grin—but Damon had a way of broadcasting his arrival like a parade of trombones while Dean preferred to stay under the radar.
“Hi!” I managed, trying to keep my composure, though I was shaking like a leaf. Damon beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners.
He whistled, looking me up and down with open approval. “Wow, New York looks good on you.” Damon cradled my upper arms in both hands.
His hands were big and warm and astonishingly gentle, especially given that he was using them to shake me the way a labradoodle might shake a beloved chew toy.
“I can’t believe you are here!” he said, giving my shoulders a final, affectionate squeeze before releasing them.
“Still as beautiful as ever. You look exactly the same, Sadie.” His gaze was guileless, the smile that split his face as broad and open as I remembered.
A laugh escaped me. “My crow’s feet would disagree with you.”
“You mean your smile tracks? Nah, all those are just proof you are living a happy life.” He looked ready to launch into a string of compliments, but thought better of it and pulled up short. “What brings you back, anyway? Last I heard, you were living the big-city dream in New York.”
The question landed harder than I expected.
I glanced at the barn, at the twinkle lights strung over the arbor, at the crush of happy, half-drunk faces I didn’t recognize.
I’d known I’d have to answer that question tonight, but the words still felt foreign in my mouth.
“It’s Buddy,” I said. “He’s in the hospital. Heart attack and stroke.”
Damon’s face fell, all traces of flirting vanished. “Shit, Sadie. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. “I saw him earlier. He’s stable, at least for now.
I just got off the phone with the ICU, and they told me he was sleeping.
” I tried to make it sound like good news, not the devastation that had blindsided me and was imploding my life. “I’m going to head back there soon.”
Damon exhaled, relief sagging his shoulders. “I’m glad he’s okay. I can’t imagine him staying down too long. He’s too stubborn to let something like that take him out. That man is a legend.”
His statement was oddly comforting. Damon had always had a way of saying the right thing at the right moment, like feelings were facts, not emotional landmines.
“And you’re here crashing the wedding for old times’ sake?” He wagged his eyebrows.
“Oh, no, I um…” I found myself suddenly stumbling over my words. “I just got into town this morning and ran into your mom. She pretty much—”
“Kidnapped you,” Damon finished, chuckling, although I knew he wasn’t kidding.
“Insisted on me coming back here,” I corrected. “She said that your brother was getting married. I remember her talking about him.”
“That’s right. Deacon. The prodigal son has returned.” Damon motioned over to the groom dancing with the bride.
The resemblance between the brothers was uncanny. Selma’s genes were definitely strong. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for her that she has all her boys together.”
I sensed Damon was gearing up for another round of small-town reunion interrogation when a familiar voice sliced through the space between us—Selma Lockhart, who could out-maneuver, out-love, and outlast anyone in Valentine Bay.
She materialized at my side with the uncanny speed and silent tread that only mothers and apex predators possess, her hand already on my forearm before I’d registered her approach.
“Don’t you two just look thick as thieves?” Selma chimed. “Did you let Sadie get a word in edgewise, Damon, or did you overwhelm her with charm?” The mock-stern expression she shot her son would have made even the most hardened cowboy wither, but Damon just grinned widely.
“I was just welcoming her back,” he said, and for once left it at that.
Selma turned back to me, her gaze scanning my face, and I felt the full force of her motherly radar. “How was your nap, honey?” she asked, her voice dropping into the register reserved for lost pets and wayward children. “Was the room okay? Did you have everything you needed?”
I felt my cheeks warm, not quite used to the way she could make me feel like a daughter-in-law at a family reunion I didn’t remember RSVPing to. “I, um—couldn’t really sleep,” I admitted, rubbing the side of my neck. “But I did rest, and the room was perfect. Thank you so much.”
Lying in Dawson’s childhood bed, in his childhood room, had been a little bit of a mindfuck, especially since it was as if it had been hermetically sealed and nothing had changed.
The same photos, posters, books and trophies that had filled the space when Dawson was in high school were still there.
It was as if I’d stepped into a time machine.
Selma nodded, as if this confirmed something she already suspected, as she took my hand in hers and patted it. “That’s all right, mija. You have a lot on your plate. Have you heard any updates on Buddy?”
“I just spoke to the hospital. They said he was sleeping.”
“Well, in that case, you should come and enjoy the party.” There was a twinkle in her eye that made the suggestion feel more like a matchmaking plot than a wedding party invite.
Damon sensed my hesitation and did what he did best, took control of the situation and put everyone at ease. “You know what this party needs?” he asked, extending an elbow like a game show host. “A waltz.”
A smile of gratitude tilted on my lips as I took his arm, and he guided us down the porch steps.
We walked into the barn, all soft lantern light and golden hum, but the energy on the temporary dance floor was unmistakable.
I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to dance, but because my nerves were strung up like the twinkle lights overhead and every cell in my body wanted to run and hide behind the nearest ice sculpture.
“Shall we?” Damon held out his arm.
Sensing my reservations, he claimed, “It’s a scientific fact that dancing increases endorphins.” I smiled up at him, and he winked. “If you’re not careful, you might even have fun.”
I didn’t think ‘fun’ was in the cards, but I’d settle for surviving with my dignity intact by not embarrassing myself.
I took a deep breath, and we stepped onto the edge of the dance floor, which was crammed with bodies of people I didn’t recognize. The music shifted to an upbeat, bouncy, and infectious melody, and the crowd’s mood swung with it.
Damon wasted no time. He pulled me in with a drama-king flourish, hand pressed to my lower back, the other finding my palm.
I was so startled I forgot to resist, lost my footing, and laughed in a wild little hiccup as he spun me into the beat.
We twirled around the floor, him taking the lead and pulling out moves I’d only seen on Dancing with the Stars.
When a slow ballad came on, Damon slowed us to a sway, then dipped me just enough to make me clutch at his arm.