Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
By the time the sun slipped low behind the trees, John and Tuesday were debriefed as much as I dared.
Not the full truth—God, nowhere near that—but enough.
Enough for them to nod in tense agreement, enough to buy me time.
The rest, the pieces too fragile to hand over just yet, would have to wait until we were back in LA.
Together we left their cabin, following the worn dirt path toward the lodge. John and Tuesday walked a few steps ahead, the baby snug against Tuesday’s chest, John’s stride clipped and shoulders tight, another reminder that he was still not happy about the whole situation.
Dean and I lingered behind, his fingers threaded through mine, squeezing now and then like he could feel my pulse racing and wanted to remind me to breathe. I clung to that quiet reassurance like a lifeline.
The closer we got, the more the night seemed to close in around us. Laughter spilled across the lawn, weaving with the clink of glasses and bursts of conversation. Garlic, spice, and woodsmoke thickened the air until my mouth watered involuntarily.
String lights glowed between the trees, leading us to the deck, where long rows of picnic tables were draped in butcher paper and piled high with steaming mounds of crawfish, corn, sausage, and potatoes.
The place buzzed with messy, joyful chaos—the kind of gathering that made the lodge feel less like a resort and more like a family home.
Chairs scraped as we approached, and half a dozen voices called out greetings. Word of John and Tuesday’s arrival had traveled fast, and everyone shouted their hellos.
“Over here!” Mr. McHenry boomed, waving us over with an eager energy that left no room for refusal.
A moment later, I found myself seated across from John and Tuesday, Dean on my left, Mr. McHenry on my right at the head of the table. Plastic bibs were passed around, and I tied mine quickly, trying to appear less uncomfortable than I felt.
Names flew back and forth as people leaned in to introduce themselves—Mr. McHenry being the first, followed by Dean’s uncle, aunt, and a few cousins.
John and Tuesday smiled and nodded, but I caught their uncertain glances—the confusion on their faces when they realized Dean’s entire family was here.
“Vivienne,” Mr. McHenry said, leaning his elbows on the table as his voice became low and conspiratorial. “Tell me—have you ever eaten a crawfish before?”
Everyone around us became quiet, and I glanced across the table at John and Tuesday. “No, sir,” I admitted. “Can’t say that I have.”
A wide grin split Mr. McHenry’s face in two. “Well then, you’re in for a treat.”
His expression became serious as he reached into the heap, sorting past sausage potatoes, and corn, until he finally plucked a crawfish out of the pile with his bare hands.
“Pinch the tail,” he instructed me. “Twist, then pull.” His eyes were steady on mine as he demonstrated the motions.
He leaned a little closer, mischief lifting his expression.
“Then you suck the head, Vivienne. That’s where the flavor is. ”
I let out a small croak, half shocked, half repulsed—and the entire table erupted in laughter, including John and Tuesday, who were the only two at the table who knew just how far out of my comfort zone this really was.
“Go on,” John challenged me, arms crossed at his chest. “I dare you.”
My spine went rigid, heat sparking low in my chest. I shot him a warning look, but it only made his grin widen. Typical. Tell me I couldn’t do something, and suddenly it became the only thing I could think about.
I turned back to Mr. McHenry, squared my shoulders, and reached into the pile for the smallest crawfish I could find. Steam curled up from the mound, the shell slick and hot against my fingers. I fumbled through the steps he’d shown me—pinch, twist, pull—but the thing wouldn’t budge.
“Pinch harder,” Mr. McHenry coached. “Don’t baby it.”
Under the table, Dean’s fingers brushed my knee—subtle, grounding. His faint smile told me I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to.
I twisted, then pulled—and finally the tail released.
Mr. McHenry nodded, then mimed the last step with his mouth and fingers.
My heart thudded so hard that I thought I might pass out, but I moved the head to my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut, and sucked.
Spice and heat, and juice rushed down my throat, fiery but…
delicious. I opened my eyes, triumphant, and threw my arms up in the air while coughing from the spice at the same time.
Laughter and applause broke out around the table, warm and approving, as people offered napkins and patted me on the back.
Beside me, Dean caught my eye and winked—his smile was laced with pride and made me blush.
But there was something else there, too.
Something I didn’t dare name. His gaze held mine just long enough to make my stomach twist and for the world around us to blur—the laughter, the chatter, the soft chirp of crickets in the distance—until it was only him, looking at me like this was more than just a game.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because I could feel myself starting to believe it. To want it.
I swallowed hard and looked away, pretending to busy myself with a napkin, pretending I hadn’t felt the ground shift under my feet a thousand different ways this week.
I couldn’t afford to read into looks or lingering glances. I knew how this ended. And the closer we got to it, the more I felt myself brace for the fall I knew was coming.
So, I smiled, careful and practiced, forcing the air back into my lungs. This isn’t love, I repeated in my head, over and over again.
“Well?” Mr. McHenry asked, beaming over at me and pulling me from my thoughts. “What’d you think, Vivienne?”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and downed half the beer someone had pressed into my hand. “It’s definitely an experience.”
The table rippled with laughter, and I finally braved a bite of the tail meat. When I glanced up, even John was smiling—his shoulders softer now, as though the weight he’d carried into the night had finally loosened its grip.
Voices began to tumble over one another, and everyone began eating.
Dean’s aunt took it upon herself to coach John and Tuesday through the whole process of eating crawfish, and for the first time all evening, I felt myself relax.
Tuesday and John fit in perfectly—smiling and joking with Dean’s whole family—as though they’d been folded into the chaos all week.
Then suddenly, my heart pinched in a quiet, unexpected way. Because I could see how easily our worlds would have blended with one another.
I glanced over at Dean and found him watching me too, his eyes steady on my face as though he’d been thinking the same thing. Wondering what it would have been like if we’d met under different circumstances. If our relationship wasn’t built on a foundation of lies.
Then he leaned in and smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth meeting my cheek, “watching you eat that crawfish might’ve ruined me a little bit.”
My breath hitched, and I smiled. “Is that so?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lifted back to my eyes. “Your hands were a mess, hair in your face—yet somehow it was the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You have a strange definition of sexy,” I said. “I was just trying not to drop the thing or choke.”
Dean smiled—that deep, knowing kind of smile that always seemed to see right through me. “I’m serious,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I could watch you do just about anything and not get tired of it.”
His words lingered—warm, unflinching—and for a moment it felt like the rest of the world had gone quiet. His hand slipped away, but the memory of his touch stayed, steady and grounding in a way I hadn’t realized I needed until it was gone.
Then the sound of the table rushed back in—laughter, chatter, the clink of bottles. I straightened in my seat, blinking back into the moment, just as Mr. McHenry’s voice carried over the noise.
“Now that you’re here,” he said to John, his eyes glinting with mischief as they flicked between the two of us, “you must appease an old man’s curiosity. We’ve been telling stories about Dean all week—it’s only fair you share one or two about Vivienne.”
My stomach dropped, and I shot John a warning glance, shaking my head and hoping he'd get the message.
For a second, he seemed to. His lips pressed together in a thin line, his eyes flicking down to the food on the table.
His expression changed in a way that caused my stomach to tighten—because I knew what he was thinking.
There were too many stories between us that he couldn’t tell at this table.
Not surrounded by laughter and light and people who’d never know what it meant to go to bed hungry or to count bruises instead of blessings.
Then something flickered across John’s face. I saw it in the way his grin faltered—just barely—as though a shadow of his past had blocked out the sunlight. He looked at me then—really looked—and I knew he was remembering, too. The dark corners, the nights we both remembered but never spoke about.
A flicker of resolve crossed John’s face, and his expression changed. He cleared his throat and turned back to Mr. McHenry.
“Vivienne…” he began, hesitating just long enough for my stomach to tighten. Because hearing that name from his lips made me still. The sound of it—so practiced, so foreign—landed wrong.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though the whole table might see through me—through both of us, through the careful mask I’d been wearing since the moment we arrived.
Shame and gratitude twisted together in my chest. Because it was then I realized John—of all people—was helping me keep the lie alive.