Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
I BET YOU LICK COUCH CUSHIONS TOO
LOUISIANA
Three months later
Three months out, and Henry’s still grumbling about how I robbed him of his eloping fantasy. He brings it up with that shit-eating grin, but underneath it, I can feel the sting. He wanted to claim me—loud, fast, and without apology. Hell, part of me wanted it too. Still does.
But I don’t regret putting the brakes on. Not one damn bit.
Because when Maddox and Evie brought Vivi home, everything shifted.
The second they stepped through that door with her bundled in pink, tiny fists waving like she was already claiming her place in the world, it hit me—we weren’t just building a life for the two of us.
We were shaping one for all of us. For Dallas.
For this messy, hard-earned, bruised-up kind of family we were trying to grow into.
The house was full—full of people, full of noise, full of all that messy, beautiful chaos that only happens when blood and chosen family collide.
There was laughter echoing off the walls, someone passed around cheap champagne in Solo cups, and Aunt Joe wouldn’t stop cooing over the baby like she wasn’t the same woman who once knocked out a grown man for talking slick about her cooking.
And in the middle of it all stood Dallas.
Still. Quiet.
He held back like always, watching from the corner like he didn’t quite believe he belonged.
His hands were stuffed in the pockets of that fraying hoodie Aunt Joe patched up twice already, and his eyes—those guarded, too-old-for-his-face eyes—were locked on the bundle Maddox held like it was something too delicate to be real.
That baby wasn’t his, but you’d never know it by the way he looked at her. Like she was the most dangerous, fragile thing in the world. Like he knew what it was to lose someone that small. Because he did.
Henry wrapped his arm around my waist then, pulled me against him with that quiet strength that always makes me feel steadier than I am. I felt the rise of his chest, the tightness in his grip, the way he was watching Dallas with a look that said he understood. Maybe better than I ever could.
“He’s something special isn’t he?” Henry rumbled into my ear.
“Fuck yes he is.”
The months slip by and soon the scent of roasted turkey, brown sugar ham, and Aunt Joe’s famous cornbread dressing hits the second you step inside her house.
The windows are fogged with heat, the kind that only comes from too many people in one house and an oven that’s been running since dawn.
Outside, autumn’s got its grip on the world—cool, crisp, and smoky with the faint snap of burning leaves—but in here, it’s all noise, heat, and home.
I’m planted on the living room rug, back pressed against the couch, with Vivi perched like a queen on my crossed legs. She’s wearing her Thanksgiving dress, the one with pumpkins on the collar, one fist is crammed in my hair.
Chaos. Soft, sticky chaos.
Laughter echoes from the kitchen—deep voices, clanging silverware, and the wet slap of dishwater.
Dallas is in there with the rest of the Wilder boys, sleeves rolled up, aprons on, elbows covered in soap bubbles because Aunt Joe declared long ago that no man under her roof eats without learning to clean up after himself.
“Honestly, I think Maddy might do it better than any of us,” Merc calls out from the recliner. He’s splayed out like a man after battle, pants unbuttoned and a nap already trying to pull him under.
“Jesus Christ, can you not?” I shoot him a glare over Vivi’s curls. “There’s a baby on my lap and a fork halfway to my mouth.”
“What?” He lifts his hands like he’s innocent. “You don’t want to hear how your boy licked—”
A chair scrapes. Hard. Sharp. The kind of sound that cuts through chatter like a blade.
Heavy footsteps thunder across the hardwood. Merc’s eyes go wide just before Maddox barrels into view, all fury and heat and purpose.
“Shit—Sugar!” Merc yelps, launching out of the recliner with an agility I didn’t know he still had. He grabs Evie from her place on the couch and practically shoves her in front of him like a human shield. “Don’t let him kill me!”
Maddox is on a warpath, eyes blazing, fists already clenched like he’s trying to keep himself from doing something regrettable. The look on his face could stop a stampede.
“Maddox Cole! Don’t you dare ramsack my house!” Aunt Joe’s voice booms from the kitchen, sharp as a slap.
“Mama!” Merc whines, ducking behind Evie like a child caught stealing cookies.
“Oh, Mama’s outside,” Maddox says, slow and dangerous. “Ain’t nobody coming to save your little ass.”
Evie stands there, arms spread, laughing so hard she has to brace herself against the coffee table. “Come on, big guy,” she manages between giggles. “He was just teasing you.”
“Move, Evie,” Maddox growls, low and tight.
Merc tightens his grip around her like she’s a life raft and he’s ten seconds from drowning.
“Come on,” Evie says, still snorting. “He’s just messing with you!”
Maddox takes another step, towering over her, shadows cast long across the rug.
“I said fucking move.”
Oh shit, big guy. You just fucked up.
Evie’s laughter cuts off like a switch flipped. She lifts her chin, eyes narrowing to slits. “I seem to recall you licking a dresser once, Maddox.”
A beat of silence.
Then Merc absolutely loses it, as I sit there ready to throw up.
“Oh my God! Do you also tongue the couch cushions she sits on?”
Maddox lunges, but Evie holds him back with one hand, still laughing, while Merc yells and scrambles away down the hall.
Somewhere in the chaos, a lamp crashes to the floor. Dallas yells from the kitchen, “Don’t touch the pie!”
Vivi giggles and claps, oblivious to the madness.
I take a breath, feeling the noise and mess wash over me—the scent of pie, the clatter of broken things, the laughter and shouting all tangled together like family should be.
Later that night, bellies full and the air thick with warmth and leftover cinnamon, Maggie calls us all into the living room for her annual Thanksgiving tradition—Give Damn Thanks.
We groan like we always do, but we still do it anyways.
The fireplace crackles in the corner, casting soft flickers of gold across the worn hardwood.
Someone’s left half a slice of pie on the side table, and Vivi’s blanket is curled in a forgotten pile near Maddox’s boots.
There’s a fullness in the room—not just in the space, but in our bones.
In that deep-down way that comes from surviving another year, together.
“Alright,” Maggie says, standing in front of us with the old fishbowl she’s used since we were kids, the little slips of paper inside fluttering like restless confessions.
“You know the rule. No generic ‘I’m thankful for family’ bullshit.
If you say family, you better say what about them you’re thankful for. ”
She reaches into the bowl, pulls a name, and grins.
“Charlie.”
He’s halfway through unwrapping a butterscotch when his name’s called.
The poor kid adjusts his glasses, cheeks pink, and glances over at his mama—Evie, nestled between Maddox and Merc on the couch.
Vivi’s passed out on Maddox’s chest, her tiny body rising and falling with his breath, one little fist curled against his black flannel shirt.
Evie catches Charlie’s eye and gives him a wink, quiet encouragement in her tired smile.
Charlie adjusts his glasses before he clears his throat. “I’m thankful my mama didn’t die that day,” he says, voice soft but steady. “Not because I’m a mama’s boy, but because…she’s my mama.”
A ripple of stillness passes through the room. Dallas leans his head against my arm.
Maddox reaches for Evie’s hand without hesitation, his fingers swallowing hers in a grip that says everything he can’t.
“Although, I’m still mad y’all wouldn’t let me see her in the hospital until she woke up,” Charlie adds with a quick flash of mischief that cracks the tension like a spark in dry grass.
Laughter bubbles up. Because it’s true—he had pitched a fit, paced the house like a storm looking for a place to land.
“I’m also thankful for my dad,” Charlie says, and his voice wavers just enough to make the room hold its breath again.
“I know some people see him as this big, scary guy—but when I look at him, I see someone who chose to love us when he didn’t have to.
I hope when I grow up, I get to be that kind of man too. ”
My throat tightens. I don’t even try to stop the tear that slips down my cheek. Henry notices. Of course he does. His hand finds my thigh, squeezes once, grounding me.
Across the room, Maddox shifts just enough to let Charlie into his arms. The hug is quick and hard—like real men do when words aren’t enough. Vivi stirs but doesn’t wake.
Maggie clears her throat, the edge of her voice scraped raw by emotion. “Alright, next up…”
She pulls a slip, eyes already braced. “Merc.”
Before the man can so much as adjust in his seat, Maggie lifts her hand like a warning shot.
“Nothing vulgar, and nothing that’s going to piss off your brothers or Louisiana.”
Merc lifts both hands like he’s been caught with a lit match. “Yes ma’am.”
Then stands with a dramatic huff like it’s a chore, but the look in his eyes already gives him away. There’s a glint there—something playful, but real beneath it.
He scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat, buying himself time. “I had a whole speech about being thankful for bourbon and blo—I mean women, but apparently mama wants this to be PG-friendly.”
“Mercy James,” Maggie warns, but she’s already smiling despite herself.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters. “Guess it’s my turn to say something sentimental and uncomfortable.”
The room chuckles, low and knowing.
He rubs his palm on his jeans and looks at Henry first.
“I haven’t ever called you Dad. Still won’t.
” He shrugs. “But that doesn't mean you weren’t him for me. You taught me how to stand up straight, how to tell the truth even when it made my voice shake, and how to look a man in the eye when I’ve got nothing left but fists and pride.
You did all that while still being just a kid yourself. ”
Henry doesn’t move, but his jaw tightens, just barely. I take his hand in mine giving it a gentle squeeze.
Then Merc turns to Maddox. His grin fades.
“But Maddox…”
He pauses, presses his lips together like he’s chewing the next words.
“You didn’t raise me. You didn’t tell me right from wrong. Hell, you barely knew it yourself some days. But you were there. Every scrap, every bad decision, every bruised knuckle—I looked beside me, and there you were. Bloody and wild, same as me.”
He huffs out something between a laugh and a breath as he runs a hand through his blonde hair. “You didn’t teach me how to be a man. You taught me how to survive being a boy.”
The room goes still.
“You taught me how to take a hit, and when to throw the next one harder. You taught me how to keep moving when it all felt like it was going to crush me. You taught me to swing, even when I couldn’t win, just so they knew I’d never go down easy.”
Maddox’s eyes don’t leave his.
“You were my best friend. You still are. You were the one there beside me in the mud. When I was pissed off and scared and had no clue who the hell I was—you were there. Bleeding with me. Laughing with me. Fighting for me.”
He huffs a dry laugh, his voice wobbling. “I give you shit, Maddy, because you’re the strongest son of a bitch I know. And If I’m half the man you are when this life is done chewing on me—then I’ll know I did something right.”
Merc takes a breath, like the weight of those words pulled something loose from his chest. Then, softer, “I love you, brother.”
Maddox doesn’t speak. Just shifts Vivi gently off his chest, sets her in Evie’s waiting arms, and stands.
Then Maddox closes the distance in one long step, arms wrapping around Merc with a fierce, bruising hug—bone-deep and raw, the kind of embrace that carries every unspoken word they’d never dared voice as boys. Their breath mingles, chests rising and falling like the steady beat of a silent promise.
When they finally pull apart, the room feels heavier—full of something fragile and fierce all at once. Maggie blinks back tears, cheeks flushed, and swallows hard.
“Damn, Maggie,” Aunt Joe says, her voice thick with warmth, “they just had to inherit that bleeding heart of yours, huh?”