Chapter 11
Ryan
Ryan had been in loud rooms before. Barracks. Airfields. Briefings that turned into arguments. None of them prepared him for the sound that hit when he and Taylor stepped through Emma’s front door together.
“They’re dating!” Emma shouted from the foyer like a town crier announcing a royal decree.
Taylor made a distressed noise that might have been his name. Ryan bit back a laugh and shut the door behind them, bracing for impact.
The impact arrived in the form of his mother first. She swept in with her apron still dusted in flour, eyes bright and already glossy. “Sweetheart,” she said to Taylor, taking her hands. “Finally.” Then to Ryan, with a pointed look. “About time.”
His father clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle a rib. “Took you long enough, boy.”
“Good to see you too, Dad,” Ryan said, steadying himself.
Cousins popped up from the living room like prairie dogs. An uncle leaned over the back of the couch. Someone whistled. Someone else said, “Pay up,” and a crumpled ten changed hands near the mantle.
Ryan arched a brow. “You people placed bets?”
“Of course we did,” Aunt Lila said cheerfully, pulling Taylor into a hug. “We are a family of realists. And romantics. Realistic romantics.”
Taylor’s face had gone pink. She mouthed help at him over Aunt Lila’s shoulder. He grinned and held up both hands in surrender. He had warned her. There was no gentle entry into a Carter dinner once Emma had a piece of gossip.
“Kitchen,” Emma said, steering them like a tugboat, the baby balanced on her hip and glee in her eyes. “Mom made three chickens, two pans of potatoes, and whatever that green thing is that appeared next to the salad.”
“Green beans,” his mother called. “Do not fear them.”
The table was already set, candles flickering, platters steaming. Ryan pulled out a chair for Taylor and took the seat beside her. She gave him a quick, grateful look that tugged at something in his chest he did not want to examine while relatives hovered.
“Ground rules,” Emma announced, planting herself at the head of the table like a general about to brief her troops. “We will keep teasing at a level that does not make Taylor run away. There will be no baby name suggestions yet. And no one is allowed to say I told you so.”
A cousin raised a hand. “Counterproposal. One I told you so each.”
“Denied,” Emma said.
Ryan hid a smile. Taylor pressed her napkin to her mouth to smother a laugh. The room settled as people took their seats, plates were passed, and the first volley arrived from his father.
“So,” his father said, carving a chicken with unnecessary flourish, “which one of you made the first move?”
Ryan took a roll. “Define move.”
Taylor choked. Emma slapped a hand on the table, delighted. “Knew it. I knew it would be him. He has been mooning at the café windows like a watchdog.”
“Watchdog?” Ryan repeated dryly.
“Loyal. Growly,” Emma said. “Snacks motivated.”
“Accurate,” Taylor murmured, eyes dancing.
His mother leaned in with the bowl of potatoes. “Was it the coffee shop kiss I heard about from Mrs. Abernathy?”
Ryan paused with the serving spoon. “You heard about that already?”
“This is a town,” his mother said. “News travels faster than the internet.”
Uncle Dave wagged his fork. “I saw it on the neighborhood Facebook group. There were three angles and a slow-mo edit.”
Taylor dropped her forehead to her hand. “I am moving.”
“No you are not,” Emma said, gleeful. “Sit in your joy.”
Ryan served Taylor potatoes and slid the plate back to her, brushing his knuckles against her wrist. Small touch. Calming touch. She gave him a look that said thank you and I cannot believe your family all at once.
His father poured wine and passed the bottle down the table. “Ryan, you remember Tommy Myers from the shop?”
“Unfortunately,” Ryan said.
“Tommy asked me this morning if your girl needs a security detail now that she has two admirers,” his father went on, deadpan. “I told him yes. A very large one. With your name on all the jackets.”
“That man once glued quarters to the gas station floor,” Emma muttered. “No one should take advice from him.”
A cousin leaned forward, eyes bright. “Speaking of admirers. Are we going to talk about the secret scavenger hunt? Because I would like to congratulate whoever is doing the old-fashioned courtship thing. Bold. Slightly creepy. But bold.”
All eyes flicked to Taylor. She tensed almost imperceptibly, then relaxed. Ryan felt the shift and wanted to reach under the table for her hand.
“It has been nice,” she said carefully, sliding her gaze to the mashed potatoes. “Thoughtful. Very…personal.”
Emma waggled her brows. “And yet somehow, Ryan still wins the town vote.”
Ryan took a sip of water. “Mandate from the people.”
Taylor elbowed him, which felt like victory.
“Speaking of votes,” Aunt Lila said. “How did the tally go at the café?”
“Unethical,” Taylor said quickly.
“Historic,” Emma countered.
“Landslide,” Ryan offered.
His mother dabbed her eyes. “I always knew you two would find your way. The way you used to bicker. It was textbook. He only bickers with people he can’t stop thinking about.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Ryan said.
“And Taylor only ever got that particular shade of pink when someone said his name,” his mother added, unhelpfully and accurate.
Taylor covered her cheeks with both hands. Ryan felt his mouth twitch. The urge to drag her chair closer rose like a tide. Not the time. He settled for nudging his knee against hers under the table. She nudged back.
Plates circled. Stories started. Family dinners worked like a current. Once you were in, you drifted with it. Tonight the current rushed toward memory.
“Remember when Ryan taught Emma how to drive in the church parking lot?” Uncle Dave said. “We needed hazard pay.”
“I learned,” Emma said, proud. “We only hit two cones.”
“Three,” Ryan corrected.
“Two cones and a trash can,” Taylor added, laughing now.
His father pointed his carving fork at Taylor. “You were there.”
“She filmed it,” Ryan said. “For leverage.”
“Historical documentation,” Taylor said primly.
“She has always been the responsible one,” his mother told the table. “We should have put her on the insurance.”
“Actually,” Emma said, stabbing a green bean, “Taylor was also the one who climbed on the diner counter to fix the jukebox because she didn’t like the playlist. Then she fell off in the middle of a tap dance and sprained her ankle.”
“Y’all have a faulty memory. I broke my big toe.”
“Speaking of diner,” a cousin piped up. “Are the rumors true? Slow dance by the jukebox last night?”
Emma gasped. “You danced?”
Ryan tried to outpace the heat at his collar. “We swayed. A little. There was a song.”
Taylor took a very serious drink of water. “Purely hypothetical swaying.”
“Hypothetical in full view of half the town,” Uncle Dave said. “I saw a video with ketchup bottles in the foreground.”
“Why does this town film everything?” Taylor whispered.
Emma leaned across the table, eyes shining. “Because we love you. And because Kyle from the hardware store thinks he is a director.”
His father clinked his glass. “To hypothetical swaying.”
Everyone lifted their glasses. Taylor hid a grin behind hers. Ryan lifted his along with the rest because resisting was pointless.
“To Ryan not being an idiot,” Emma added, then pointed her fork at him. “And to Taylor not running away even though my brother has the subtlety of a foghorn.”
“Hey,” Ryan said.
Taylor’s hand found his thigh under the table and gave a small, quick squeeze.
“Question,” a cousin said, already smirking. “Who asked who out officially?”
Ryan opened his mouth, but Taylor beat him to it. “He kissed me in my place of work like a hooligan.”
“Romantic hooligan,” Emma corrected.
“Criminal,” Taylor said, but she was smiling now.
“Spoken like a woman who has been kissed properly,” Aunt Lila said with great satisfaction.
Emma turned to their mother. “All right, Mom. You can get the Pinterest board out.”
Their mother perked up like someone had offered her front row seats to a concert. “It is already out.”
Taylor made a strangled sound. “Already?”
His mother pulled a notebook from the sideboard drawer with a flourish. The cover was floral. Tabs peeked from the edges. “This is simply a vision repository. Nothing binding. Seasonal inspirations. Floral moods.”
“Floral moods,” Ryan repeated, half to himself, because the room had turned into a weather system he could only ride.
“Please tell me there is not a mood board,” Taylor said faintly.
“There are three,” Emma said. “One of them is called Champagne Blush.”
Ryan watched Taylor turn to him with the expression of a trapped creature and felt an unhelpful rush of fondness. He leaned toward her, voice low. “We can fake our deaths. Tonight. I know a guy who can print new passports. We’ll hit up Paris and never look back.”
Her mouth twitched. “Do the passports come with new families?”
“Unfortunately no,” he said.
“Then we are doomed.”
He let his knee press into hers again. “If it gets bad, we pull the fire alarm.”
“You would not,” his mother said without looking up from her tabs.
Ryan blinked. “How do you do that?”
“Mother senses,” she said.
Dinner rolled on. Plates lightened. The baby woke up long enough to squeal at peas and smear potatoes on Emma’s sleeve.
Three separate relatives asked Taylor about her favorite flowers, each pretending they were not asking about hypothetical bouquets.
Someone said venue and someone else said elopement, and Uncle Dave said the justice of the peace behind the bowling alley has availability on Thursdays.
Ryan fielded questions with easy nonanswers and watched Taylor find her footing in the chaos.
She started to throw lines back. She teased his father about carving like he was auditioning for television.
She threatened Emma with photos from the braces years if the Pinterest board reappeared.
She laughed, freely now, and the sound settled something in him that had been knotted since the day he came home.
He kept catching himself looking at her.
It was a problem. In the military, you learned to scan, to assess, to move on.
Tonight his eyes kept returning to the same point.
The curve of her mouth when she fought a laugh.
The way she lowered her gaze when talk got too pointed and then looked back up when she had a quip ready.
The familiar, stubborn set of her shoulders when she decided to stand her ground.
Off limits, he had told himself for years.
Now he was nothing but on.
“Hey,” Emma said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Ryan.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your face looks like poetry,” she said, delighted. “Make it stop or I am going to cry.”
“Do not make your sister cry,” his mother warned. “It will add salt to the green beans.”
“Speaking of poetry,” Uncle Dave said. “Taylor, I saw a book in the Little Free Library with your pen name on it.”
The table quieted for a breath. Ryan felt Taylor go still beside him, the shift so small no one else would notice. He nudged his knee into hers under the table again. She looked at him. He nodded once, calm and certain. He had her. She breathed.
“Oh,” she said, casual as she could make it. “That is nice. I…I didn’t know you guys knew about that.”
“You have fans,” Aunt Lila said, beaming. “I found one at the hair salon. We are a whole street team now.”
Emma clasped her hands. “I knew it. You are a local legend.”
His mother leaned forward. “Do we get signed copies for Christmas?”
Taylor laughed, relief loosening her shoulders. “Only if you promise not to leave reviews that start with the phrase ‘as the mother of the groom.’”
“I make no such promise,” his mother said.
Dessert came out with the same ceremony as a parade.
Pie and brownies and something lemon that his mother had invented with the confidence of a woman who believed butter could solve anything.
People drifted between chairs, refilled coffee, traded seats.
At some point Emma plopped the baby in Ryan’s lap and stole his spoon.
He juggled the child on one knee and used the other to keep Taylor’s chair pressed close to his.
She leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Okay,” Emma said, standing again like a conductor about to cue an orchestra. “Final agenda item. We love Taylor. We love Ryan, most days. We approve of this relationship. Do we have consensus?”
A chorus of ayes rolled around the table like a wave.
Emma nodded solemnly. “Motion carries. Meeting adjourned. Please take a leftovers container and the realistic expectation that I will be involved in everything for the rest of your lives.”
“Everything,” his mother echoed, collecting plates.
Taylor rested her head against Ryan’s shoulder for the length of a heartbeat, then straightened with a mortified smile. “I do not think we will ever survive this.”
“We will,” he said low, so only she could hear. “You already won them over a long time ago.”
She looked up at him, a question in her eyes he couldn’t quite read. He didn’t try to answer it with words. He just held her gaze until her mouth softened into that unguarded smile that had wrecked his morning.
When they finally escaped to the porch with a foil-wrapped pile of leftovers and the winter air prickling their cheeks, Taylor exhaled like she had been holding her breath for an hour. Emma’s laughter spilled through the door behind them. The porch light gave everything a warm halo.
“That was a lot,” Taylor said.
“Welcome to the family,” Ryan said.
She tipped her face toward him, eyes bright. “I have always been here.”
He could have said me too. He settled for taking her free hand instead. Warm. Sure. Right where it belonged.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what.”
“For whatever comes next,” he said.
She squeezed his fingers. “Yes, but what about my secret admirer? What if he keeps leaving me things?”
He gave her a wide grin. “I’ll just keep laying claim to what is mine. Eventually, he’ll get the picture.”
He walked her down the steps into the cold, feeling, for the first time in a long time, like forward was a direction he could trust.