“Ancient history,” he said, waving it off like it didn’t matter.
Their laughter was infectious, and I found myself relaxing in a way I hadn’t since arriving in Willowbrook. This was easy. Natural. Like I’d always been part of this.
“What about you?” Gage asked me. “What were you like as a kid? Did you cause trouble?”
I thought about my childhood. Small apartment, Mom working doubles, me entertaining myself with a camera Aunt Rebecca gave me for my tenth birthday.
“I was quiet,” I admitted. “Kept to myself mostly. Took pictures of everything.”
“When did you start with photography?” Trace asked.
“Ten. My aunt gave me this old digital camera, and I was obsessed. Started documenting everything. The neighborhood, the beach, people going about their lives.”
“That’s young to find your passion,” Booker observed.
“I think I needed it,” I said honestly. “Something that was mine. Something I could control when everything else felt uncertain.”
They were quiet for a moment, and I worried I’d said too much. Revealed too much about the financial struggles, the single-parent household, everything they’d had that I hadn’t.
But Xander just nodded. “Art saves you sometimes. When nothing else can.”
“Is that coming from experience?” I asked, grateful for the shift away from me.
“Not my own. Blake is the artist in our family.” His expression shifted to one that showed he was thinking of the woman he loved. “She’s really talented. You should check out the gallery while you’re in town.”
“We all had our escapes,” Gage said quietly. “Mine was fixing the bike. Our grandfather helped me with it. As long as my hands were busy and covered in oil, I could stop thinking.”
“I rode,” Booker said. “Horses, quads, anything that got me moving. Hard to think when you’re focused on not falling off.”
“I cooked,” Trace added. “And I was terrible at it! But then I had Delaney and she kept me sane.”
I looked at these four men, each of them carrying their own scars, their own survival mechanisms. We were different in so many ways. Different childhoods, different struggles, different paths. But in this moment, sharing food on a hilltop, we weren’t so different after all.
“Tell me something embarrassing about each other,” I said. “I need ammunition for future family dinners.”
They laughed, and the stories started flowing. Xander’s disastrous attempt at learning guitar. Gage getting stuck in a tree trying to rescue a cat that didn’t need rescuing. Booker’s terrible poetry phase in eighth grade. Trace’s failed attempt at growing a beard in high school that looked, according to Xander, “like a mangy raccoon died on your face.”
I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt, memorizing every story, every detail. Building a library of knowledge about these men who were becoming real to me. Not just concepts or obligations, but people. Brothers.
“Your turn,” Gage said. “Embarrassing Leigh story.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay. When I was thirteen, I convinced myself I was going to be a professional photographer. Entered this big contest with absolutely terrible photos of seagulls.”
“How bad?” Xander asked.
“They were blurry. Every single one. I didn’t understand focus yet, I just pointed and clicked.” I cringed at the memory. “Didn’t even make the first cut. I was devastated.”
“But you kept going,” Trace said.
“Yeah. I kept going.”
“That’s what matters,” Booker said. “Failure’s only permanent if you let it be.”
We ate and talked as the sun moved across the sky, and something settled in my chest. Something that felt suspiciously like belonging.
Eventually, Trace checked his watch. “We should head back. Reece is probably wondering where we disappeared to.”
We packed up, and as I walked to my quad Booker stopped me.
