Colt lit the last candle and stepped back, shaking the match out. The boys spotted the glow from across the room and came running. Knox practically knocked a chair over getting there. Luca was right behind him, faster than he looked.
Someone dimmed the lights. Everyone gathered around — brothers, old ladies, Betty with her hand on Lilac’s shoulder, Colt behind them both. Someone started singing and the rest joined in, off-key and enthusiastic. Eight candles on a huge motorcycle cake, both boys giggling and exchanging looks across the cake.
Holden stood at the edge of the group, not quite in the circle but not outside it either. I noticed the way he watched the boys blow out their candles.
Five months ago he would have been drunk. Five months ago he would have been unreachable, locked inside his own grief, spiraling toward destruction. I knew this because I’d watched the beginning of that spiral, had held him through the first hours of it before the night turned into something neither of us had seen coming.
Now he was here. Sober. Steady. Clapping when the candles went out, stepping in to ruffle Knox’s hair, telling Luca the wish wouldn’t come true if he told anyone what it was.
I was heading to the kitchen for a glass of water when he came around the corner from the hallway. We both stopped.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He didn’t reach for anything more than that. Just held it steady and let me have the next move.
I glanced toward the main room, where the boys were making Handful wear a party hat. “They’re happy today.”
“Yeah.” He watched them too. “They’re good kids.”
“They are.”
That was all. I nodded once and moved past him into the kitchen. Behind me, Colt’s voice cut through the noise: “Holden, juice boxes.” I heard Holden follow me in a second later, open the refrigerator, grab what he needed, and head back out without a word.
I stood at the sink for a moment with my hands on the counter, not filling the glass, just breathing.
He’d said something. I’d said something back. We’d been in the same three feet of air and nobody had broken anything.
“Miss Bea!”
The twin missiles hit me at knee height, nearly knocking me off balance. Knox wrapped himself around my left leg while Luca took the right, both of them chattering at once.
“We missed you!”
“Where have you been?”
“Did you see our cake? It’s a motorcycle!”
“Uncle Holden helped us pick it!”
“Did he?” I crouched down to their level. “I missed you too. Happy birthday, both of you.”
“You should come to dinner again,” Knox said, his face earnest. “You haven’t been to family dinner in forever.”
“It’s been a while,” I admitted carefully.
Luca’s expression shifted—that perceptive look again, too old for his eight years. “Are you and Uncle Holden not friends anymore?”
The question hit hard. I scrambled for words, for some way to explain adult complications to a child who saw through everything. “It’s complicated, sweetie.”
Luca considered this. Then, with the devastating simplicity only children can manage, he said. “Dad did something bad and Mama was really sad. But she forgave him. Maybe you could forgive Uncle Holden?”
Knox nodded. “Yeah! And then you could come to family dinners again. We miss you.”
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, but just barely.
“I miss you too,” I managed.
The boys hugged me again, fierce and unconditional, and I held on longer than I probably should have.
