Mel flushes, but she doesn’t duck her head the way she would have a few months ago. Her fingers brush the inside of my wrist, then catch Tom’s forearm as if the contact has to land somewhere. “We are happy,” she agrees.
Tom’s hand settles at the small of her back. Mine lands on her shoulder.
Neither of us planned it.
The grin Sheila gives us could power the whole damn county.
We make our way toward the yard in pieces, stopping every five steps so someone can clap me on the back, squeeze Mel’s hand, or pull Tom into a conversation about the fireworks permit for New Year’s Eve. He handles it all with that easy steadiness that makes people lean in instead of back off. Tom doesn’t rush the conversation. He listens, then says something that shifts it, and the others follow without stopping what they’re doing. That assurance settles deeper in me than I know how to explain.
He runs our household the same way.
Shopping lists pinned to the fridge. Meals planned. Laundry done before the hamper overflows. Decisions made unless one of us wants a say, and when we do, he listens. Really listens. Then he decides what to do with what we’ve given him and the whole thing keeps moving without grinding us down.
I used to come home and wait for the next thing to go wrong.
Now I come home and exhale.
At the far edge of the yard, near the paddock fence, Tom slows and glances at me.
“Too much?”
He doesn’t touch me when he asks. He doesn’t have to. He already knows he’ll get the truth.
I look out over the field where the crowd spills toward the barn and the smoke lifts blue above the grills. A boy tears past with a hot dog bun in each hand. Somewhere behind us, one of the Grayson brothers starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes on his beer. Mel’s shoulder presses lightly into mine while she watches a mare nose her foal near the fence.
“No,” I say. And it’s the truth. There’s no tightness in my chest, nor sweat slicking my back for no reason. No part of me measuring distance to the tree line like I might need it.
Just the noise of people I know. The smell of food. The late-summer sun burning golden over the farm.
Just life.
Tom nods once, the motion crisp and satisfied, and hooks his thumb toward the barn. “Then let’s feed you before Sam drinks all the decent beer.”
Mel laughs again. She looks carefree and young.
I look at him, really look, at the straight line of him in the afternoon light, the calm in his face, the way his eyes move over both of us as if making sure we’re where we belong.
Mine. Ours.
Not in the chest-thumping, alpha-asshole way I used to think the word meant.
Something quieter.
Something I feel every time he sets my breakfast by the coffee before I ask, the eggs cooked how I like them. Every time he tells Mel to go paint while he takes over dinner. Every time he puts a hand on the back of my neck or brushes his thumb over my wrist and the whole damn world narrows to something I can hold.
I catch his gaze and don’t look away.
His mouth curves.
That’s enough.
We eat under the maple trees with paper plates balanced on our knees. Mel steals roasted potatoes off my plate when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Tom catches her at it, reaches over without breaking conversation, and drops two more onto her plate like he planned to do it all along. Later, when the sun lowers and the heat eases, she brings out the small sketchbook she tucked in her bag. She sits sideways on the blanket with her legs draped over mine and starts drawing the barn with the lights strung across the open doors.
Tom stretches out beside us, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting over his stomach, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him since the day he rolled that RV into town.
I know enough now to understand what that means.
He’s all right because we are.
