"Existing, Gran. It's exhausting."
She releases my face, satisfied or distracted, and turns to Rome, who is opening a bottle of wine.
"Rome, darling. Pour me another before that one's even open, would you?"
"You haven't finished the first one, Clara," he says without looking up.
"I'm planning ahead. It's called efficiency. You of all people should appreciate that."
He pours a second glass without comment and sets it beside the first. Gran surveys both glasses with deep contentment, like she has the world exactly where she wants it.
At the far end of the kitchen, Ramsey is leaning against the counter. He's not doing anything, just watching Poppy move around the room, beer in hand, his mouth relaxed into an almost-smile. He's unfairly hot tonight, and he's absolutely radiating, like getting engaged has unlocked some new level of smugness in him.
Poppy catches his eye and blows a kiss across the kitchen. He catches it. Actually catches it, pressing his hand to his chest. I should find it corny, instead my heart goes stupid.
Dinner comes together in the usual chaos. Too much food, everyone talking over everyone. Gran provides commentary on everything from the roast to the state of modern romance, which apparently isn't what it used to be.
I end up between Vera and Beth. Callahan is across from me and one seat to the right, next to Ramsey. Close enough to see his hands when he reaches for his glass. Close enough that I could stretch my leg under the table and reach him if I wanted to.
Which I won't. Because I'm an adult with self-control. And because Rome has a radar for anything fun.
Rome has his arm around Erin's chair, and during the second course he leans over and says something against herear, something low and private that I can't hear. Erin turns pink, staring at her plate like it might save her.
I make an involuntary face. Watching my brother make women blush is somewhere between disgusting and medically distressing.
"Rome Moreland." Gran's voice carries across the table like a foghorn. "Leave that girl alone or she'll be telling the whole town about whatever filthy thing you just said. Don't test that filter. We all know she doesn't have one."
Erin buries her face against Rome's shoulder. Rome doesn't flinch, just holds that cool expression of his. I wish I could be as unbothered as him.
"I do as I wish with my girl, Clara," Rome says evenly, his hand still on Erin's shoulder. "What she tells the town after is none of my business."
There's one second of silence, then Gran raises her glass with visible pride. "To shameless Rome and unfiltered Erin. God help this town."
Everyone drinks. Erin emerges from Rome's shoulder and shrugs with her palms up, the universal gesture for when the accusation is accurate. Rome kisses the side of her head and returns to his food like nothing happened.
I drop my eyes to my plate because if I watch them any longer I'm going to burst with happiness. This is my life now. Once it was just me and Rome. Now it's Erin and Poppy and Beth and Vera and Gran and Ramsey. Callahan and Will. All these people who took us in without hesitation, without question, like we'd always been theirs.
Callahan is quiet tonight. That's not unusual when Rome and I are in the same room. He's perfected the art of being present without being noticed. He contributes just enoughto avoid suspicion, keeps his attention distributed evenly so no one can accuse him of looking at one person too long.
He seems as tired as I feel. It's only noticeable if you're studying his face, which I am doing as much as I want. Faint shadows under his eyes, caught by the kitchen light when he turns his head. He's nursing his beer slowly, turning the glass on the table between his fingers.
Every so often his gaze drifts across the table and finds me. It stays a beat too long, then it redirects, smooth and practiced, like nothing happened.
I'm doing the same thing. I catch myself watching his hands on the glass and my brain supplies a high-definition replay of those hands on my hips a few hours ago, gripping hard enough to bruise. I have to take a sip of wine and stare at Beth's roast potatoes until the image clears.
The image doesn't clear. It just relocates. His forearms, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His mouth when he sips his beer. The hollow of his throat above his collar, where I'd pressed my face and felt his pulse hammering against my lips.
Every part of him is a trigger that leads back to the same place. And I'm surrounded by the most perceptive people in the world.
I yawn. It's real and deep and completely involuntary, the kind that squeezes my eyes shut and involves my whole body. When I open my eyes, Callahan is mid-yawn across the table, fist pressed to his mouth.
We lock eyes over it. Watering eyes, tired mouths. And then a smile pulls at both our faces simultaneously, private and synchronized, like a joke only we were in on. His eyes crinkle at the corners. Mine do the same.
For two seconds the whole table disappears. It's just us, exhausted and sharing very specific knowledge of why.
He breaks first. I follow half a second later.
"What is going on with you two?" Gran is pointing her fork between us like she's conducting an interrogation. "Both of you, yawning like you haven't slept in days. What's the matter?"
