And I wasn't about to presume. The house was mine on paper. I paid the mortgage, I'd rebuilt half the damn thing with my own hands. But it was Calvin's home—her space, her rules, her decision whether I was a guest or a permanent fixture. She'd spent her whole life havin' men decide things for her. I wasn't about to be one more.
So I'd kept payin' rent on an apartment I didn't live in, because it felt safer than askin' a question I wasn't sure I'd survive the answer to.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again. Nothin'.
I looked at Calvin. She was watchin' me over her wine glass with that expression—brow raised, mouth curved, entirely unhelpful.
She held my gaze for a beat.
Then she shrugged one shoulder and turned to Hank. "Looks like he ain't payin' no more."
Just like that.
No fanfare. No discussion. No definin' the relationship over dinner rolls. She went back to her wine, Hank grunted like the matter was settled, and I sat there with the quiet, stunned realization that a woman who couldn't be bothered to make a big thing of it had just moved me in with her.
Mom, to her credit, said nothin'. But I caught the tremble in her lip before she stuffed a forkful of sweet potatoes in her mouth.
The conversation drifted the way it does at big dinners—topics risin' and fallin' like tides, everyone talkin' over each other in that comfortable, familiar way that meant nobody was performin'. Chase was tellin' Rhett 'bout his job as a ski instructor back in Michigan. Luke and John had found common ground in their mutual distaste for small talk, which meant they were sittin' in companionable silence while the rest of us carried on around 'em. Mom was makin' sure every plate stayed full with relentless efficiency because she expressed love primarily through carbohydrates.
It was durin' one of those natural lulls—the kind where everyone's chewin' and the only sound is forks on plates—that Calvin leaned forward and looked past me toward Rhett to ask a question she damn well already knew the answer to.
"Think Sassy'll be home for Christmas?"
Those two talked. Texted, called, probably sent each other those little memes Calvin pretended she was too cool for but absolutely was not. If Sassy was comin' home for Christmas, Calvin knew about it before anyone at this table. Which meant this wasn't a question.
It was a crowbar.
Rhett's fork paused over his plate for exactly one second before resumin' its path. He didn't look up.
"Haven't the faintest clue what that woman will or won't do."
The words were even. Practiced, almost. Like he'd been sayin' some version of 'em to himself for three months until they stopped soundin' like they hurt.
They still sounded like they hurt.
Calvin wasn't done. She never was when she had her teeth in somethin'. Always pokin' the bear. "Huh. That's a shame. Guess we'll just have to?—"
Luke cleared his throat. "I bumped into her, actually. Said she'll be home."
The table went quiet enough that I could hear the baby shift in her bassinet.
Every head at the table swiveled toward my brother. Well—most of 'em. Rhett's didn't move, but his shoulders stiffened. A tension fillin' him that he'd deny to his dyin' breath.
I narrowed my eyes at Luke. "Where'd you bump into her? Bozeman?"
His fork stopped. "Oh, uh." He blinked once. "Yeah." He nodded—one too many times, which was a good sign he was tellin' half truths. "Yep."
"And what exactly were you doin' in?—"
"Brody, sweetheart, could you help me with the pie?" Mom's voice cut clean through the conversation, the particular tone she used when she was not askin'. She was already halfway to the kitchen, not waitin' for an answer.
I held Luke's gaze across the table.
He held mine right back.
