“I’m helping,” she insists, eyes fierce. “This is important.”
Damn help me, it is.
I follow her gaze.
Faith is standing near the picnic tables, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a loose ponytail that keeps slipping, because Faith has never been a woman who stays pinned together for long. She’s holding her phone up, taking pictures of Ellie doing something ridiculous with a napkin and a pair of sunglasses. Jet is laughing so hard she has to brace herself on the table, and Faith’s smile is wide enough to make my chest ache.
I still have moments where that hits me out of nowhere. Faith Ross on my porch, in my kitchen, in my daughter’s life. The universe finally decided to quit being a bastard for five minutes and hand me something good.
Faith glances up, catches me watching, and her eyebrows lift in a silent question.
You okay?
I give her a nod.
Lie.
Her expression softens anyway. She’s already decided the answer doesn’t matter because she can see me, and that’s enough.
I swallow hard.
“Okay,” Nash says suddenly, strolling up beside me with a soda in his hand and a grin on his face. “You ready?”
“No,” I say.
“Perfect,” he replies. “That means you’re not dead inside.”
“Can you not?” I mutter.
He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, though.”
I look at him. “Don’t get soft on me.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nash says. “I’m still going to roast you forever. But I’m proud too.”
Clay walks by carrying a bag of charcoal and pauses just long enough to glance at my face. “You’re pale.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly.
Clay shrugs. “Just… breathe. Don’t do something dumb.”
“That is not encouraging.”
“It’s the best I’ve got,” he says, and keeps walking.
Boone calls from the grill, “If you interrupt brisket service, I will personally bury you in the back pasture.”
“Noted,” I call back.
Mom appears at my elbow, materialized out of sheer willpower. “Dallas McCoy.”
I turn.
She studies my face for a long beat, and her expression shifts in a way that makes my throat tighten. Not amused. Not bossy. Just… soft. She’s seeing something she’s been waiting to see.
“You sure?” she asks quietly.
I don’t pretend not to know what she means.
