Page 84 of Small Town Boy

“Boy, you know better than that,” Pops gripes, smacking him with the back of his hand.

“Your grandfather is right. You know the rule. Your wives will get the Keller family recipes on your wedding day and not a day sooner. Until then, you can wait, enjoying the knowledge that they’ll be at our Friendsgiving.”

Oh, burn. Score one for Mama…

“I tried.”

“You did,” I say. I’ll at least give him that.

“You could try harder in the dating department if you want them so bad,” Mama continues. Apparently one burn wasn’t enough for this meal. “Rather than all this sneaking around you think we don’t know about. Leaving angry husbands⁠—”

“For the last time, there are no angry husbands!” Nash exclaims.

“Okay then.” Mama holds her hands up in surrender. “But as long as you’re keeping it all under wraps, so shall the deviled eggs, peach pound cake, and all the others stay. Or maybe you’ll get lucky, since Bronwyn will probably have them soon enough, that she’ll make them for you.”

Silence falls over the group, the energy vaporizing. It’s like someone threw a bucket of sand on a fire, extinguishing it in one swift move. Bronwyn freezes, her whole body going rigid, the muscles under my hand as hard as stone. Even I go stock-still.

That escalated quickly.

I have no idea how much Bronwyn knows about the family recipes—and the tradition of handing them down from Keller woman to Keller woman when she gets married—but enough has been said in the last few minutes here that I’m sure she’s put it together. Not a tough one to figure out after Mom’s not so subtle taunts at my brother.

Bronwyn will probably have them soon enough…

My head is filled with a rush of images—Bronwyn in a white dress. Mama handing her a recipe box, the both of them a mix of giggles and tears. Watching her beautiful form walk down an aisle toward me. Getting to peel that white dress off her. All things I desperately want.

All things I haven’t mentioned to her.

She said she liked the cart right where it is—which is still behind the horse. Taking our time, working on our own timeline, to figure out what all this is. What life holds for us. Well, the damn cart has a new location now. Thanks, Mama.

I should say something. Somehow defuse the bomb that was just dropped. Too bad I don’t know how. My brain is scrambling to be logical and keep up with my heart who is screaming that the day in question is going to be as soon as Bronwyn gives me the sign. My brain needs to win this one. Needs to step in, man up, and take control.

But fuck, I have no idea what to say.

“Errr, ah…” Bronwyn says, pushing back from the table. My hand slides off her thigh unceremoniously, as she stands, looking down at her shoes. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She takes off, moving as fast as she did at The Giddy Up that night a couple of weeks ago when I told her I liked her. Just like that night, she needs a moment. Space. But she also needs me. To explain. To help her process.

“Shit,” Mama curses. “Noel, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything. It was just all going so well, and it just popped out and I⁠—”

“It’s fine, Mama.”

It’s not, but I’m not about to tell my mother that. The guilt is written all over her face, and I don’t need to add to that.

I pop up from the table, tossing my napkin down hard. I need to go after her. Catch her before she leaves. I’m all but out the door, my hand on the knob, when I hear my Dad’s voice, his hand clamping down on my shoulder.

“Tell her.”

“What?”

I have no idea what he means by that. There are all sorts of directions that could go, my head and heart fighting over which one to take. Apologize, grovel then explain? Explain, grovel, apologize? Does something else need to be added into the mix?

“Here only matters so much.” He taps me on the temple, then moves down, tapping me on the chest, right over my heart. “I know you’re a thinker, Noel, but this is the moment to let your heart do that talking. Apologize, listen, explain, listen some more, then tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“What we all know you’ve been dying to tell her all night.”

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