Page 61 of More Than My Hometown

I laugh, plopping down into my camp chair next to her and following suit, lining my roaster up next to hers.

“And don’t worry, I have the ketchup too.”

“I prefer mustard.”

What?!

Maisey makes a face, shrinking into herself, suddenly embarrassed by her admission.

“Depending on the country, ketchup was tough to find. And I never took to the whole mayo on my fries thing.” She shrugs. “So, I developed a taste for mustard. Fancy mustard, actually, but really, any kind works. So, that’s what we’re putting on this baby. Keep the ketchup for pacts.”

Smiling, I reach back into the cooler and pull out the small baggie I shoved in there earlier, holding it up to show it off. The little white packets with red and black writing are a bit hard to read in the dark, reflecting the light of the fire as the flames flicker, but there’s no doubt what they are.

“Packets!”

“You were the one who liked it, not me, so I didn’t want to bring a whole bottle. Instead, I stole some packets from the cafeteria at Hayes headquarters.”

“But you have mustard, right?”

I scoff. Do I have mustard. Taking a minute to rotate the dogs, I reach back into the cooler, pulling out the bottle of stone ground mustard, showing it off like I belong on QVC.

“You know, this whole you and me thing might just work.” Sticking her tongue out at me, she takes the bottle, along with a bun from the bag I laid at our feet.

“You’d break up with me over the same condiment that was the whole reason you came back?” I quip, knowing it’ll get a rise out of her.

Only, it has the opposite effect.

Maisey’s face turns serious. She looks away, but not before I catch a softness in her eyes that tells me there’s something more there. Something that she’s been keeping to herself.

“That wasn’t the whole reason,” she says.

Her voice is so soft, and she’s still facing away from me, so I almost don’t hear it. Crackles and pops from the fire fill the silence, swallowing her statement whole, never letting it make it into the evening sky.

My stomach knots, tension moving through my muscles like sand through a timer, waiting for her to continue. I don’t doubt her feelings for me, and we’ve already discussed how bad our communication was back then, leaving me curious as to where her mind is. As much as I want to know what she means, I don’t want to push her.

Instead, I turn my focus back to dinner, silently taking her roasting stick from her and giving it another turn to make sure there is the perfect amount of crispiness to her dog. Once I’m satisfied, I remove it from the fire and load it into the bun.

Handing it to her, my fingers brush along hers, sending sparks flying. It doesn’t matter that she’s been my best friend since forever or that she was gone for years. Touching her—no matter how briefly or innocently—ignites my soul. I would burn the entire world down if it meant getting to hold her hand, even for a few minutes. Because that would be enough.

“This is the real reason. This whole moment,” she whispers, stopping me and interlacing her fingers with mine. Looking around us, she shrugs gently, as if she isn’t sure she’s making sense. “Because in a whole bunch of years, I want our kids to be weirded out, yet oddly accepting, by us having a sex tent, the same way y’all are that Auggie and Miss Belle have a sex boat.”

Our kids…

My heart stops, all of the oxygen sucked straight out of the universe with those two words. I know I need to react. Say something. Do something. But I’m too dumbfounded by how casually she throws out that future. A future I want so badly I can taste it.

“You get over the weirdness of Fishy Business pretty quickly as long as you don’t think about it as the sex boat,” I tell her, trying not to think about what my parents do on that boat.

The thirty-three-foot cabin cruiser was a gift from Auggie to Miss Belle when Willa graduated from college, since they were officially empty nesters and all seven of us were on the legit Hayes payroll and not his personal one. As far as yachts go, it’s small and rather unassuming, with enough room for all of us to hang on it for a day, and a cabin that is big enough for basically one purpose. A purpose that all of us adult children are well aware of.

Anyone who has ever met my parents knows they are still very much in love, even forty-plus years of marriage and seven kids later. They’ve never hidden their PDA, flirting, or adoration of each other from us, always wanting to be a model of a loving, healthy relationship. Something they very much are. Which is why we can tease them about their “sex boat” or “grown-up naps,” despite not wanting to think about my parents that way.

“Besides, we have our own boat for that,” I add.

Maisey blushes, the glow of the fire showing off the tinge in her cheeks just enough for me to see it. Squeezing her fingers with mine, I lean in, kissing her knuckles, loving that my vibrant, confident girl turns pink at the offer of getting frisky on the boat.

Definitely add that to the to-do list.

“So, sex tent, check. Sex boat, check. If you’re really feeling adventurous, we can add deer stand and duck blind to the list,” I offer, trying to be funny.