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“Okay,” I said.

“Okay?”

“We try,” I said.

His smile came slowly. “We try.”

“And we make time.”

“Yes.”

“Actual time. Not whatever remains after every other person and problem.”

His hand moved across my back. “That might take some practice.”

“I’ll hold you accountable.” I touched the flour still streaked across his cheek. “You should know I’m high maintenance.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You own one frying pan.”

“Exactly. High maintenance.”

He laughed and kissed me again. This kiss was shorter, softer, and somehow more intimate because it no longer carried uncertainty about whether it would happen.

The lie still nagged at the back of my mind, but I allowed myself to believe, just for a little while, that maybe love didn’t have to be earned before it could be accepted.

17

HUDSON

YOU USED ANGRY FLOUR

Grandpa Alfonse’s hundred-and-first birthday dinner began the way most Blackwell events began: too early, with far too much noise, and at least three people insisting they hadn’t been told what time to arrive despite Grandma Ruth sending six reminders.

By five thirty, the hall was already full.

Julie had decorated the long tables with dark blue runners, silver candles, and framed photographs from different periods of Grandpa’s life. In one, he stood beside a tractor wearing suspenders and a hat large enough to provide shade for a small family. In another, he held my mother as an infant while staring at the camera with the same reserved dignity he carried now.

Trevor had contributed a banner that read:

HAPPY 101st, GRANDPA

BACK IN YOUR TWO CENTURIES

Grandma Ruth claimed the wording lacked elegance. Grandpa read it twice, pointed at Trevor, and said, “That’s actually funny.”

Grandpa liked to say, “Back in my century,” whenever he wanted to teach a life lesson. Trevor had figured the phrasing had to change now.

I spent the first hour carrying trays, moving chairs, checking on the warming ovens, and reminding a group of young teens that tonight wasn’t an appropriate time to recreate historical pack battles using plastic serving utensils.

The warning shouldn’t have been necessary. It became necessary when Aaron Carpenter tied a dish towel around his shoulders and announced himself the legendary Wolf King of Millstone.

“There was no Wolf King of Millstone,” Byron exclaimed.

Aaron raised a wooden spoon. “There is now. I’ve survived enough in this life to be given the title of king.”

I took the spoon away. “You’re done surviving near the buffet line.”

The Kipner twins stood behind him, whispering and attempting to conceal a stack of printed papers. I held out my hand.