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Don’t get me wrong, I admire family, and recognize its value. Some people, like Kate and Jane, and my brother and his wife, are able to find happiness being wives and husbands and mommies and daddies, and kudos to them for making it work.
I couldn’t. And I know with bone-deep certainty I don’t ever want to attempt it again.
Why, then, does my heart do this weird twisting thing when I see Hank with his siblings? His mother? His niece? It’s bewildering, maybe because it is so different from the way my family interacts. My parents definitely aren’t tender with each other the way Annabel and Beau are. And while there’s some tension here tonight, it doesn’t hold a candle to the boiling resentment that seems to permeate my mom and dad’s house back in Knoxville.
Samuel claps his hands. “Dinner’s ready!” he shouts.
Hank helps Beau get Maisie set up in her high chair. It’s quite the process, and involves a pink rubber bib, two sippy cups (one milk, one water), and a plastic spork that Maisie immediately chucks to the floor with glee.
“Hey,” Hank says, coming to my side to put that hand on my back again. “Why don’t you go inside and grab a seat? I’ll make you a plate. Oh! And give you a wine refill too. Emma, you have more of that Zin, right?”
Emma smiles warmly at us. “I’ve got a bottle already decanted with your name on it. Stevie, go sit. I’ll bring a fresh glass to you.”
“Are y’all sure?” I eye the small army of people now gathered between the stove and sink, prepping and carving and rinsing. “I haven’t lifted a finger since I arrived. Here, let me help.”
Samuel looks up from the tenderloin. He points the carving fork at me. “Absolutely not. Hank’s brought someone home with him for the first time in years, and we all gotta be on our best behavior in the hopes you’ll stay. I haven’t seen him smile this much since—”
“Fuckin’ forever,” Rhett finishes.
Beau, dangling a spoonful of sweet potato in front of Maisie, shoots eye daggers at Rhett. “I swear to God, Rhett, I’ll s-t-a-b you if she repeats that word.”
Rhett has the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. I’m the d-u-m-b-a-s-s who forgot there was a baby here.”
“You and your heathen bachelor ways.” Shaking her head, June gives a big bowl of kale salad one last toss. “Have a glass of water, son. Trust me when I say you need it.”
Milly knocks back her wine, then reaches for a tray of cornbread. “Honestly, it’ll be a miracle if Stevie stays through this d-a-m-n dinner.”
“You know Maisie’s going to show up to preschool spelling all these words for the other kids, right?” Annabel says with a smile.
“F-u-c-k,” Beau mutters.
I laugh. And then I go take my seat at not-Sunday supper.
Chapter Eleven
Hank
Holy shit, I’m not in love with Emma anymore.
Glancing at her across the table, the certainty of it settles in my center like a warm, solid weight.
Makes me almost feel giddy.
Stevie did say to trust my gut. And my gut is telling me I’m finally a free man.
I waited for desire to hit me when I saw Emma for the first time in nearly a year.
I waited for it to hit me when I took her in my arms, the scent of her perfume filling my head.
But it never came.
I felt nothing.
Wait, that’s not true. I felt a tiny ache somewhere behind my heart. It’s longing, that much I know, but it’s not longing for Emma. Not anymore.
On the heels of that ache came relief so sweet it left me feeling kinda dizzy. Stevie had looked at me weird, like I was about to pass out or something. Even though I was fine, it was nice to know she was there, her grip firm on my back. Cool to have someone check in on me like that.
I grab my fork in one hand and Stevie’s thigh with the other. She’s luscious here, soft, and I give her a long, hard squeeze. Her fork pauses midair, a rare piece of meat speared on the tines. She gives me a small smile, dark eyes flashing, and makes a little show out of gliding the fork in her mouth, then gliding it back out.
“I see that.” I move my hand up her leg so that my pinkie is resting against the seam of her jeans. Right where I want her.
“You’re supposed to,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna get me in trouble with your family, touching me like that.”
A voice in my head says I’m the one in trouble, but it’s easy to ignore when Stevie starts playing footsie with me underneath the table.
I wanna kiss her, lean in for a quick one, but I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to lay it on too thick. We don’t want to be pawing each other like lovesick teenagers. But I’m having a real hard time keeping my hands and mouth off this girl.
