“Mom,” Darian warns.
“What? It’s true. Every phone call. ‘Rye thinks this’ and ‘Rye said that’ and ‘Rye wrote this incredible bridge for?—’“
“Okay, that’s enough,” Darian says, but his ears are red.
Paul shakes my hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Nice to meet you, Rye.”
Helen doesn’t shake hands. She pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and something floral. “We’ve been dying to meet you,” she says into my ear. “Both of you.”
She releases me and turns to Lily, who’s been watching with wide eyes. “You must be the famous Lily. I hear you’re learning to ride horses.”
“Stormy’s teaching me,” Lily says, suddenly shy.
“Well, Stormy’s an excellent teacher. That girl knows her way around horses.”
“She’s been riding since she was six,” Levi calls from the grill. “Natural talent.”
“Unlike someone else I know,” Zara teases Darian. “Remember when you visited last year and wouldn’t even get in the paddock?”
“The horse looked at me funny,” Darian defends.
The tension in my chest eases slightly. They’re treating him the same, not putting on some formal show because I’m here. Maybe this will be okay.
Paul settles into the chair next to his son, and I watch them, the easy way they exist in the same space. No performance, no pretense. Just a father and son sitting on a porch. Helen sits on Darian’s other side, her hand occasionally reaching over to smooth his hair or pat his knee, little maternal gestures that he pretends to be annoyed by but doesn’t pull away from.
“How long are you visiting?” I ask, trying to make normal conversation while my heart still races from the formal introduction.
“Two weeks,” Helen says. “We try to come out twice a year since Zara and Levi got married.”
“Three times a year,” Paul corrects. “You came for that emergency when Poppy had croup.”
“That doesn’t count as a visit. That was crisis management.”
They bicker gently about visit frequencies while Darian catches my eye and mouths “sorry.” I shake my head. They’re not what I expected. I’d built them up in my head as these formal,judgmental people who would find me lacking. Instead, they’re just parents who clearly adore their kids.
Zara pulls out her own guitar, a beat-up Takamine that looks older than she is. They don’t plan what they’re playing, just fall into some old progression that they must have played a thousand times growing up. Their voices blend on the harmony, not perfect but real.
I find myself laughing, really laughing, for the first time in days. Between the venue stress and Lily’s camp drama and trying to figure out what Darian and I are doing, I haven’t had much to laugh about. But here, watching this family tease each other with such obvious love, I feel something loosen in my chest.
“Food’s ready,” Levi announces, and there’s a general migration toward the picnic table.
Lily runs over, her face flushed with excitement. “Mom, Stormy says they have a treehouse and we can sleep in it if you say yes and Willow says there’s a rope swing that goes over the creek and can we stay please?”
“Slow down,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s eat first, then we’ll talk about treehouses.”
She nods, already pulling me toward the table where Stormy’s saved her a seat. The girls have claimed one whole end, with Poppy in her high chair between them like a tiny queen holding court.
Dinner happens in that family way, with people grabbing plates and serving themselves from the spread Levi and Zara have put together. There’s pulled pork and coleslaw, corn on the cob and potato salad, and about six different types of pie that Helen apparently made.
“She stress bakes,” Paul explains when he sees me eyeing the dessert table. “Last week she made twelve dozen cookies because she was worried about meeting you.”
“Paul!” Helen swats at him.
“What? It’s true. The freezer is full of snickerdoodles.”
“I wanted to make a good impression,” Helen says, her cheeks pink.
“You made cookies because of me?” I ask.
