“Three kinds,” Paul says. “And two cobblers. And something called chess pie that I’d never heard of but is apparently very Southern.”
“It’s a classic,” Helen defends.
“It’s diabetes in a pie tin,” Paul says, but he’s already reaching for a slice.
The stories start flowing with the food. Stormy chimes in with a story about Willow trying to ride one of the horses bareback and ending up in the pond. Willow defends herself by explaining that the horse was clearly possessed. Even Paul gets in on it, sharing how Darian once tried to impress a girl by playing guitar upside down and gave himself a black eye with the headstock.
“I was twelve,” Darian defends.
“You were sixteen,” Paul corrects.
“Whose side are you on?”
“The side of accuracy.”
I watch them all, this family that argues and teases and loves with such easy grace. Lily’s absorbing every word, filing away these stories of the people who’ve somehow become ours. She catches my eye and smiles, her face sticky with barbecue sauce, and I feel that familiar surge of love that still sometimes catches me off guard.
“Remember that time you tried to build your own amp?” Zara asks Darian, and he groans.
“We don’t need to remember that.”
“You electrocuted yourself,” she continues, ignoring him. “Twice. In the same day.”
“It was a learning experience.”
“It was natural selection trying to take you out,” Levi adds, and even Darian laughs.
Helen reaches over and ruffles Darian’s hair. “My brilliant boy. So good with music, so bad with electricity.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Darian protests.
“We know, sweetheart. We’re talking about you, not to you. There’s a difference.”
After dinner, when the plates have been cleared and the fireflies start their evening dance, the guitars come out again. This time Helen joins in, and despite everyone’s teasing, she does have a beautiful voice. They sing old songs, the kind everyone knows the words to. Even Levi joins in, his famous voice just another part of the harmony.
Lily curls up in my lap as the sky darkens, her weight familiar and grounding. She’s fighting sleep, not wanting to miss anything, but her eyes keep drooping.
“Mom,” she murmurs, “can we do this always?”
“Yeah, baby,” I whisper into her hair. “We can do this always.”
The music continues around us. Stormy and Willow have given up on corn hole and are catching fireflies in mason jars, poking holes in the lids with a screwdriver Paul produces from his pocket. They bring one over to show Lily, who watches the bug light up with wonder despite her exhaustion.
“It’s like magic,” she says sleepily.
“Everything’s magic when you’re ten,” Helen says, settling into the chair next to me. “Sometimes when you’re older too, if you’re paying attention.”
She’s watching Zara and Levi, the way they lean into each other even while doing separate things. His hand rests on her knee while she plays. Her foot taps against his when he sings.These tiny points of connection that say everything about who they are together.
“They’re good for each other,” Helen says, following my gaze. “Like you and Darian.”
“We’re still figuring it out,” I say, though that’s not entirely true. We figured it out months ago. We just don’t talk about it much.
“Don’t overthink it. He looks at you the way his father looked at me when we were young. Still does, actually, the old fool.”
Paul must hear his name in the tone if not the words because he looks over and winks at his wife. She rolls her eyes but smiles, and there it is again, that easy intimacy that comes from years of choosing each other.
I stand there watching them all, and the realization hits me. I’m not on the outside anymore. I’m not the guest who might leave. Somewhere between the first beer and the last song, between Lily’s laughter and Darian’s quiet glances, I became part of this. We became part of this.
