Despite myself, the corner of my mouth pulls. "That was artistic vision."
"The glitter was a crime against paper." But her voice softens. "He misses you."
I stare over her shoulder, watching Matt laugh with Jefferson by the bar. He looks happy. Settled. That's what's been pissing me off all along.
"After this week," Sarah continues, "I really hope you'll actually visit us. Stay longer than an hour. Let Matt show you that Boston doesn't erase who he is."
I hate this. The feelings, the truth, all of it. But the way Sarah calls my bullshit without making it feel like an attack . . . Matt did get something right here.
"Yeah," I manage finally. "I will."
She smiles. "Good. Because that ugly card is getting lonely in his drawer."
Before I can respond, Dad appears at Sarah's shoulder. For once, his perpetual scowl softens as he looks at his new daughter-in-law. "Mind if I steal a dance?"
Sarah beams. She's the only one who ever gets this version of him. The version who remembers how to be charming.
"Go dance with your mother." His tone stays pleasant, but his eyes cut to where Mom's still chatting with Silver Fox. "She looks like she could use a break from . . . socializing."
I thread my way through the crowd toward Mom and her new friend. She spots me coming and smiles.
"Dad sent me to dance with you," I announce, because subtle was never my strong suit.
"Caleb Miller." Mom's eyes sparkle even as she scolds. "Is that any way to ask a lady to dance?"
"Sorry." I offer my hand with exaggerated formality. "Would you do me the honor?"
She laughs. "Frank, you'll have to excuse me. My son's apparently remembered his manners, even if his delivery needs work."
Frank looks disappointed, but Mom's already slipping her hand into my grip, letting me guide her toward the dance floor. The familiar weight of her palm against mine brings back memories of the last time we danced together—the town's Harvest Festival when I was sixteen. I'd been itching to escape to the woods where Brodie and James had stashed some stolen beers, but Mom had insisted on one dance before I disappeared for the night.
"Look at us," she teases as we find our rhythm. Her soft lavender dress, with subtle beading around the neckline, catches the light as we move. "Almost being sentimental."
As we turn, I catch Dad dancing with Sarah across the floor. I notice how his eyes keep drifting to Mom. Not angry, just . . . watching. Like he wants to be the one dancing with her instead but doesn't know how to make it happen.
The question builds in my chest until I can't hold it back. "Why do you put up with him?"
Mom's step falters. "That's quite a loaded question for a wedding dance."
"I mean it." Years of watching them orbit each other like angry planets finally spilling over. "Why stay when he—"
"Marriage isn't about constant fireworks," her voice drops low. "It's about choosing someone again and again. Even on the days when it's messy, inconvenient, or painful. Especially then."
"All I remember is you two fighting. Him working late. You making excuses."
She laughs, but it's not bitter. Just knowing. "We were young. Stumbling through how to be parents while still untangling who we were. Some days we got it right. Others, not so much. But we chose each other. Every morning, every argument, every makeup. We still do."
"He doesn't show up anymore, Mom. Not really."
"He does in his own way." Her fingers tighten on my shoulder. "Maybe it's not in the big grand gestures like he used to, but in the small things that still matter. He's rougher around the edges, but he shows up how he can. Not only for me but you as well." Her wise gaze meets mine. "He worries about you, you know."
"Yeah? Funny way of showing it."
"I'm not justifying how he acts, honey. Lord knows that man could use a master class in communication. But . . ." She meets my eyes. "Love isn't always pretty or simple."
We turn, and I catch sight of Ivy laughing with Delilah. Mom follows my gaze.
"You and Ivy . . ." she starts.
