I find my place at the table next to Kevin and his family, thinking it’s safest if I don’t sit next to Nash or James.
The spread is absurd even by Sterling standards. There’s pulled pork and burgers, and every kind of salad imaginable: potato, egg, pasta, and fruit.
I fill my plate and try to make small talk with Kevin’s wife, a woman whose name I’ve forgotten three times already and who is valiantly corralling two mashed-potato-smeared toddlers.
It’s a relief, this frantic domesticity, something to anchor my attention while Nash and some other employees get progressively rowdier on the far side of the patio.
I’m halfway through my meal when a hush falls over the table. I look up, and there’s James, standing at the head. He’s in a pale blue oxford, sleeves rolled, dark sunglasses still in place even as the sun hovers slightly above the trees.
He waits until all eyes are on him, then lifts his glass. Without ceremony, he speaks just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Thank you all for coming out. Enjoy the food, the fireworks, and each other. And try not to break anything or burn the place down.”
The last bit earns a ripple of laughter, and the ice is officially broken.
He sits at the far end, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know the exact moment his gaze lands on me. I feel the heat of it, more intense than the July air.
I turn my attention back to my plate and resume eating.
By the time the kids have peeled away from the table, and the adults have started in on the pie, Nash is two beers deep and debating someone about the easiest way to sink a Jet Ski.
I slip away under the pretense of refilling my drink, ducking into the kitchen to escape the rising swell of voices.
Inside, the house is empty. I drift, glass in hand, along the picture windows until I find myself in a gallery of old family photos: generations of Sterlings posed at the water’s edge, some faded in color. The oldest photo shows a boy with James’s features, a man with his father’s rigid posture, and a beautiful blonde woman standing on the same dock that’s visible beyond the glass.
A low voice startles me from behind. “That’s my mother.”
I turn. James stands just inside the threshold, hands in his pockets, head cocked.
“She’s beautiful,” I tell him.
“Yeah. She was,” he agrees as he makes his way over to me.
“You have her eyes.”
“Thank you.”
The moment is weirdly intimate, as if we’ve slipped outside the party into a blind spot. He brushes his hand against mine, and the contact is enough to snap us back to reality. This is neither the time nor the place for us to be this close. We take a step apart and look at each other.
For a moment, our time in Nashville flashes through my mind.
It’s his body straightening that breaks my train of thought. I straighten in response and turn to leave through the sliding back door, James following close behind me.
The speaker outside blares some Fourth of July jams playlist on Spotify as the sun continues to sink behind the trees. I look around, contemplating my next move. People are mingling, some still eating, and the kids are back in the pool swimming.
I spot a couple of empty Adirondack chairs by a firepit and decide to ride out the rest of the evening there. I take a seat, extending my legs and crossing them at the ankles. Settling back into the chair, I breathe in deep, taking in the sight before me as the last bit of sunlight dances across the water.
A body filling the chair next to me draws my attention. I turn to see who is joining me, and I smile when I see Nash.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, doll,” he replies, resting back into the seat. “You hiding from me?”
“Not from you. Just…from the general chaos,” I say, gesturing toward the patio, where two of our coworkers are arguing about the physics of fireworks.
Nash’s mouth quirks sideways.
For a while, we just sit side by side, staring out at the dark lake, the cicadas sawing through the silence. Nash props his feet on the fire pit and balances his beer precariously on one knee.
