His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady, and my whole body exhaled like it had been waiting for permission.
We walked out of the kitchen together, hand in hand. Braxton’s grip tightened slightly.
I squeezed back.
For the first time in a long time, the day ahead didn't feel like a mountain I had to climb alone. It felt like something we could manage together.
Chapter Eighteen: Almost Perfect
Jane
Braxton’s hand was warm in mine as we crossed the lobby together.
It was such a small thing, really. Fingers laced. A shared pace. But after days of circling each other through hallways and interruptions, it felt quietly monumental. Like we had decided, without ceremony, that this was how we moved through things now.
Together.
The dining room doors were open, and the space beyond buzzed with the particular energy that meant something important was about to happen. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Tablecloths were being tugged into alignment. Someone laughed too loudly and then apologized.
I loved this place. I really did. I just wished it loved me back with fewer emergencies.
Braxton glanced down at our hands for half a second and smiled to himself, like he was quietly pleased we were doing this. Not rushing. Not hiding. Just existing side by side.
“Ready,” he asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But I am going anyway.”
His laugh was soft. “That is a very Jane answer.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then realized he was right and closed it again. He squeezed my hand once, gentle, and I felt my shoulders loosen as if my body recognized comfort before my brain finished analyzing it.
Kitty stood near the center of the room, clipboard clutched like a flotation device, turning in slow circles as if she were trying to keep track of everything at once through sheer determination.
“Ah,” she said when she spotted us. “Good. Reinforcements.”
Braxton squeezed my hand once before letting go, not abruptly, not reluctantly, just naturally.
“What do you need?” I asked.
Kitty gestured broadly, the clipboard wobbling. “Everything.”
Lucy emerged from the hallway carrying a stack of programs, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back in the way she did when she had decided she was the only competent adult in the building. “She means place cards, candles, and emotional support.”
Mom hovered near a centerpiece, rearranging a couple of the flowers. Lydia was already seated at a table she had no business being seated at, offering opinions to no one in particular.
“This chair feels judgmental,” Lydia announced.
Braxton glanced at me, lifting an eyebrow. “I am starting to understand the napkin crisis.”
I laughed and moved toward the stack of place cards. Braxton followed without being asked, picking up a bundle like he had always been part of this choreography.
We moved easily between tables, placing cards, straightening silverware, quietly correcting the things Lydia “fixed.” It felt oddly intimate, working this way.
“Have you done this before?” I asked him quietly as he adjusted a chair leg so it wouldn't wobble.
“Family events,” he said. “Lots of seating charts so we have fewer arguments that way.”
“That seems optimistic,” I replied.
