WINTER STORM WATCH ISSUED FOR CENTRAL GEORGIA. SIGNIFICANT ICING POSSIBLE MONDAY THROUGH TUESDAY.
The air left the room.
Henry’s head snapped toward the TV. The color drained from his face so fast it was terrifying. His skin was the color of old parchment. His hand, resting on the table, began to tremble.
“Ice,” Henry whispered. It wasn’t a word; it was a curse.
“It’s just a watch, Mr. Dalton,” Jake said, his voice calm. “It might shift north.”
“It won’t,” Henry said. He wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was looking through the wall, staring at a memory. “Forecast says Monday. That’s... that’s exactly when it hit in ‘19. The snapping sounds. God, the snapping sounds. Like gunshots all night long.”
Henry’s breathing hitched. He grasped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “Linda was so scared. She was already sick then, and couldn’t get warm. The power went out, and I couldn’t keep her warm.”
Wes felt his own heart seize. He saw the terror in his father’s eyes—not the stubbornness, not the pride, but pure, unadulterated trauma. Henry wasn’t a strong patriarch in thatmoment; he was a stroke survivor terrified of being cold and helpless again.
The moment to confess had shattered like a dropped Christmas ornament.
Wes couldn’t do it. He couldn’t addMy only son is gay and dating the bankerto the load of a man currently reliving the worst week of his life.
“It’s okay, Pop,” Wes said, reaching out to cover Henry’s shaking hand. “We have the generator. We have fuel. Jake helped me service the heaters in the greenhouse.”
Henry looked at him, eyes wet. “Don’t let the trees break, Wes. If we lose the trees again...”
“We won’t,” Wes promised, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.
Twenty minutes later, after getting Henry settled in his room with his meds and the heavy quilt, Wes walked out onto the front porch.
It was dark. The wind had teeth, biting through his flannel shirt. Jake was leaning against the railing, looking out at the swaying silhouettes of the pines.
“I couldn’t do it,” Wes said to the darkness.
“I know,” Jake said softly.
“He looked so scared, Jake. The storm... it broke him last time. It broke all of us.”
Jake pushed off the railing and walked over, stepping close to Wes. He didn’t touch him—too exposed on the porch—but the heat of his body was a comfort. “You protected him. I get that. That’s who you are.”
“I’m a coward,” Wes said.
“No. You’re a son.” Jake sighed, looking up at the clouded sky.
Tucker’s Tavern
Saturday, December 20
The tavern was loud, a dense mix of laughter, clinking glass, and the smell of fried pickles. It felt impossibly warm compared to the biting wind rattling the windowpanes outside. Spoon was doing what it did best: ignoring the impending doom by throwing a party.
Jake sat at a high-top near the jukebox, nursing a beer. Across the room, the dart tournament was in full swing. Wes was toeing the line, one eye squinted shut, a dart poised in his thick, calloused fingers.
He threw—a sharp, practiced movement of his forearm—and the board gave a rapid-fire bleep.
“Bullseye! Double out!” Chuck shouted, slapping Wes on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
Wes smiled. It wasn’t the guarded, polite twitch of lips he gave customers at the tree lot. It was a real smile. It crinkled the corners of those dark chocolate eyes and showed teeth. He high-fived Brody, then looked across the crowd, scanning until he found Jake.
The look he gave Jake was warm, heavy, and possessive. It sent a jolt of heat straight to Jake’s groin.
I could get used to this,Jake thought.I could really get used to being the person he looks for.
