“I gotta get back to the kitchen.”
“Oh, but Maddie.” She sighs dramatically, letting her shoulders sag. “Please . . . for the love of God, announce your relationship with James already. The town is getting sick of pretending we don’t see y’all making out behind every corner.”
I laugh. “You knew he was here that night, didn’t you?”
“Heavens, yes. His big boots were sticking out from under the bed.”
“I fear we’ll never get anything past you, Mabel.”
She winks. “Not if you’re lucky.”
With my head held high, I march back into the restaurant. All eyes are on me, and the restaurant is silent. I look out over my friends and family who I’ve known my entire life. I realize the people I was most scared to fail in front of are actually the most supportive of my failures. And maybe the act of failing isn’t actually a finite thing. It’s not an event on a timeline but a swipe of paint on a paper. The more strokes of paint, the more beautiful the picture.
In the center of the room, I raise my voice so everyone can hear me. “Well, I bet you didn’t know you were getting dinner and a show!” Everyone laughs and the tension breaks. “Thank you for coming out. Thank you for being here for me and the Huxley family as we embark on this new adventure. I’m so happy to be part of it, and I’m so grateful to be doing it here—at home. I love you all, and I’m going to go make your food now because I know you’re starving.”
I turn to walk away, but cheers erupt so loudly I’m forced to turn around. Everyone is standing. They are on their feet for me, Madison Walker.
CHAPTER FORTY
James
The ice pack on my jaw is cold, but not cold enough to numb the shame burning underneath.
I got into a fistfight with my younger brother. Outside a restaurant. Madison’s restaurant. The farm’s restaurant.
I blow out a puff of smoke, knowing I’ll never forget how she looked when she told us to leave—tears building, chin wobbling, heartbreak written across her face.
It was selfish, giving in to my anger like that. Noble intentions or not.
And the longer I sit here on the porch, reliving every second of it, the louder Tommy’s words echo and I begin to see the truth in many of them.
I’m the older brother, and I haven’t always acted like it.
The porch door squeaks behind me.
Tommy walks by, crusted blood still clinging under his nose, and disappears into the house. A second later he’s back—with a bag of frozen peas mashed against his eye.
He drops into the chair across from me, my lit cigarette burning in the makeshift ashtray between us. A thin vine of smoke weaves into the air as we study each other. His eyes drift to my jaw. Mine to the split at the corner of his lip.
My mouth twitches with an unexpected smile.
His nostrils flare with a stifled grin, followed by a scoff. Then a chuckle from both of us. Then a full, rolling laugh.
God, it hurts—but I can’t stop. It’s the kind of laugh that cramps your abs and waters your eyes.
Tommy clutches his stomach. We’ve completely lost it.
Two grown-ass brothers fought in a parking lot today.
Both destroyed.
Both ridiculously immature.
Both . . . maybe finally starting to understand.
Slowly, like taking a pot of boiling water off the stove, our laughter dies down.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. No sarcasm. No humor.
