Tommy points at me across the table. “It’s his.”
Real nice. Right out of the gate.
She stalks forward, slow and menacing. My dad promptly backs away, heading toward the barn. Choosing inner peace.
Ruth Huxley looms over us, a judge ready to sentence.
“I hope you’re comfortable,” she says. “Because you’re about to sit here and listen to me explain the meaning of family until your ears bleed.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Madison
The rest of the night has its minor bumps and hiccups, but they don’t overshadow the magic this time. I take them in stride, and when I can I jot them down in a notebook to review later—so maybe we don’t hit these same bumps on the actual opening night. (Now I just have to make sure I don’t misplace the notebook.)
Soon, it’s all over. I did it. I soft-launched theshitout of my restaurant and got nothing but glowing reviews on the food and the ambiance. We also completely sold out of our pottery stock. And maybe it’s just because they’re all friends? But you know what? Who cares? I’ll take the win.
Night has fully taken over when I leave the restaurant, lightning bugs illuminating the dark.
I haven’t seen or heard from James since I told him to leave, and the weight of that crashes over me. I’ve never been in a relationship before, so I don’t know what happens next. Is he pissed? Should I be pissed? Is it a break-up-able offense to yell at your boyfriend and tell him to get off his own property? Is it a break-up-ableoffense for him to get into a fistfight during the trial run of your restaurant while gathered paparazzi snap photos from every angle?
Still . . . something in me whispers that IknowJames. And I know Tommy. If James punched his brother in the face like that, Tommy must’ve said something awful. Something deserving.
Is that what real love is? Knowing your person so deeply that empathy wins out over misunderstanding?
I don’t get to think about it more, because the moment I step out the back entrance of the restaurant, I’m bombarded by my siblings.
They cheer.
Thrust a beer bottle into my hands.
Raise a glass of who knows what.
Some of my drink sloshes out as they jostle, shake, hug, and kiss me. I’m congratulated on my success and my perseverance, and I’m an erupting volcano of love.
“Mom and Dad would be so proud of you, Maddie,” Emily whispers in my ear, pulling tears to my eyes. “But not just because of tonight. Because of the person you are. So vibrant. So powerful. So warm.” She kisses my temple and squeezes my shoulders. “We’re all proud of you.”
After a bit, I float all the way home to my cottage.
I open the door, and there’s James.
A few lamps are on, casting my little cottage in a warm, cozy glow. The air smells . . . I sniff—sweet. I locate the reason piled high on a plate, center of the kitchen table.Cinnamon sugar toast.The place is tidied and all of my half-empty glasses of water have been replaced with one tall fresh glass, just for me.
So many little things, all adding up to: I know you.
And James—he’s standing a few feet from the door, balancing a plastic enclosure in the palm of his hand.
“James . . . Is that a tortoise you’re holding?”
“Turtle,” he corrects gently. “It’s all the pet store had.”
“Pet store? Like . . . the pet store that’s an hour away?”
He nods. “I was going to get you apology-slash-congratulations flowers, but that didn’t feel like a big enough gesture.”
“But a turtle felt right?”
His nose scrunches adorably. “No. A turtle did not.” He pulls his other hand from around his back—holdinganotherenclosure. “So I got you two.”
