The realization unsettles something deep in me. I’ve been so focused on what tonight means for me—my nerves, my boundaries, my composure—that I forgot this is something for him, too. That he’s not gliding through this with half the ease he pretends to be. And somehow, knowing that makes me feel less alone in the swirl of it all. We’re both out of our depth here, just in the opposite directions.
Kyle catches me looking at him, something unguarded flickering across his face before he masks it with a half smile. He doesn’t tease me like he usually would. He just looks at me like he’s checking a compass he forgot he had. And God help me, my heart answers before my logic can shut it down.
Ms. Mel reappears in the doorway like she’s stepped off a stage cue, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the room with laser precision. “If y’all stand in here much longer, dinner’s never getting to the table. Move.”
Not one in this room eventhinksabout arguing.
“Translation: do what she says or face the consequences.” Kyle nudges my elbow with a quiet.
“I’m learning.”
“Fast learner,” he murmurs, almost proud.
But the second Ms. Mel points toward the serving platters, Kyle straightens like he’s being inspected. The casual, teasing version of him fades into something sharper. He grabs the mashed potatoes and steps asidequickly, like he’s making himself smaller in his own home.
A strange ache I didn’t expect pulls through me as Beau passes behind us, carrying two bowls, unbothered and humming some old R&B song under his breath. Cole yells from across the kitchen about how he’s “in charge of carbs, a world-class responsibility,” and Ms. Mel threatens to revoke his knife privileges. Ramona floats around them all, stealing bites and ignoring every warning. It’s loud and weirdly efficient, and Kyle is holding himself like he doesn’t want to take up space in any of it.
Ms. Mel catches sight of me by the counter and beams. “Can you grab the rolls, Alycia? They’re too pretty to trust your boyfriend or any of his brothers with.”
The word detonates softly somewhere behind my ribs. Kyle doesn’t react outwardly, but I feel the tension catch in him, like a string pulled too tight. “We?—”
I start, then stop when Kyle’s fingers brush my wrist. “We’ll bring them,” he says smoothly, and she’s already turning away with a satisfied smile on her face.
“Sorry,” Kyle murmurs, low enough only I hear. “It’s easier just to roll with her.”
“I’m not arguing,” I say, but my voice is thin. “Just… noting the whiplash of suddenly being included in all of this.”
“Yeah. I know that feeling.” He meets my eyes, something complicated flickering there.
I want to ask what he means as we stepinto the kitchen. I want to know why a man so deeply rooted in this family looks like he’s holding himself together with quiet force, but Beau appears beside us, balancing a precarious stack of dishes. “Y’all moving or staring into each other’s souls?”
“We’re moving,” Kyle says, stepping around Beau and grabbing the basket of rolls of the counter next to him.
Beau gives me an almost-smile as I follow Kyle back into the dining room. The room smells like everything comforting at once—roasted chicken, buttery herbs, warm bread.
“Here.” Kyle pulls out the chair beside him. His voice is gentle in a way I’m becoming too aware of. “Sit. Before someone else tries to steal the seat.”
I slip into it, trying to absorb everything at once as Darius plops into the seat across from me, teen attitude radiating off him in waves. “Sup.”
“Hi.”
He squints, assessing me with the intensity of someone evaluating whether I’m worthy of insider jokes and potential blackmail material.
Kyle kicks his chair lightly. “Be nice.”
“Iamnice,” Darius argues.
“You are many things. Nice is occasionally one of them.” Ramona snorts as all the seats at the table fill quickly.
Plates clatter as everyone takes their fill, but somewhere amidst all the noise, Kyle sits besideme—quiet, observant, a little stiff—like he’s waiting for something he’ll never admit out loud.
I feel it then, too. Like we don’t belong in this mess of people who know each other almost as well as they know themselves, as well as something scarier. I’m beginning to understand him, and that's when Ms. Mel clears her throat from the far end of the table.
“All right,” she announces. “Before we eat, I want to say something.”
Every Hendrix boy groans. Ramona grins. Alise perks up like she already knows what’s coming. And Darius drags a hand down his face, mumbling, “Here we go…”
Momma beams directly at me, warm and unfiltered.
