“This is where we’re sitting?” I ask.
He sets Lo down and the girls flop into cushionedarmchairs. “We’re so close to the stage,” Delta cheers.
Jonah joins them and spreads his muscled arms over the back of the couch and crosses one foot over his knee. “Heck yeah, this is where we’re sitting. VIP treatment, remember?” He winks. “It’s reserved for us all day. We can come and go as we please.”
A young man in a red polo and holding a note pad comes up to us and tells us he’ll be our server. He explains that he’ll fetch us any drinks we’d like and directs us to help ourselves at the VIP buffet at any time. He also offers to bring us blankets if it gets chilly later.
I grew up well-off. No, my parents weren’t rockstars, but they did well enough that this kind of treatment was fairly standard for me. But it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced this.
Our server takes our drink orders and the girls eagerly ask to see the buffet. We take them, and Jonah loads up a couple plates with hors d'oeuvres and the giant soft pretzel Loneeded.
A funky bluegrass band of women has taken the stage when we get back to our private patio, and our server delivers our drinks. The girls chow down like the dainty and refined women I’ve raised while bouncing around to the music. Jonah resumes his spot on the couch. He holds a beer in one hand while the other rests behind me.
“Cheers,” he says, before our plastic cups clink.
“Cheers.”
For more than the last decade, if I went out to eat, I was mindful of prices and only ordered water. But Jonah seems like the kind of man who orders pre-dinner cocktails and appetizers and dessert. It’s mind-blowing that I’ve somehow found myself a part of this scene I didn’t think I’d ever be a part of again.
As every second ticks by, I’m rudely aware that our bodies are not touching. I’m also tantalizingly aware of the heatpouring from his body and how it’s amplifying his scent. I could easily lean a couple inches closer and I’d be cradled under his arm.
“I’m sorry Amber couldn’t come,” he says.
“She is too. But the country club was hosting a banquet today, so she had to work.”
“I’m glad you have each other again,” he says. “I’d be lost without my siblings.”
I weigh his words. “I was lost for a long time. Amber can be chaotic, but she has my back... even when I didn’t think I needed support. Even when she was pushed out of my life, she didn’t blame me.”
He juts his chin forward. “And she loves these two like they’re her own.”
I sigh, “That she does.”
“But that’s not hard,” he grins, watching them inhale garlic shrimp and sway to the music. “They’re amazing, Renée.”
I have to take a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart. If he would have said that to me after he first moved in, I would have snarled at him because those aremybabies. I know exactly how amazing they are and if another man told me that, I’d consider biting their head off. But now I’m sitting next to a man so pure and kind and wholly unbothered by our age difference, a man who has done nothing but respect my boundaries and push in where it was safe. Somehow, this himbo made me trust him.
With one more steady inhale, I lean into him. “They like you.”
Without skipping a beat, his arm falls over my shoulder, like he was waiting for me to do exactly this. “Ilike you.”
I can feel his heartbeat and the slight way his chest puffs out. From the outside (and from an antiquated heteronormative facade) it may look like he’s the leader, the one in charge. But he knows as well as I do I’m the one captaining this ship. And the pride that’s obviously swelling inside himright now? It’s feeding me while a dull ache forms between my thighs.
“I like you too,” I murmur.
For as smart as my girls are, they don’t blink an eye when they finally catch us snuggled into one another. I was mentally preparing for a reasonable explanation, but they’re more concerned with lemonade refills and visiting the vendor tents.
That’s how we find ourselves hand-in-hand, strolling back through the festival thoroughfare, with my youngest on his shoulders while my oldest holds his other hand.
There must be over a hundred vendors selling everything from banjos and records to T-shirts and jewelry.
“Mom, look!” Delta gasps, and ducks into the next tent up. When we come into view of her find, my jaw drops.
“No way,” Jonah breathes. A T-shirt hangs on the end of a rack with stylized portraits of me and my parents. All three of us are frozen in time with our mouths posed in song—our instruments hung around our shoulders. And arching at the top in familiar font, just below the neckline, it reads "The Band Wilde."
Jonah’s excitement only skyrockets my daughters’. He gently lowers Lo down to the ground before searching for more sizes. “Can you believe this?” he asks, holding the garment against his body. “I mean look how cute you are!”
I touch the fabric like I’d caress the cheek of a sleeping baby. I stare at my father—his rich baritone vocals sing in my head while I remember what his shaggy chestnut hair felt like and how funny he could be. I stare at my mother’s long, flame-colored hair and hear the twang in her mezzo-soprano. She used to dance her fingers across my freckles and claimthis onewas brand new and it was the best one yet.
