It would have killed me, but I’d have done it all the same.
The kitchen smells like vanilla, warm peaches, and lemon dish soap. The peach cobbler still lingers on my tongue. The day is over. I’m exhausted, and my belly is full, but that doesn’t mean I get to skip the last chore of the night. We don’t scatter after meals here. Grandma and Aunt Irene cook. We eat and clean up together.
I’m at the sink beside Grandma, sleeves rolled up, hands slick with suds. Charli is rinsing and loading the drying rack, clanking plates just a little louder than necessary. Matty wipes the counters and stove, moving with that efficiency she’s perfected over years of being the one in charge, whether she wanted to be or not.
It’s nice. The ritual of it. Daddy, Grandpa, and Uncle Boone park themselves in front of the television with a cup of coffee. Cabe and Caison clear the table and bring all the dishes in to us, and we knock them out.
It doesn’t take long. We’re like a well-oiled machine.
When Caison appears in the kitchen doorway, Matty instinctively moves to him. Like a magnet drawn to steel. Tall. Handsome. Sexy. Solid steel.
“Waylon just texted,” Caison says easily. “I’m gonna head out and pick him up.”
The name lands like a dropped plate.
I keep my eyes on the glass in my hands, scrub harder than necessary, letting the sound of running water drown out the ringing in my ears. Charli stills beside me, pausing mid-wipe, then resumes like she didn’t notice a thing.
“We’ll probably be out a while,” Caison adds as he pulls Matty into him.
He kisses her softly, and I melt a little. He’s so good for her, and he’s comfortable moving in this space with us. He’s part of us now. Part of this family. Part of this house. Part of her.
“I’ll call you to tell you good night,” he says.
“Be careful,” Matty replies, smiling up at him. “And make good choices.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “I always do.”
Charli mutters something under her breath and makes a gagging noise.
I cut my eyes to her. “Oh hush. You and Bryce are just as bad. Maybe worse.”
“We are not! Bryce doesn’t have a sappy bone in his body,” she says as she flicks water at me.
Caison kisses Grandma on the cheek, gives Charli a grin, nods at me, and then he’s gone. The front door closes. His boots thud down the steps. The truck starts and fades into the night.
We finish quickly after that. Plates stacked. Stove gleaming. Kitchen quiet.
“Well,” Charli says, reaching for the wine bottle on the counter, “time to wind this week down.”
I shoot her a look. “I’m too tired tonight.”
“There’s no such thing as too tired for Friday night wine,” she replies instantly, already pulling the cork.
Grandma turns from the sink. “You girls enjoy yourselves. I’m gonna go sit down with my fella,” she says, waving us toward the back door. “My feet are killing me.”
Evelyn Storm is a force of nature. She’s been a rock all these years, but she’s getting older and a little slower.
She’s earned that.
The cold hits hard when we step outside. The air is sharp and crisp, smelling like hay and woodsmoke from the chimney. The stars are bright, scattered thick across the sky.
Charli and I take the porch swing, the chains creaking. I tug the collar of my sweater up to my chin and settle in. Matty turns on the gas fireplace, flame whooshing to life and throwing warmth across our legs.
Charli pours the wine, handing us each a glass. I take a long drink.
“So,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather, “Waylon Ludlow.”
I groan, “No.”
