Or just the knowledge that, at least for now, he had a place at the table.
Either way, I wasn’t about to let go.
The real test came at dinner that. If you survived breakfast, the rest of the clan would try to break you at supper, when everyone had all day to build up a fresh set of grievances and insults.
The McKenzie dinner table was controlled chaos. We didn’t do courses, just a steady rotation of whatever dishes survived the feeding frenzy, everything passed from hand to hand until the bowls came back empty.
Ma presided over the proceedings, Queen of the Carbs, arms folded and eyes narrowed, but she didn’t have to say much. The rest of us kept the conversation going, even when it wasn’t strictly about food.
I kept Newt on my left, between me and the window. It wasn’t strategy, exactly, but it meant nobody could blindside him with a cheap shot or a surprise question about his family.
Ransom slid in on my right, already three beers deep and picking at the label like it owed him money. His tattoos had multiplied since breakfast—a fresh black serpent coiling over hiswrist, a few lines still raw. Harlow took the seat across, the span of his shoulders nearly eclipsing Newt’s entire field of view.
The food was next-level, even for us. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, rolls slicked with butter. Harlow passed the gravy boat to Newt like he was handing off a live grenade.
“You ever had real gravy?” Harlow asked, face earnest.
Newt blinked. “Uh. I mean, we had gravy sometimes. But it was—”
“Powdered mix?” Ransom guessed.
Newt nodded. Harlow looked like he’d just been told about a famine.
“Try it,” Harlow said. “Ma says gravy builds character.”
Newt poured a measured waterfall onto his potatoes, the steam curling around his hands. He cradled the bowl for a second, eyes closed, breathing it in.
He ate like a man who didn’t trust the food to last. Not wolfing, exactly, but with the concentration of someone who’d been hungry for a long time and wasn’t sure it was allowed to stop.
He tried to play it casual, but the way his fingers dug into the bread roll, the way he licked the edge of his lip to catch a smear of butter, it was like he was feeding a need deeper than just the belly.
Harlow smiled at him, wide and guileless, then turned back to his own plate. Ransom watched the exchange, head cocked, mouth curled up in a smirk.
I pretended not to notice, but my hand found the edge of Newt’s chair, fingers curled so I could brush his knee under the table. He startled, but didn’t pull away.
Conversation drifted to the usual topics—who was fixing the fence, how much firewood we’d need, which of the cousins hadbeen arrested most recently. I let the noise wash over me, tuned my focus to the boy at my side.
He looked softer in this light. The bruise had faded from purple to yellow, and he’d lost the defensive hunch to his shoulders. There was a stain of gravy on his shirt, and he didn’t seem to care. Every so often he’d glance at me, then look away just as quick, like he was afraid I’d catch him watching.
I liked the attention. I liked him. More than I’d planned to.
Halfway through the meal, he choked on a biscuit. Not a dramatic, Heimlich-maneuver situation, but a legit moment of panic where he thumped his chest and turned bright red.
Harlow reached over, ready to do whatever needed doing, but I waved him off. I put my hand on Newt’s back, between the shoulders, and said, “Breathe through it. You’re alright.”
He coughed, wiped his mouth, then smiled weakly. “Sorry,” he croaked, voice hoarse. “I forgot how to swallow, I guess.”
Ransom didn’t miss a beat. “Happens to the best of us.”
Newt went redder, but the tension broke and he even managed a laugh. Ma shot Ransom a glare so severe it could have wilted a cornfield, then shoved another serving spoon into the mashed potatoes.
After the plates were cleared, the men lingered at the table, pushing crumbs into piles, talking in that slow, meandering way that meant nobody wanted to be the first to leave. Newt sat quiet, but not withdrawn, tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye, saw the way he was paying attention to every joke, every shift in the conversation. He wanted to belong here. He might never admit it, but it was all over him.
The room hummed with inside jokes and memory, the kind of shorthand you built over decades. Every so often, Newt would risk a comment, or answer a question about school, or letHarlow load his plate with another helping. Nobody called him out, and nobody mentioned the bruise, or the reason he was here.
It was the closest thing to acceptance you got in this house.
