From somewhere just behind my shoulder, a name cut clean through the ambient noise like a blade, and every one of my muscles went taut. “Did you hear about Madden Reilly?”
I didn’t turn around, but everything in me tuned in to the conversation.
“Miles and Gwen Busby’s cousin? The one who moved out to Washington?”
“California. She was some big deal prosecutor out there. Emphasis on was.”
“What happened?”
“Lost her job.”
“Over what?”
“Helped convict an innocent man. New evidence came to light, and the conviction was overturned. Guess the guy had connections, ‘cause next thing she knew, she was out.”
“Ouch.”
The pint was cold and solid in my hand, condensation already beading on the glass. I kept my face carefully neutral and let the anger that wanted to rise burn itself down to manageable embers instead.
Bree’s blue eyes flicked up to catch mine, voice deliberately even when she asked, “Karma?”
I took a measured sip of the dark beer—rich and complex, with notes of chocolate and coffee her brewmaster, Monty, had perfected—and set the glass down carefully so it didn’t thump against the bar. My tone stayed completely flat. “Maybe now she’ll learn to think before she speaks.”
I lifted the pint in a brief salute to Bree and stepped away from the bar, angling toward a spot against the far wall where I could see the whole room breathe—my sisters safe and laughing, the exits clearly mapped, Ford’s nervous energy slowly coalescing into something that looked like purpose. I let the noise and warmth of the place fill my ears, replacing the echoes of the past.
Up on the small stage that had been set up in the corner, Monty tapped the microphone with one manicured finger. Feedback squealed through the speakers; the crowd responded with good-natured laughter and a few catcalls.
“Welcome, welcome to karaoke night at the OBX Brewhouse! Now, we’ve got some ground rules. Two-song limit per person. And if you’re on the banned list—” he paused dramatically, scanning the crowd with mock severity, “you know who you are. Don’t even think about it.”
The laughter rolled through the room like a wave, easy and familiar.
“To kick things off, we’ve got a special treat. Please welcome Ford Donoghue and Bree Cartwright!”
Bree’s head snapped up so fast I was surprised she didn’t get whiplash, that carefully maintained bartender composure cracking at the edges like ice in spring. “Excuse me, what? I don’t karaoke.”
Ford’s grin was pure mischief mixed with affection, the expression of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second. He offered his hand with the confidence of someone extending a formal invitation to a dance. “Come on.”
The chanting started somewhere near the Gray Beards’ usual table—no doubt instigated by Bree’s grandfather, Ed—and spread like wildfire. Her name bounced around the room in a rhythm that caught and built on itself. Ford’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Peyton, was on her feet clapping, and both his mom and her wife’s cheers rang clear as bells over the rest of the noise. I leaned back against the wall and let the sound work on me like a pressure release valve, watching my friend get thoroughly peer-pressured by people who loved her.
Bree shot Ford a look that should have been lethal, the kind that would have sent a smart man running for cover, then surrendered with an exasperated huff that anyone who knew her could read as pure affection underneath all that manufactured irritation. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when this goes horribly wrong.”
She came out from behind the safety of her bar to a wall of cheers and applause. Ford tugged her up onto the little stage, both of them already swallowing laughter like teenagers getting away with something.
“What are we even singing?” she demanded, accepting the microphone like it might bite her.
Ford’s eyes danced with barely contained amusement as he picked up the second mic. “A classic.”
The opening notes of “I Got You Babe” filled the air, and Bree sliced him a look that should have peeled paint off the walls. “Really? This is your idea of a timeless classic?”
But Ford just leaned into it with complete commitment, and after a moment of what looked like internal struggle, so did she. They were off-key and fearless, ham-handed with the choreography and completely tone-deaf. Neither of them could carry a tune in a bucket if their lives depended on it. But the room clapped along and hooted encouragement. I spotted at least half a dozen cell phones recording the spectacle for posterity.
I felt the knot that had been sitting in my chest since I’d stepped off the ferry finally start to loosen. This was good—this warmth, this acceptance, this sense of belonging somewhere that didn’t require explanations or apologies.
They finished with a flourish that was all theatrical nonsense, playing to the crowd like seasoned performers. Bree started to step away from the microphone stand, already laughing at herself, then stopped short when Ford didn’t follow.
“What are you...” Her words strangled out completely as Ford dropped to one knee right there on the small stage. The entire bar seemed to breathe in and hold it, the silence sudden and complete.
“What?” she squeaked, shock and laughter braided so tight in her voice I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
