“Carve against the grain, you neanderthal,” Knox barked, elbow-deep in brisket.
“That’s not even a grain,” Harlow shot back, voice placid as always. “You’re just making up words.”
“Google it.”
“Don’t need to. I have taste buds.”
Newt, for reasons known only to him, had stationed himself at the end of the sideboard, eyes darting between Ma and the mountain of buttered rolls. The second her back turned, he swiped two at once, palming them into the sleeve of his flannel. I watched him eat both without ever moving his lips, which was honestly impressive.
Dan helped my dad bring in extra chairs, negotiating the labyrinth of sprawled legs and upended shoes like he’d been doing it his whole life. “Think we’ll need a bigger house soon,” Dan said to no one in particular. “Or maybe just a livestock prod.”
Pa grunted in agreement, setting a chair at the head of the table for Ma. “We get any bigger, we’ll have to knock down a wall. Or start feeding the kids outside like they used to.”
Ma heard him and shot a glare across the kitchen. “Don’t think I won’t, old man. I’ve got bibs and beach towels.”
Levi bounced from foot to foot, vibrating with the manic energy of a kid promised dessert if he finished dinner without incident. His jeans were now held together with duct tape, and his shirt had a suspicious smear of what looked like axle grease. He climbed into his seat at the table, shoving Harlow over half a place setting, then started stacking his plate in a precarious, geological formation.
Floyd and I slipped in near the far end, across from Newt and next to the rowdiest of the cousins’ table. He claimed a spot beside me, scooted his chair close enough that our knees brushed, and gave me a look that said he was both resigned and delighted to be here.
The food went around in a blur. It was all elbows and tongs, barely a word exchanged except the necessary threats of violence if anyone double-dipped.
It wasn’t until Ma banged her fork on the wineglass—yeah, tonight she’d brought out the good ones; the kind with actual stems and zero cartoon characters— that the chaos paused.
She stood, looking out over the sea of faces, and for a second her eyes glistened. “Can I have your attention?” she said, voice slicing through the noise like a cleaver. “We’re going to do this right. Hands, heads, please. Time for grace.”
You could hear a pin drop. Not because anyone here was especially pious, but because no one ever crossed Ma.
Everyone bowed, a dozen sets of hands linked under the table or clasped in a makeshift chain of community. I kept my head up, though, because someone had to keep watch for roll-thieving or pie sabotage.
I let my gaze drift, cataloguing the set of faces at the table. Knox, jaw set like he was waiting for incoming fire, but a hint of smile at the corner. Harlow, gaze soft, fingers fidgeting with the napkin as if he was holding court with the mashed potatoes.
Newt, chin tucked, looking for all the world like he’d finally found a place where he wouldn’t have to duck. Dan, shoulders relaxed, one arm flung over the back of Harlow’s chair—an anchor in a storm. Even Pa, who usually weathered these meals with a sort of stoic endurance, was grinning, cheeks pink from the heat or the moonshine, hard to tell.
And Floyd. Floyd was the only one not pretending to pray, either. He looked back at me, mouth twitching at the edge, eyes warm as bread fresh from the oven. Under the table, his hand slid over to mine and squeezed. Not hard, just enough to say: I see you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Ma rattled off the grace, nothing fancy, just a litany of thanks for good food, good company, and “the promise of tomorrow.” The last bit was a new addition, and the way her voice caught on it told me she’d practiced in the mirror.
“Amen,” she finished, and the table erupted.
Dishes started to empty at an alarming rate. There was no real etiquette, unless you counted “eat fast, or you’re going hungry.” Every time a plate passed me, Floyd made a show of serving me first, muttering, “Gotta keep my artist fueled.”
He loaded up my plate with reckless abandon, ignoring my protests until I threatened to cut him off with a fork to the hand.
Across the table, Levi challenged Newt to an eating contest, which ended in a tie and an exchange of fist bumps. At the far end, Harlow got into a whispered debate with Dan over whether you could use BBQ sauce as salad dressing. Pa hoarded the gravy boat with an intensity that bordered on psychotic.
It was loud and hot and absolutely not the life I’d ever imagined I’d want. But watching Floyd joke with my family, leaning into the noise instead of away, I realized something had shifted. This was his, too, now—this madness, this mess. It belonged to us.
He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow, like, what?
“Nothing,” I said. “You fit. That’s all.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “Told you. I’m persistent.”
“You’re a menace, Hardesty.”
His thumb rubbed the inside of my wrist, and I had to fight the urge to drag him under the table and make a scene that would haunt Ma for years.
As the meal wound down, Ma started in on the usual attempts at matchmaking for the remaining single cousins, and Levi made an ill-fated attempt at stealing the last drumstick, only to have Ma slap his wrist with a serving spoon. The conversation tumbled over itself, a jumble of insults, laughter, and, occasionally, actual words.
