The front door swung open, and there was Ma, flanked by Grandma Minnie and Aunt Georgia. The smell of pot roast hit me so hard I nearly lost it.
Ma’s face went through every stage of grief in five seconds: anger, terror, relief, back to anger. She pointed at us—at Jo and me specifically—and said, “Inside. Now.”
We followed the orders, marching up the steps and into the kitchen. The warmth inside was a punch in the gut, the light so bright I had to squint. The table was already set—plates and silver, a mountain of mashed potatoes, two loaves of bread sweating in their own steam.
Grandma Minnie hovered with a dishtowel, dabbing at her eyes; Aunt Georgia gave me a look that could have stopped a heart.
Ma got right to the point. “You want to tell us why half the valley just called to say there was a fucking war on the county road?”
The words hit like a slap. I looked at Jo, then at Knox, then at the scarred old table, and tried to find a starting place.
But the others didn’t wait.
Knox: “Was it Harley? Did he follow you here?”
Ransom: “You bring that crazy fucker down on us? What, is he your new pet?”
Quiad, quietly: “He’s not gonna stop.”
Harlow, from the hall: “He’s scared, Ma.”
The noise climbed and climbed, each voice a brick in the wall that had always made me feel so small. I tried to answer, but it was like being buried alive.
Then Jo spoke. Not loud, but with a weight that sucked the air out of the room. “Enough,” he said. “Back off and give him room to breathe. You want to help? Try shutting up for five seconds.”
The silence was instant and total. Even Ma, who had never once in her life been interrupted without atomic fallout, just stared at him, mouth half open.
No one talked to the McKenzie men like that. Not about their own.
Jo looked at me, then at the rest of them. “He’s alive. I’m alive. That’s all you need to know right now.” His voice was steel and stone, the kind that could hold up a building or tear it down.
He sat me down at the table, gentle but not patronizing, and put both hands on my shoulders from behind. The warmth bled through, a slow fuse that lit up everything I’d thought was cold inside me.
For the first time, I felt okay not caring what any of them thought. I put my hands flat on the table, stared at the cuts and the paint stains, and tried to imagine what I’d say if I could say anything.
The answer came slow, but it came. I cleared my throat, and every eye in the room landed on me at once. “I’m not gonna run,” I said. My voice was a train wreck, but it carried. “Not from Harley, not from any of it. I’m done with that.”
I swallowed, hands shaking.
“And if any of you got a problem with Jo, or what I am, or what I want—” I looked at each of them, one by one, and this time I didn’t look away— “you can take it up with me.”
It was dead silent, except for the slow drip of blood from Jo’s chin, splattering onto the hardwood.
Then Harlow, of all people, clapped. One awkward, uncertain slap, but it was enough. Ransom snorted, then started to laugh. Knox gave me a look I couldn’t read, but he nodded once, sharp and final.
Ma wiped her hands on her apron, then came over and pulled me to her chest, bony arms tight as a tourniquet. She smelled like flour and old tears. “Pot roast is getting cold,” she said.
Jo let go, but not all the way. He kept one hand at the back of my neck, thumb stroking the spot where my hair met the collar. I leaned into it, for once not giving a fuck who saw.
When we finally sat down to eat, the sun was gone and the world outside was nothing but stars and the warm glow of the porch light. Every window in the house was open, the night air pouring in, but for the first time in forever, I didn’t feel the cold.
All I felt was the hand at my neck, and the heat of my own voice, still echoing off the kitchen walls.
Chapter Twelve
~ Josiah ~
After dinner, the McKenzie clan dragged chairs and stumps out to the big firepit in the backyard. Someone got the fire going with half a can of lighter fluid, so the logs hissed and flared like a brushfire before settling into the slow, hypnotic burn of good, dry oak.
