The night air was cold enough to bite, even with the heat, and every time the wind changed, wood-smoke scoured our faces and made our eyes sting.
Bo and I sat on the old bench with the warped back, tucked in close because space was at a premium, but also because I didn’t want him any farther than an arm’s reach. He curled up next to me, hands jammed in the front pocket of his hoodie, looking everywhere but at the rest of the family.
Ransom showed up with a battered blue Igloo cooler and a carton of Solo cups, the kind he liked to use as makeshift ashtrays. He set them down next to the circle of lawn chairs, then cracked open the cooler and produced a Mason jar full of clear, mean-smelling liquid.
“From Uncle Cy,” he said, passing it to Knox like an Olympic baton.
Knox unscrewed the lid, took a whiff, and let out a low, approving grunt. “Not bad,” he said, and poured a finger’s worth into a cup before handing the jar to Quiad.
The ritual continued, every brother passing the jar around the circle, some taking more than others, all with the solemnity of a church offering.
When the moonshine made it to our end of the bench, I grabbed it before Bo could even reach. “Not for you,” I said, shaking my head.
He looked up, startled. “Why not?”
“You’re on meds,” I reminded him, softer than I intended. “Last thing we need is you seizing up and making this a family memory.”
He snorted, embarrassed, but didn’t push it. I could feel every muscle in his body coiled tight, like he was bracing for a punchline that never landed.
I didn’t take any myself. Just recapped the jar, set it down at my feet, and draped my arm around Bo’s shoulders, casual but unmistakable.
His back was warm through the hoodie, every exhale a small shudder. He let his head tip until it almost rested on my shoulder, then caught himself and straightened up.
Old habits, hard to kill.
Nobody said shit about it. Not the brothers, not the old man, not even Ma, who’d come out with a stack of wool blankets and handed them around like she was distributing battle flags. She left the thickest, scratchiest one for us, the kind that would outlive the house.
I took it, tucked it over Bo’s legs, and pulled him closer until our hips were flush. He let me, and when I glanced down, I saw his hands unclench, just a little.
The fire snapped and popped, spitting sparks that drifted up into the black sky. Across the circle, Harlow had his big boots propped on a chunk of log, strumming a guitar so old the varnish was worn to the bare wood in places. He played slow, simple chords, nothing fancy, just enough to give the night a pulse.
Nobody talked at first. Just sat and drank and listened to the guitar, watching the flames eat down the logs. Every once in a while, Knox would crack a joke about the day’s near-death experience, and the brothers would laugh, but the sound always faded quick, like the night didn’t want to hold on to it.
Bo watched the fire, the muscles in his jaw flexing every time he bit back a comment. I knew the look—knew it meant he wasreliving every minute of the chase, every mile between us and Harley Westbrook.
I squeezed his shoulder, thumb running along the seam of his hoodie, and felt him relax by degrees.
Ma came around the circle, setting a hand on each head as she passed, like she was checking for fever. When she got to us, she just stood behind the bench for a second, her hand hovering above Bo’s hair. She rested it there, gentle as the first fall of snow, then squeezed his shoulder and moved on.
I’d seen her do that a thousand times, but never to someone who wasn’t blood. Bo blinked fast, like maybe a bit of ash had caught him in the eye, and then turned his face into the shadow between us.
The night pressed close, smelling of pine and cold earth and old ash. Overhead, the stars burned steady, the only witnesses to the odd, uneven peace that had settled on the backyard. Even Ransom, who normally couldn’t go a full minute without a wisecrack, just nursed his drink and watched the fire, his face unreadable in the shifting light.
Bo finally let his head rest on my shoulder. His hair was soft, smelled faintly of shampoo and turpentine, and when I shifted to make room, he didn’t pull away. I could feel the whole family watching, every pair of eyes tracing the line of my arm around his back, but nobody said a goddamn word.
The wind picked up, swirling embers into the dark. I pulled the blanket higher, tucked it around both of us, and set my chin on the top of Bo’s head. He closed his eyes, breathing slow, and for the first time all night, I felt the tension bleed out of him.
We stayed like that, pressed together and wrapped up against the cold, while the rest of the family watched the fire die down to coals. Nobody mentioned the moonshine, or the chase, or the fact that Bo and I were practically welded together in front ofGod and everybody. They just let it happen, like maybe if they didn’t look too close, it would settle into place and stay there.
When the fire burned down, Harlow put away the guitar, and the brothers drifted back to the house in twos and threes, boots crunching on gravel. Ma gathered the empty cups, humming under her breath, and gave me a look as she passed—a look that said she’d seen plenty in her years, but this was something new.
Bo didn’t move, even when it was just the two of us left, the logs glowing red and the night air thick with smoke. I held him tighter, blanket and all, and watched the last sparks rise into the sky.
For a long time, neither of us spoke. When he finally did, it was so quiet I almost missed it. “Thank you,” he said.
I squeezed his shoulder, pressing my lips to his hair. “You’re safe,” I told him, and for the first time, I almost believed it myself.
We sat there until the stars blurred, and the world felt like it might, maybe, start over.
