He hesitated, then shrugged. “Five, maybe.”
I let him go, watched him thread his way through the knots of bodies, always a little to the left of where he was supposed to be.
The next hour blurred past in the way only McKenzie parties could: too much food, too much whiskey, and enough stories about the river to fill a small encyclopedia.
Even the old man—Burnell—made it out, parking himself in the chair by the fire and holding court on the subject of why the government couldn’t be trusted to keep a bridge standing for more than a decade at a time.
Aunt Georgia brought her own peach cobbler, which Harlow demolished in three bites and then spent the next half hour groaning on the floor. Grandma Minnie sat by the window, watching the river and sipping from a thermos I suspected contained something stronger than tea.
I did my best to keep an eye on Bo, but every time I looked, he was in a new place: showing Uncle Cy the woodworking on the doorframes, pointing out the patch job on the chimney, setting down a fresh drink for his cousin who’d just come in from the city.
Never still, never at rest.
It was Knox who cornered me, out on the enclosed sun porch. He leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old army jacket, watching me with an expression that could have been either judgment or concern. Or both.
“You holding up?” he asked, after a long minute of silence.
“Fine,” I said. “This is about as good as it gets for us.”
He grunted. “Not what I meant. I mean, you and Bo. You look… solid. Didn’t think he’d last this long.”
I shot him a look, half insulted. “He’s tougher than you think.”
Knox nodded, accepting that. “He’s happy. First time I’ve ever seen him like this.”
The admission hung between us, heavier than the ice in my drink.
I let it sit, then said, “He’s still waiting for the catch. The fine print. It’ll take time.”
Knox looked at the river, then back at me. “He doesn’t need time. He just needs to know you’re not going anywhere.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just nodded. We stood there, not talking, both of us looking through the fogged glass at the moonlight on the water. Somewhere behind us, Bo’s laugh cut through the din—sharp, a little wild, but honest.
When I went back inside, the noise had shifted. The whiskey had dulled the edges, and even the harshest critics from the art council were losing the thread of their sentences.
I found Bo in the living room, pressed up against the bookshelves, talking to Grandma Minnie about the history of the cottage. His voice was low and rapid, the way it got when he was excited or scared or both.
He caught my eye, and for a second, I thought he might come over. But instead, he just nodded toward the back door, a tiny signal in the chaos.
I watched him slip away—past the kitchen, through the mudroom, out onto the back porch. Nobody else noticed. Nobody else ever did.
I waited a minute, then followed.
The cottage didn’t really have a back porch so much as a handful of cracked pavers and two stumps I’d chainsawed into passable seats. But that’s where I found Bo, crouched againstthe rail in the cold, arms locked around his knees, head pressed down like he was trying to squeeze his thoughts out the top.
The night was glassy and bright. The moon hit the river at just the right angle to make it look like a strip of aluminum foil wound through the black. I stood in the doorway, watched his breath come in fast, uneven clouds. When I stepped outside, the only sound was the ice ticking on the eaves and the faint, human racket from the party inside.
I didn’t say his name. I just sat behind him, legs stretched out on either side, and folded him back against my chest. He resisted for half a second, muscle memory, but then let go. I wrapped my arms tight, palms flat on his chest, and pressed my mouth to the side of his head.
He was shivering, and not from the cold.
“Talk to me, baby boy,” I said. My voice was rough, low enough it almost didn’t count as speech.
He let the silence fill for a minute, then, “Do you think it’s possible to get too lucky?”
I squeezed, not letting him shift away. “No such thing.”
He snorted. “I do. Sometimes I feel like if I blink, I’ll lose it all. The house, the family. You.”
