He takes my hand again, and we make our rounds through the kitchen to set everything down, but I excuse myself before the heat gets worse. Sweat beads against my brow, and the room sways. I find a chair near an open window and sit down. The relief is immediate. Pins and needles spark along my calves up to my knees, and I press my feet flat to the floor, trying to ground myself.
An older man sits across from me, stroking a beard that could rival Fletcher’s. His warm brown eyes are vivid and alert. “You must be Fletcher’s date? Ryan said he was bringing someone.”
Butterflies take off in my stomach. “Uh, yeah. Vince.”
He nods in greeting. “Samuel. I’m Ryan’s grandfather. You can call me Sammy.”
Sammy is surprisingly easy to talk to. Twenty minutes pass before Fletcher drifts back to me with a glass of water. He offers it to me with no comment, no fuss, squeezing my shoulder once before moving on. Not like I’m fragile, just… giving me support.
I still don’t know how to handle it. No one has ever seen me the way Fletcher does, or supported me the way he does. And he does it without making me feel small or throwing a spotlight on my limitations.
“That’s a good man there,” Sammy says.
I realize I’m staring at Fletcher and blush. “Yeah. He is.”
I sip the drink and let the cool liquid sink in.
My eyes scan the crowd, the room, the endless red, gold, and white decor. The music reaches me in between beats of conversation, soft and calming.
It’s busy, but not chaotic. Exactly as Fletcher said.
I find myself easing into it. Enjoying it.
Fletcher finds me again when it’s time to eat. We sit at the end, and I notice he saved me the chair closest to the exit, like he knows I might need to step away for a few minutes. He’s always aware, always thoughtful.
Georgie eyes us curiously when Fletcher puts an arm around the back of my chair, leaning in.
“Sarah made pie, so leave room for dessert,” he says.
I chuckle. That has to be the fifth time he’s mentioned pie.
The food is delicious—smoked turkey, glazed ham, and more side dishes than I can count. I can barely finish my mulled cider.
Fletcher’s hand lands on my knee under the table, yet his attention is on a conversation in the opposite direction. I cover it with mine and gently squeeze. He immediately turns, brows pulled together. His blank expression tells me he doesn’t know he’d reached for me.
I just chuckle and shake my head subtly.
He leans in. “You okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Perfect. Stuffed more than the turkey was, I think.”
He laughs quietly. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining. Believe me.”
Fletcher doesn’t seem to notice the way everyone is watching us—all hidden smiles and knowing eyes. I’d expected it, of course, being the odd guy out, but I’m surprised how little it bothers me. I like these people.
I like them so much.
As soon as the dining table is cleared, someone pulls out the cards. Cool air drifts in from behind me, as someone props the door open. I instantly breathe easier.
I snag one of the spare decks, shuffling and spreading them across the table. To Tegan, I say, “Pick a card.”
He does.
“Memorize it, then hide it in the deck somewhere.”
He obeys.
