"You were absolutely going to ask.” Clay was as nosy as a Southern mama trying to matchmake her son.
"Okay, I was going to ask." He clinked his bottle against mine. "But not what you think."
"What, then?"
He was quiet for a moment, watching Jack across the yard. "He asked me about you today. Professional stuff at first. But then he asked something else."
My stomach tightened. "What?"
"He asked what makes you laugh." Clay looked at me sideways. "Not what makes you smile, not what makes you relax. What makes you laugh. Like it mattered to him. Like it was important information."
I didn't know what to say to that. The beer bottle was cold in my hand, and my throat was tight. I was suddenly, furiously aware that I was going to cry if I didn't change the subject immediately.
"I told him your sense of humor's an acquired taste," Clay continued. "Dry, sharp, and slightly terrifying. Like a good whiskey."
I cleared my throat. ”That's… actually accurate."
"I'm perceptive." He took a drink. "Look, Mags. I'm not going to do the thing where I pretend I don't see what's happening, because I respect you too much for that. And I'm not going to give you a speech about being careful, because Hunter's probably already done that."
"He has."
"Figured. That's his love language—cryptic warnings and meaningful silences." Clay turned to face me fully. "So I'm just going to say this once, and then I'll shut up about it forever. Ready?"
"Probably not."
"You spend so much energy taking care of this family. Every crisis, every problem, every Sunday dinner—you're the one making sure it all works. And you're incredible at it. We'd fall apart without you, and I think sometimes we forget to tell you that." He paused. "But somewhere along the way, you decided that taking care of everyone else meant you didn't get to have things for yourself. And that's bullshit, Mags. It's total, complete bullshit."
My eyes were burning. I blinked hard.
"If there's something good in front of you—and I'm not saying there is, because apparently we're all pretending—but if there is…" He bumped his shoulder against mine. "You're allowed to reach for it. You're allowed to want things. You don't have to earn it by managing every goddamn detail of everyone else's life first."
I didn't trust my voice. Took a long drink of beer instead.
Clay seemed to understand. He leaned back, looked up at the stars, and let the silence hold us for a while.
"Love you, sis," he said eventually.
"Love you too." It came out rough. "Even when you're being annoyingly insightful."
"I contain multitudes." He stood, stretched, and grinned down at me. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go see if there's any pie left before Sophia eats it all."
He sauntered off, and I sat alone with my beer and the stars and the weight of everything I wasn't saying.
Jack found me near the dessert table as I was wrapping the last of the pie.
"Good dinner," he said, voice low. The kind of thing any polite employee might say.
I finished wrapping the last pie, ignoring the subtle tremor in my hands. "Momma's brisket doesn't miss."
A pause. "You've been quiet tonight."
"I've been unwinding with my family."
"You've been hiding,” he corrected without accusation. Just observation.
I glanced around. The yard was thinning—Sophia heading for her car, Hunter already gone, Wyatt and Ivy drifting toward their cabin. No one watching.
"This is harder than I thought it would be," I admitted. "Watching you fit in with my family like you've always been here. Pretending I don't?—"
