“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’m glad you’re here. Even if it’s weird.”
Then he’s gone, the screen door swinging shut behind him, and I’m left alone with the sunset and the peach blossoms and the image of his trembling hands that I can’t shake.
Dinner isan exercise in controlled chaos.
Jo has set the table on the screened porch—vintage plates, mason jars filled with daffodils from her yard, candles flickering in glass holders shaped like seashells. The woman knows how to create an atmosphere.
“So!” Jo says, passing a bowl of roasted potatoes. “Wedding flowers. I’ve been up since four thinking about this.”
“Since four?” Dean frowns.
“I was downstairs with my Pinterest boards and a panic spiral.” She turns to me. “We said blues and creams, right? But I keep going back and forth. What if it’s too cold? Too expected? Everyone does blues and creams for a beach wedding.”
There’s genuine anxiety in her voice. Not the manufactured brightness she’s been wielding all evening—this is a woman who wants her wedding to be perfect and is terrified of making the wrong choice.
“Blues and creams won’t feel expected once we add texture,” I say. “The eucalyptus and wildflower accents will keep it from looking like every other coastal ceremony.”
“But what about adding some soft peach? To coordinate with the season?” She gestures toward the backyard. “If the peach trees are still blooming byMay—will they be? Do peach blossoms last that long?”
“Probably not. But we can echo the color with garden roses and ranunculus. It would warm up the palette without losing the coastal feel.”
“Okay. Okay, that’s good.” Jo exhales. “I just—I want it to feel like us. Not like a magazine. You know?”
“I know. That’s what we’ll do.”
Jo relaxes a fraction, then turns to Levi. “What do you think? And don’t say you don’t have an opinion, because I’ve been trying to get Dean to care about colors for weeks and all he says is ‘whatever you want, babe.’”
“It’s your wedding,” Dean says, as if proving her point.
“See?” Jo gestures at him. “Useless. Levi, you’re the artist in this family. Help me.”
Levi pauses mid-bite. “Peach sounds fine.”
“Fine? That’s it? Fine?”
“It sounds good. The warm and cool mix—it’ll photograph well. And Delilah clearly knows what she’s doing.”
He says it to Jo, but his eyes flick to me for half a second. I focus very hard on cutting my steak, which is actually incredible. Deancan grill.
“Thank you,” Jo says. “Was that so hard? One opinion. From one person at this table who isn’t a brick wall about aesthetics.” She shoots Dean a look. He shrugs, unbothered.
The conversation loosens after that. Jo mentions the budget—tighter than she’d like, which surprises me—and I make a mental note to adjust my estimates. She worries about whether the Hensley House can handle the reception flow, whether there’s enough parking, whether her mother will try to invite people who aren’t on the list.
“My mother is already trying to add people to the guest list,” Jo says darkly. “People I’ve never met, Dean. She wants to invite her entire Sunday school class.”
“Your mother is a force of nature.”
“My mother is a menace. Runs in the family.”
Levi has been quiet through most of this, eating slowly, and I notice Jo glancing at him when she thinks no one’s watching. Not with matchmaking glee—with concern. The same look I’ve been trying not to wear all evening. She tops off his water glass without asking. Puts an extra roll on his plate. Small gestures, the kind a mother makes, or a sister.
She’s worried about him too.
“Remember those Fourth of July cookouts?” Joasks, and I tense, expecting another transparent redirect. But she’s looking at Levi with something soft. “Dean told me about them. Your dad at the grill, the whole neighborhood showing up.”
She’s trying to draw him out. Not toward me—just out. Out of whatever silent place he’s retreated to behind those exhausted eyes.
“I remember.” Levi’s voice is soft. “Dad always burned the hot dogs but nailed the steaks.”
