He caught the hesitation and squeezed my hand. “You get every chance you want. I promise.”
I didn’t mean to, but I beamed at him. I could feel my face do it, could feel the way my cheeks flushed and my eyes went soft. There was no hiding it, and for once I didn’t want to.
The kettle clicked off, and I made us tea and toast, loading the bread with enough butter to terrify a cardiologist. The baby had started dictating my cravings, and apparently today’s menu was “as many carbs as possible, please.”
Macon watched me float around the kitchen, gaze lingering on the way my shirt pulled at the belly, the way I moved with a confidence I hadn’t known I had.
Every so often, he’d stand to help, only to realize I’d already set the table, poured the drinks, or pulled the jam from the fridge. When I reached for the silverware drawer, he moved behind me, one hand bracing my lower back. “You shouldn’t be lifting—”
“It’s a butter knife,” I said, but I didn’t protest when he took over, setting out the plates with a soldier’s precision.
We sat together, our knees bumping under the table, toast crumbs gathering between us. For a long stretch, neither of us spoke. We just ate, the kind of eating that was more about the company than the food.
Finally, Macon broke the quiet. “You know spring construction in Montana’s a shit show, right?”
The rainy season in Montana was just as dangerous as winter.
“I’m aware,” I said. “But if we start now, the foundation can go in and we can have the walls up before the heat of summer hits.”
He nodded, but I could see the calculations running in his head. “What about electrical? Septic? The Hargrove place isn’t set up for that.”
“I want off-grid,” I said, voice rising with the thrill of saying it out loud. “Solar, geothermal, backup generator. Rain catchment for the garden. And—” I waved at the magazine again, “I want a porch. All the way around. Enough room for the goats, or a dog, or both.”
He grinned, a rare, unguarded thing. “You planning to herd those goats yourself, city boy?”
“I’ll learn. I’ll YouTube it,” I said. “Worst case, I call Jojo for backup.”
Macon laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I like this version of you,” he said. “Didn’t know he was in there.”
I felt the compliment like a physical thing, hot and sharp, and I swallowed hard. “He’s been hiding for a while.”
The room went quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the quiet that happens when there’s nothing left to fear.
After breakfast, I gathered the magazines and shoved them into a tote bag. Macon stood, stretching to his full height, and for a second just looked at me, like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.
“What?” I said, self-conscious.
He shook his head, then came around the table and bent down, lips grazing the side of my neck. “You’re fucking radiant,” he said, and even though the word sounded ridiculous, I believed him.
He straightened and squeezed my shoulders, then said, “Let’s go look at the land. If we’re breaking ground, you need to see where your porch will go.”
I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
We left the house, stepping into air that already smelled like summer. The world outside was bright, the grass wet and green, the sky cloudless as a wish. And for the first time, the future looked like something I could reach out and grab with both hands.
The sun was already high by the time we made it to the far end of the property, the kind of heat that rose off the grass in shimmering currents and turned the world into a slow-motion dream.
Macon had wanted to drive the F-150 across the pasture, but I insisted on walking. I wanted to feel the land under my boots, memorize every bump and rut before we turned it into something new.
The eastern field ran a half-mile toward the tree line, wild and thick with native grasses and the late bloomers Jojo had called “practical weeds.” We stuck to the old game trail, the grass on either side waist-high and buzzing with insects. I made it about ten yards before I realized how out of shape I’d gotten; five months in, my body’s only setting was “expand.”
Macon walked a few paces ahead, checking the horizon with the same focus he’d used to scan rooftops in Aleppo. Every so often he’d look back, and when I lagged, he’d stop and wait, hands on his hips, patience disguised as annoyance.
“You good?” he called.
I stopped and braced my hands on my thighs, breathing hard. “Just savoring the ambiance,” I said, waving at the sea of green.
He grinned, then doubled back. “You want to rest?”
