The rest of the squad was already out there. Burke, beer in hand, was trying to teach Jojo how to open a bottle with a lighter; Hooper was setting out folding chairs, his flannel rolled up to the biceps in defiance of the evening chill. Rawley loomed at the far end of the table, arms crossed, his gaze raking the horizon as if expecting an airstrike.
They all turned when we came around the corner.
“Well, well, well,” Burke called, grinning wide. “If it isn’t the happy couple.”
Hooper whooped, tossing a napkin in the air. “’Bout time you got here! The lasagna’s setting up like concrete.”
Carter laughed, holding his stomach. “That’s how I like it. Fewer carbs per cubic inch.”
We slid into the chairs at the head of the table. Jojo squeezed Carter’s hand as he passed, then set down a bowl of salad big enough to drown in. “Hope you’re hungry,” Jojo said. “I made three different dressings. One’s vegan, but—” He hesitated, eyeing my plate. “Never mind. Just try them all.”
Carter’s face did this thing when he was truly happy—a kind of glow, eyes wide, like he was still surprised anyoneremembered the details. He loaded up a plate, then tried every dressing, nodding like a judge on a game show.
Rawley uncrossed his arms and leaned in. “Figured we’d celebrate the beginning of you getting out of my house,” he said, voice as dry as the kindling stacked by the porch.
“Can’t get rid of us that easy,” I said, and the table laughed, the old pack mentality rolling over everyone like a warm front.
The food kept coming—baked chicken, a tray of roasted root veggies, even a loaf of bread with a crust that shattered under your teeth. Jojo beamed when Carter went back for seconds, only to bring out a whole pie for dessert and announce, “Winner gets bragging rights and the first slice.”
Hooper and Jojo squared off, pie slices loaded like ammo, faces set in grim resolve. They went at it with speed and precision, chunks of crust flying, whipped cream smearing the corners of their mouths. Carter egged them on, pounding the table until Jojo, barely five-foot-nine and hundred plus pounds soaking wet, edged out Hooper by a single mouthful.
Rawley groaned, “Never challenge a breastfeeding omega to an eating competition,” which got him a playful swat from Jojo and another round of cackling.
Burke, ever the showman, told the story about the time they broke into a Turkish arms dealer’s safe by pretending to be exterminators. He sanitized it for the audience—no mention of the blood, just a lot of slapstick about fake mustaches and spilled termite bait.
Carter laughed so hard he nearly dropped his plate, cheeks flushed, hands cradling his belly as if to keep the baby from wriggling loose.
I watched him from across the table, the way he’d gone from the shy, skittish creature who’d barely spoken to anyone, to the anchor of the whole goddamn circus. He held court as naturallyas breathing, bouncing ideas off everyone, talking up the rainwater collection and solar panels he wanted for the house.
Even Rawley, who still couldn’t talk about feelings without using a crowbar, listened, grunting approval and throwing in the occasional “solid plan” when Carter mapped out the future.
There was a moment, right at the end, when the talk died down and the night air took over. The sun had dropped below the ridge, the last light still caught in the high clouds, streaking the sky in colors nobody could name.
Carter caught my eye, the last forkful of pie halfway to his mouth.
“You ever think,” he said, “that maybe this was what it was all for?”
I shrugged, not trusting myself to answer.
He smiled, soft and sure. “Me too.”
After dinner, we sat out under the string lights, everyone refusing to go inside, even when the mosquitoes started in. I listened to the low buzz of my old teammates swapping stories, the rise and fall of laughter, the click of bottles against the table.
For the first time since the world went off its axis, I felt the pulse of something bigger than fear. Something like hope. The house would be done before the snow. The baby would be here any day.
Everything else was just bonus.
By the time Jojo brought out dessert, half the table was in a food coma, the other half still actively plotting how to steal the last of the garlic bread without losing a finger. The pie—peach, with a crumble that glistened in the lantern light—went down like contraband.
I ladled two servings for Carter, because his appetite could have shamed a lumberjack, and spooned the first bite straight into his mouth.
He closed his eyes, groaned, and mumbled, “That’s illegal, Macon. You can’t just…” He trailed off, eyes fluttering open with the kind of bliss only sugar and butter could conjure.
“Want more?” I asked, voice pitched low.
He just nodded, and I obliged, feeding him another forkful. A dot of whipped cream clung to the corner of his mouth; I wiped it away with my thumb, then, because why not, licked it clean with a slow drag of my tongue.
Burke caught the move and hooted. “Get a room, you two!” He balled up his napkin and chucked it across the table, hitting Carter square in the chest.
