"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just looking."
"Spur."
"What?"
"Lace your damn boot."
He laughs—small, real, the laugh he saves for me—and laces his boot.
The kitchen is full when we come downstairs.
Pops is at the head of the table with a coffee in his hand and the morning newspaper open in front of him, but he's not reading it. He's watching the back door.
Marlena is at the stove making eggs and bacon for what looks like a small army.
Grace is at the counter slicing oranges. Cal is on the floor in his playpen working on a teething ring.
Waylon is at the kitchen table in a highchair next to Pops and eating a plate of scrambled eggs with both hands.
And Uncle Holt is leaning against the counter with a coffee in his hand and the morning paper open in front of him too, only he is reading his.
"Baby girl," Pops says when I come in.
"Pops."
He pulls me down to kiss the top of my head and his hand stays there for a second. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I should have."
"Good."
Marlena turns from the stove and looks at me—soft around the eyes, careful around the mouth.
She comes over with a plate and sets it on the table for me.
Eggs, bacon, two slices of toast already buttered. "Eat some food, kiddo."
"Yes, ma'am."
I sit and Spur sits beside me.
Holt brings his coffee over and takes the chair across from us, and Marlena slides a plate to him too without asking if he wants one.
"How's your wrist?" Holt asks me.
I unwrap the cuff of Spur's hoodie and show him the gauze. Don't unwrap the gauze. He doesn't need the ink yet.
He nods slowly. "It hurt much?"
"Some."
"Good. Good ink should hurt. Means it's gonna stay."
Spur snorts into his coffee.
Pops, behind his paper: "Holt."
