“Yes,” I whispered, holding his gaze until the doubt softened just enough.
Something in him seemed to release then. His shoulders eased, and he let out a slow breath, pulling me tighter against him as though I was the only thing holding him upright. His lips brushed my hair again, lingering this time, and I felt the weightof his surrender in the way his arms wrapped around me—not desperate, not guarded. Just needing me.
His voice was almost too soft to hear when he spoke next. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove I can handle everything on my own.” He paused, his chest rising hard against mine. “But tonight… for the first time, I don’t want to.”
The admission cracked something open inside me. I pressed my face into his chest, feeling his heart thud beneath my cheek, and for a long moment, neither of us moved.
And for the first time all day, the silence between us felt less like a burden and more like a refuge.
Thirty-Three
By the timethe sun slipped low behind the trees, John and Tuesday were debriefed as much as I dared. Not the full truth—God, nowhere near that—but enough. Enough for them to nod in tense agreement, enough to buy me time. The rest, the pieces too fragile to hand over just yet, would have to wait until we were back in LA.
Together we left their cabin, following the worn dirt path toward the lodge. John and Tuesday walked a few steps ahead, the baby snug against Tuesday’s chest, John’s stride clipped and shoulders tight, another reminder that he was still not happy about the whole situation.
Dean and I lingered behind, his fingers threaded through mine, squeezing now and then like he could feel my pulse racing and wanted to remind me to breathe. I clung to that quiet reassurance like a lifeline.
The closer we got, the more the night seemed to close in around us. Laughter spilled across the lawn, weaving with the clink of glasses and bursts of conversation. Garlic, spice, and woodsmoke thickened the air until my mouth watered involuntarily.
String lights glowed between the trees, leading us to the deck, where long rows of picnic tables were draped in butcher paper and piled high with steaming mounds of crawfish, corn, sausage, and potatoes. The place buzzed with messy, joyful chaos—the kind of gathering that made the lodge feel less like a resort and more like a family home.
Chairs scraped as we approached, and half a dozen voices called out greetings. Word of John and Tuesday’s arrival had traveled fast, and everyone shouted their hellos.
“Over here!” Mr. McHenry boomed, waving us over with an eager energy that left no room for refusal.
A moment later, I found myself seated across from John and Tuesday, Dean on my left, Mr. McHenry on my right at the head of the table. Plastic bibs were passed around, and I tied mine quickly, trying to appear less uncomfortable than I felt.
Names flew back and forth as people leaned in to introduce themselves—Mr. McHenry being the first, followed by Dean’s uncle, aunt, and a few cousins.
John and Tuesday smiled and nodded, but I caught their uncertain glances—the confusion on their faces when they realized Dean’s entire family was here.
“Vivienne,” Mr. McHenry said, leaning his elbows on the table as his voice became low and conspiratorial. “Tell me—have you ever eaten a crawfish before?”
Everyone around us became quiet, and I glanced across the table at John and Tuesday. “No, sir,” I admitted. “Can’t say that I have.”
A wide grin split Mr. McHenry’s face in two. “Well then, you’re in for a treat.”
His expression became serious as he reached into the heap, sorting past sausage potatoes, and corn, until he finally plucked a crawfish out of the pile with his bare hands. “Pinch the tail,” he instructed me. “Twist, then pull.” His eyes were steadyon mine as he demonstrated the motions. He leaned a little closer, mischief lifting his expression. “Then you suck the head, Vivienne. That’s where the flavor is.”
I let out a small croak, half shocked, half repulsed—and the entire table erupted in laughter, including John and Tuesday, who were the only two at the table who knew just how far out of my comfort zone this really was.
“Go on,” John challenged me, arms crossed at his chest. “I dare you.”
My spine went rigid, heat sparking low in my chest. I shot him a warning look, but it only made his grin widen. Typical. Tell me I couldn’t do something, and suddenly it became the only thing I could think about.
I turned back to Mr. McHenry, squared my shoulders, and reached into the pile for the smallest crawfish I could find. Steam curled up from the mound, the shell slick and hot against my fingers. I fumbled through the steps he’d shown me—pinch, twist, pull—but the thing wouldn’t budge.
“Pinch harder,” Mr. McHenry coached. “Don’t baby it.”
Under the table, Dean’s fingers brushed my knee—subtle, grounding. His faint smile told me I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to.
I twisted, then pulled—and finally the tail released.
Mr. McHenry nodded, then mimed the last step with his mouth and fingers.
My heart thudded so hard that I thought I might pass out, but I moved the head to my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut, and sucked. Spice and heat, and juice rushed down my throat, fiery but… delicious. I opened my eyes, triumphant, and threw my arms up in the air while coughing from the spice at the same time.
Laughter and applause broke out around the table, warm and approving, as people offered napkins and patted me on the back.
