“Hey, Chloe,” I say, stepping toward the sink. “Smells delicious.”
I scrub the dirt and oil from my hands, watching the brown water swirl down the drain. Over the years, my palms have turned rough and calloused, etched with bittersweet memories of harvest seasons past.
“Hey, Ash! Perfect timing,” Chloe calls. She shoves a stack of plates into my still-damp hands. “Can you set the table?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I carry the plates into the dining room. A massive wooden table takes up most of the space, well loved and weathered with scuffs and dents. I start setting a plate in front of each chair, making sure they’re aligned in a straight row, otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it from Chloe.
I’m halfway through when Mom walks in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “There’s my handsome boy,” she says warmly, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Were you able to get the tarp fixed?” she asks, glancing toward me as she starts setting the silverware.
I stiffen. “Dad took care of it,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Probably didn’t think I was capable of doing it myself.”
She pauses, then gives a small, sympathetic smile. “You know how he is,” she says gently. “It’s hard for him to let go. Don’t take it personally, Ash.”
I force a tight smile. “Yeah, I know.”
Mom catches my wrist before I turn away. “We don’t need the seventh plate, sweetheart. Luke just called—he’s working at the bar tonight.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as disappointment pools in my stomach. Goddamn it. Luke’s the only reason I can sit through family gatherings without feeling like I’m being dissected by my father.
The front door creaks open, followed by a familiar loud, cheerful voice. “I’m home!”
Olivia steps inside, hauling a pink backpack. Her golden hair falls to her shoulders in a sleek bob that sways when she drops her bag by the door. “Hey, Mom. Ash.” She pulls me into a quick hug, smelling faintly of sickeningly sweet coffee. “I missed you guys.”
Mom offers a small smile. “Welcome home, Liv.”
Before either of us can say more, Dad strides in from the hallway, settling into his usual spot at the head of the table with a quiet grunt. “Well, look who’s back from hippy town,” he mutters.
That’s what he calls Shelby Harbor—a midsized, left-leaning city home to Lakeview University. To a man who loves guns, red meat, and diesel trucks, it might as well be hell.
Olivia’s smile falters for a split second before she recovers. “Nice to see you too, Dad.”
Mom waves a hand through the air. “Your father’s just teasing,” she says lightly, though there’s tension in her voice.
Chloe steps in from the kitchen, balancing a Dutch oven brimming with roast and vegetables. “Dinner’s ready!” she calls, setting the pot on a trivet at the center of the table. “Justin! Get down here!”
Footsteps thump down the stairs, slow and heavy. Justin appears in the archway, his phone glued to his hand as usual, thumbs moving rapidly across the screen.
Unlike the rest of the men in our family, Justin is built like a scarecrow. He’s tall and lean with gangling limbs, always swallowed by oversized clothing. He has pale skin, shoulder-length blond hair, and shadows beneath his eyes that make him look perpetually exhausted. Dad has never been shy about his hatred of Justin’s long hair—or anything straying, even slightly, from what he considers acceptable gender norms.
“Justin,” Mom says tightly. “Say hello to your brother and sister.”
“Hey,” he mutters without looking up, sliding into his chair.
Olivia smirks as she takes her seat. “Wow. Warm welcome.”
Mom laughs softly and reaches over to pinch Justin’s cheek. He scowls and leans away. “By the end of next year, he’ll be off to college,” she says proudly. “Then he’ll realize he actually misses us.”
“Doubt it,” Justin says flatly, earning a laugh from Chloe.
Plates are passed around, and soon the table fills with the sound of scraping forks and clinking silverware. Olivia’s talking animatedly about some guy in her math class, gesturing as she laughs. I keep my eyes on my plate, cutting into a piece of tender roast. Sometimes, listening to her talk about campus life, I can’t help wondering if I missed out on something bigger. But college was never part of my plan—or more accurately, it was never part of my father’s plan for me.
Mom clears her throat, tapping my elbow softly. “I saw on the forecast there’s a chance of frost tomorrow night. The buds are early this year, so you’ll have to set up the sprinklers.”
