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He ate. Sunny ate. John ate, nodded at his plate, and said, “The beans are Pearl’s,” to nobody. Sunny said, “Pearl’s beans, my brisket.” John looked at her a second, said, “Uh huh,” the way the county said it, and went on eating. Down the table Lara put her fork down and looked at Dean, and Dean looked at his food.

“Grandpa said uh huh,” Levi said.

“Eat your dinner, Levi.”

“He said it about Sunny.”

“He said it about the beans,” Sunny said, and Levi said, “He didn’t,” and John said, “I said it about the beans,” without looking up, and Levi ate.

Across the table and one seat down, Brody was looking at her over Giana's head with his fork in his hand, not eating. She looked back at him. It was two seconds. The paper's boy went past behind John with the camera up, and neither of them looked away from each other to see where it was pointed.

The band was on a flatbed. It was always on a flatbed; the county didn’t own a stage and didn’t want one. They started at dusk with the smokers cooling and the kids gone feral. The yard turned into the pavilion in July, with the lights strung off the barn instead of the rafters. She stood at the edge of it with Ainsley and a beer and watched the county dance.

“He’s going to ask you,” Ainsley said.

“He won’t.”

“He’s asked you twice. He asked you twice in July, in front of God and Pearl, and you said no twice, and he’s a Royston, and a Royston doesn’t stop till he’s dead or Pearl tells him to.” Ainsley drank her beer. “He’s going to ask you. And you’re going to say yes, because it’s October, and everybody in this yard already knows, and there’s no point in you two being the last ones.”

“Not everybody.”

“Sunny.” Ainsley looked at her. “Earl’s got a board.”

She’d known about the board. Remi had told her in August, laughing, and she’d laughed, and she’d thought about it since in a way that wasn’t laughing, and she stood there now with the beer going warm and watched Brody come around the edge of the floor toward her with his hat off, not fast, through people who moved to let him.

He stopped in front of her. He didn’t say anything smart. He held out his hand, palm up, the way he’d held out a plate in July.

“Sunny.”

“Brody.”

“There’s a hundred and twenty people watching.”

“I know how many people are watching. I’ve got them on a chart.” She looked at his hand. “You said after. You said that night. Not the floor.”

“I’m not saying it on the floor. I’m asking you to dance on it.” His hand didn’t move. “You’ve said no to me twice in front of this county. Say yes once. That’s all I’m asking for out here.”

She put her beer down. She put her hand in his, in front of a hundred and twenty people. Ainsley made a sound behind her. He closed his hand on hers, walked her onto the floor, turned her around, and the band, who’d been about to start something fast, looked at each other and started something slow.

“You paid them,” she said.

“I didn’t pay them. Chase paid them.” He got his hand on her back, low, where she’d put it herself on a pavilion floor in July, and she felt the whole yard see it. “Shut up and dance.”

She danced. In July it had been dark and the last song and her hand moving his. This was the light, with his hand already there and everybody watching him leave it, and she put her face against his shoulder because it was that or look at Pearl, and she felt him breathe out.

“They’re looking,” she said.

“Let them.”

“Your father’s looking.”

“My father’s been looking since July. He’s just doing it out loud now.” His hand moved on her back. Not far. An inch, and his thumb, and she felt it in her knees. “Sunny.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not. I’m dancing.” His mouth was at her ear. “I’m telling you I’ve got my hand on you in front of the county and I’m not taking it off, and the terms can go to hell for four minutes, and after that I’ll behave.”

“You’ve never behaved.”