Page 21 of Shattered Promise

Lately, I’ve felt that more than ever.

I lift Theo from the car seat, already wondering how much longer I can squeeze out of the bucket version before I’ve gotta upgrade to the next level—one of those rear-facing, five-point harness setups that he’ll be in for at least a year. Probably longer if he keeps eating like he does.

“Alright, bud,” I murmur, lifting him up and settling him on my hip, “let’s go eat some of Mrs. Carter’s famous lasagna and pretend to laugh at Uncle Beau’s shitty jokes.”

I should probably start curbing the language. One of these days, the kid’s first word is gonna beshit, or worse. I tuck that thought onto the never-ending pile of stuff I’m supposed to be better about.

Theo drops his head to my collarbone, face turned in, his breath warm against my neck. I like to think it’s a hug.

I rub a few slow circles between his shoulder blades, balancing him as I sling the diaper bag over one shoulder and kick the truck door shut behind me.

“Love you too, little man,” I whisper. “You’re tired tonight, huh? Cry if you want us to leave early, okay?”

His soft baby scent is already sinking into my hoodie—baby lotion and Cheerios and whatever magic smell babies come with that you don’t get to keep.

I hitch the bag higher on my shoulder and make my way up the walk. The front door is closed—always is, this time of year. Hazel keeps it shut tight to trap the arctic blast of air-conditioning inside, like she’s trying to refrigerate the whole first floor. Funny, considering she spends most of her day elbow-deep in greenhouse heat. I shift Theo up on my arm, knock twice on the screen door, then once more for good measure. Just because I’ve been showing up to Carter family dinners since I was twelve doesn’t mean I’ve ever stopped asking to come in.

A few seconds later, the inner door swings open and Lucas Carter fills the frame, wiping his hands on a dish towel and wearing that easy, perpetual smile of his.

“Mason,” he says, warm and certain, like my name itself means something good.

I shift Theo and smile. “How ya doing, Lucas?”

It took me years to call him by his first name. For the longest time, he was Mr. Carter, even after he told me not to be so formal. Maybe it came with age. Or fatherhood. Or finally realizing that respect doesn’t always have to come with a title.

Lucas huffs out a quiet laugh and opens his arms wide in welcome. “Come on in, son. Hazel’s making her best pan of lasagna yet.”

The scent hits me as soon as I step inside—garlic, slow-roasted tomatoes, maybe something fresh and green like basil. It rolls through the entry like a warm tide, and my stomach growls on cue.

Lucas grins. “Imagine how I feel. I’ve been baking in this smell for hours. Skipped lunch so I can get two helpings tonight.”

He pats his stomach with exaggerated flair, then turns toward the bundle in my arms with a softer smile. “And how’s our guy doing today, mm?”

“He’s great. Just crashed a few minutes before we pulled in though, so he might take a minute to wake up.”

Lucas smiles at that, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Ah, I get it, buddy. If I could nap right now, believe me—I would. Hazel had me pulling weeds all afternoon.”

He says it with the kind of faux grumble that doesn’t fool anyone. Because if there’s one thing Lucas Carter’s known for—outside of being steady as bedrock—it’s how damn much he adores his wife. He’d dig up the whole backyard by hand if she asked. And he’d do it with that same smile, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Lucas leads us into the living room where Beau and Graham are camped out on the couch, a baseball game flickering on the flat screen. The sound of it fills the space: announcers talking over each other, the distant crack of a bat.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Beau calls, eyes still locked on the screen. “We were about to start without you.”

I grin. “Like your mom would ever let that happen.”

“Mason,” Graham says with a dip of his chin.

“Graham.” I match his tone, easy and even. It’s not cold—he’s just gotten quieter over the years. More reserved. I don’t mind meeting him where he’s at.

Hazel appears in the opening that leads down the short hallway from the kitchen, drying her hands on a faded dishtowel. “Don't listen to him, Mason. I'd never start without you.” She crosses the room in quick strides and pulls both me and Theo into a warm hug, arms wrapping around us like muscle memory.“Gosh, he’s gotten so big,” she murmurs, fingers brushing tenderly over the soft fuzz of Theo’s hair.

“Ma, you just saw him a couple weeks ago,” Beau says, rounding the couch and heading our way with a crooked smile.

Hazel shoots her youngest son a sharp look, brow arched and lips pursed. It’s a look I recognize—burned into memory from a childhood spent under this roof more than my own.

“It’s been over a month, and babies change so much at this age,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Something you’d know if you had any of your own.”

But her gaze lingers a second too long, her mouth twitching at the corners like she’s holding back something softer. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she lookedhopeful. The kind of look I’ve seen her give Cora lately. Like she’s waiting on something. Or someone.

Beau lifts both hands, palms up as he steps in beside me. “Alright, alright. It’s been over a month, and babies change quickly—got it.”

---