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“I am.”
That gets him to look up. His face is all shadow and grit, jaw tight like he’s chewing on something hard. The scar that runs the length of his forearm glints in the light, a reminder of hard times.
“You’re sure she’s not gonna twist it? Make it all look like some half-assed docuseries for bored housewives, or worse, like some weird cult?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think she’s here to mock us. She’s here because she wants to understand.”
Dylan leans back against the stall gate, his arms draped loosely at his sides. The barn’s the kind of quiet that lets your thoughts echo around your skull. He squints at thelight cutting through the slats, watching the dust hang in the air like it’s got all the answers we don’t.
“You trust her?” he asks finally.
“I do.”
He studies me for a second. Then he nods once, barely. “All right.”
I push off the doorframe and head back toward the light. Gravel crunches under my boots, and I pause outside, looking out over the pasture where the sun is coloring the hills.
It feels like something’s shifting, in our story and in me.
I don’t trust anyone outside this ranch. Grace has been here for less than twenty-four hours, and I’m already out on a limb for her.
Exhaling a long breath, I scuff my boot in the dirt.
That’s something I wasn’t prepared for.
6
McCARTNEY
The house is loud. It always is at this hour. Distant banging from the kitchen, a baby laughing, and boots stomping somewhere upstairs carry like the soundtrack to this old ranch house, but the den stays relatively quiet because most people forget it’s here.
Which is why I like it.
In this room, the atmosphere feels like a held breath, a space between brushstrokes, where thoughts arrange themselves like pencils in a tidy row. At least, it’s about as quiet as it ever gets in this place.
I’m sunk into the old leather armchair near the window; the one that groans when you shift too fast and still smells like our grandfather’s aftershave if the sun hits it right. A sketchpad rests on my knee, and a pencil loose in my hand. The page is half-filled with lines catching motion, posture, and light. The essence of a moment, as well as the mechanics.
Grace is on the floor with Eli, Matty, and Junie, surrounded by a sea of toys, broken crayons, and two pairsof small, mismatched socks. Eli’s holding a doll, occasionally brushing its hair, but mostly focused on our new houseguest. Matty’s drawing on paper I supplied him, happy whenever one of the kids wants to do something artistic. Grace has her sleeves rolled up, revealing smooth, creamy skin, with a brush in one hand, coaxing tangled curls into neat French braids, while three-year-old Junie is surprisingly still and quiet for a child who usually talks a mile a minute.
“Does peanut butter go in soup?” Junie asks solemnly out of the blue.
“No,” Grace says, voice patient and warm like sunlight on worn wood. “Not unless you’re making something very experimental.” She ponders for a moment. “Actually, I think there are some Vietnamese soup recipes that are made with peanut butter… spicy ones.”
Junie wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like spicy.”
“That’s okay,” Grace soothes, finishing the second braid. “You might when you’re a big girl.”
“I am a big girl,” Junie says defiantly.
“Abiggergirl.” Grace surveys her work and smiles, pleased at her efforts. She pats Junie’s arm. “All done.”
Junie’s first instinct is to rub her sticky palms over her hair, and she squeals with excitement. “Pretty hair,” she gushes, without even looking in the mirror.
I sketch the shape of Grace’s shoulder as she leans closer.
She turns to Matty, who, at five years old, is all elbows and curiosity. His head tilts like a question mark. He’s been leaning in as she talks, like she’s a book he’s straining to finish.
“What’s your job again?”
