Page 38 of Unlucky in Love
Emma turned to their mother. “All right, Mom. You can get the Pinterest board out.”
Their mother perked up like someone had offered her front row seats to a concert. “It is already out.”
Taylor made a strangled sound. “Already?”
His mother pulled a notebook from the sideboard drawer with a flourish. The cover was floral. Tabs peeked from the edges. “This is simply a vision repository. Nothing binding. Seasonal inspirations. Floral moods.”
“Floral moods,” Ryan repeated, half to himself, because the room had turned into a weather system he could only ride.
“Please tell me there is not a mood board,” Taylor said faintly.
“There are three,” Emma said. “One of them is called Champagne Blush.”
Ryan watched Taylor turn to him with the expression of a trapped creature and felt an unhelpful rush of fondness. He leaned toward her, voice low. “We can fake our deaths. Tonight. I know a guy who can print new passports. We’ll hit up Paris and never look back.”
Her mouth twitched. “Do the passports come with new families?”
“Unfortunately no,” he said.
“Then we are doomed.”
He let his knee press into hers again. “If it gets bad, we pull the fire alarm.”
“You would not,” his mother said without looking up from her tabs.
Ryan blinked. “How do you do that?”
“Mother senses,” she said.
Dinner rolled on. Plates lightened. The baby woke up long enough to squeal at peas and smear potatoes on Emma’s sleeve. Three separate relatives asked Taylor about her favorite flowers, each pretending they were not asking about hypothetical bouquets. Someone said venue and someone else said elopement, and Uncle Dave said the justice of the peace behind the bowling alley has availability on Thursdays.
Ryan fielded questions with easy nonanswers and watched Taylor find her footing in the chaos. She started to throw lines back. She teased his father about carving like he was auditioning for television. She threatened Emma with photos from the braces years if the Pinterest board reappeared. She laughed, freely now, and the sound settled something in him that had been knotted since the day he came home.
He kept catching himself looking at her. It was a problem. In the military, you learned to scan, to assess, to move on. Tonight his eyes kept returning to the same point. The curve of her mouth when she fought a laugh. The way she lowered her gaze when talk got too pointed and then looked back up when she had a quip ready. The familiar, stubborn set of her shoulders when she decided to stand her ground.
Off limits, he had told himself for years.
Now he was nothing but on.
“Hey,” Emma said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Ryan.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your face looks like poetry,” she said, delighted. “Make it stop or I am going to cry.”
“Do not make your sister cry,” his mother warned. “It will add salt to the green beans.”
“Speaking of poetry,” Uncle Dave said. “Taylor, I saw a book in the Little Free Library with your pen name on it.”
The table quieted for a breath. Ryan felt Taylor go still beside him, the shift so small no one else would notice. He nudged his knee into hers under the table again. She looked at him. He nodded once, calm and certain. He had her. She breathed.
“Oh,” she said, casual as she could make it. “That is nice. I…I didn’t know you guys knew about that.”
“You have fans,” Aunt Lila said, beaming. “I found one at the hair salon. We are a whole street team now.”
Emma clasped her hands. “I knew it. You are a local legend.”
His mother leaned forward. “Do we get signed copies for Christmas?”
