Whiskey Moon

“Great to meet you, Kendi.” Blaire returns the gesture.

Kendi’s a bit on the reserved side. Not unlike myself. It took years before she finally warmed up to us and finally gave us a chance to get to know her—just in time for them to announce they were unexpectedly pregnant. Had Blaire been around in those early days, I imagine she could’ve brought Kendi out of her shell better than anyone. She was always good at that—getting a person to talk and making them feel like they’ve known her their whole life.

“Sweetheart, I’m going to sit you right over here, between Wyatt and Cash,” Mama says. “Actually, where is Wyatt? I saw him a minute ago … Wyatt!”

Gathering a tight breath into my stiff lungs, I compose myself and make my grand entrance—all eyes on me.

“Blaire,” I say when I take my seat.

“Wyatt,” she says, matching my neutral tone. The animosity from the other night is gone, though I imagine she’s putting on her best face for Mama’s sake.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Mama says, side-eyeing me, “go ahead and dig in, all.”

Dishes are passed around the table, silverware tinkles against plates, Cash asks if there are any mushrooms in the casserole, and McCoy makes faces at Daisy from his side of the table. It’s just another Sunday supper—but it isn’t.

Blaire passes me the bread basket and our fingers brush, sending a quick rush down my spine. Strange how something so small could be that thrilling. Once upon a time, I could touch any part of her I wanted without thinking twice. And we were always touching. Holding hands through the hallways of school. My hand cupping her inner thigh when she rode shotgun in my truck. Her cheek resting on the back of my shoulder when she’d ride on the back of my quad when I’d check cattle.

The sweet scent of her perfume—one that’s new and unfamiliar—floats on a delicate breeze in my direction. When she was mine, she used to wear this French brand that smelled like wisteria, cedar, and amber. It came in a purple glass bottle and I couldn’t pronounce the name if I tried. She originally found it in Chicago on vacation with her parents, at some little boutique her stepmother found. But every once in a while, if I try hard enough, I can still smell the way it used to fade, lingering in her hair and clinging to her soft, bare skin late into the night.

“So, Blaire, are you acting in New York or what are you doing these days?” Tripp asks.

“I’m acting,” she says, sitting up. “And I’m also waiting tables. I guess I’m still in that waiting-to-be-discovered stage of my career.”

She gives a humble chuckle.

I take comfort in the fact that she hasn’t given up on her dream, otherwise all of this would’ve been for nothing.

“What kind of work have you done so far?” Mama asks. “Anything we might have seen?”

“A handful of off-Broadway shows so far,” she says. “And twice a week, I act as a live model at a teaching hospital—I get to play sick. My roommate calls it my real-life Grey’s Anatomy gig.”

The subtle mention of Blaire’s roommate serves as a reminder that she’s got a whole other life out there. Friends to keep her secrets. An apartment in the city like she always wanted. Hobbies and routines and co-workers and a social life. Maybe even a boyfriend who puts a smile on her face and wipes her tears and takes her out just so he can show her off.

We’re nothing more than strangers with a past.

Mama snorts. “Isn’t that cute.”

“Daddy, you know I don’t like peas,” Daisy says with a pout, shoving her plate away as if the presence of the peas tainted the entire thing.

“Maybe you’d like them if you actually tried them,” Hart says.

“She’s pretty picky …” Kendi winces. “It’s okay, baby. Just push them aside and eat the other stuff.”

“But I don’t want them on my plate,” Daisy says, louder.

Mama throws her hands up, amused, and surrenders a smile. “Just another glamorous day in paradise …”

“I’ll take your peas if you don’t want them, Daisy,” Blaire offers, lifting her plate in that direction. “I love peas. They’re my favorite. Have you ever tried them with cheese? Total game-changer.”

“Wait,” Daisy says, second-guessing her decision. “Maybe I’ll try one pea …”

The room falls silent as everyone watches the world’s pickiest six year old try a single sweet green pea.

Stabbing one onto the tines of her fork, she examines it from all sides before slowly bringing it to her mouth and taking another second to reconsider.

“I’ll do it with you if you’d like?” Blaire loads up a pea onto her fork as well. “I’ll count to three and we’ll do it at the same time.”

Daisy nods. “Okay.”

“Ready? One … two … three … go.” Blaire counts off and the two of them take their bites in tandem.