Our house is crawling with Taylors and Taylor-adjacent well-wishers, all ostensibly here to “welcome me home” from my two-week stay in hospital. In reality, it's my family's thinly veiled excuse to make sure I haven't completely lost my shit after nearly getting trampled to death saving Jacob.
I didn't need the fuss. Told them so. Multiple times. But arguing with Taylors about throwing a party is like telling a bull not to charge the red cape—pointless and potentially dangerous.
“There he is! The human shield himself!” Dad's voice booms as he enters the kitchen, drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass. “How's my hero son feeling?”
“Like I was body-slammed by two thousand pounds of pissed-off beef,” I deadpan. “So, pretty much on brand for a Tuesday.”
He laughs too loudly, which means he's on his third whiskey and entering the “emotional truth-telling” phase of Eric Taylor inebriation. God help us all.
“You look like warmed-over horseshit,” he announces, confirming my suspicion.
“Thanks, Dad. Really lifts the spirits.”
“Hard to tell if it's the broken arm or the broken heart doing more damage.” He jabs a finger toward my chest, narrowly missing my fractured ribs. “That London gal of yours call yet?”
The question lands like a hoof to the sternum. “No, she hasn't. And she's not mine.”
“Coulda fooled me.” He takes another swig. “Never seen you mope like this over a woman. Even Jessica Wagner didn't turn you into such a—”
“Eric,” Mama interrupts, “why don't you check if Ryan needs help with the grill?”
Dad's face softens, the filter he never had momentarily replaced with something like empathy. “She'll call, son. Mark my words.”
After he lumbers out, Mama squeezes my good shoulder. “He means well.”
“I know.” I push the food around my plate. “I just wish everyone would stop reminding me. Mia's gone. My fault. End of story.”
“Is it, though?” Mama sits beside me, her voice dropping. “The end?”
I'm saved from answering by Lily's dramatic entrance, arms laden with what appears to be every get-well balloon in Wellington County.
“The patient lives!” she declares, releasing the balloon bouquet to float toward the ceiling. “And he's actually vertical. Miracles do happen.”
“Don't get used to it. I'm only upright because Dad hid all the good painkillers.”
“For good reason,” Christian chimes in, appearing with a beer he definitely doesn't offer me. “Last time you took the strong stuff, you called Connor at 3 AM to pitch a rodeo-themed water park. Complete with bull-shaped water slides.”
“That's still a solid business concept,” I mutter.
The party continues around me while I sit in the eye of the hurricane, nodding and smiling on autopilot. I keep finding myself scanning the room, looking for a face I know isn't there. A sharp laugh I won't hear.
It's pathetic, this hope that keeps flaring despite my best efforts to drown it.
Mason arrives late, slipping in with minimal fuss, the way he does everything. His eyes find mine across the crowded living room, and something in his expression makes me straighten up.
“Need some air?” he asks, materializing beside my chair while I'm mid-conversation with an elderly neighbor.
“God, yes,” I breathe, using my good arm to lever myself up.
We escape to the back porch, the evening air heavy with approaching rain. Mason leans against the railing, watching me with that unnervingly patient gaze of his.
“What?” I finally ask when the silence stretches too long.
“She called me,” he says simply.
My heart stutters painfully. “Who?”
He gives me a look that says he's not playing this game. “Mia. She saw the accident online.”
