“What's that?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She turns her head towards me as we lock eyes.
“I think sometimes the bravest thing isn't jumping into the deep end—it's staying still long enough to see what's around you.”
Her eyes widen slightly, recognition flashing in them. “Are you using my own swimming metaphors against me, Taylor?”
I grin, squeezing her hand. “Maybe. Is it working?”
A laugh escapes her, breaking the tension. “You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
We stand there, hands linked, faces illuminated only by starlight. I want to kiss her again, to pick up where we left off in that restroom before she ran. But something holds me back—the knowledge that this moment is fragile, that whatever is growing between us needs nurturing, not rushing.
“There you two are!” Mama's voice cuts through our bubble of privacy. She appears at the edge of the yard, hands on her hips. “We're about to cut the cake, and I need my son and his beautiful date present.”
“Coming, Mama,” I call back, not releasing Mia's hand.
She glances at our intertwined fingers, then up at me. “Grant,” she says softly, hesitation in her voice.
“I know,” I reply, understanding without her having to say it. This is temporary. She'll leave soon. We're from different worlds.
But as we walk back toward the warm glow of the party, I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, some temporary things are worth the inevitable pain of their ending.
Inside, the large dining room buzzes with conversation and laughter. Mom's birthday cake—a towering chocolate creation that Dad definitely didn't bake himself—sits at the center of the table, candles already lit.
“About time!” Dad exclaims when he spots us. “We thought you two might have snuck off for some private celebrating.” He winks suggestively.
“Eric!” Mom scolds, though there's no real heat in it.
“What? It's my duty as a father to embarrass my children at every opportunity,” he defends, filling glasses with champagne. “Builds character.”
“Is that what you call it?” I mutter, guiding Mia to a spot next to me at the table.
The family gathers around as Mama prepares to blow out her candles. I notice Mia watching the scene with a wistful expression that tugs at something deep in my chest. How long has it been since she celebrated a birthday with family? Since she felt part of something bigger than herself?
“Make a wish, darlin’!” Dad encourages as he comes to stand next to Mama planting a quick kiss on her cheek, and Mama closes her eyes briefly before blowing out all the candles in one breath.
Applause erupts, followed by calls for a speech. Mama stands, glass in hand, her face flushed with happiness.
“I just want to thank everyone for being here tonight,” she says, looking around the table. “Family is everything, and I'm blessed to have all of you.” Her gaze settles on Mia. “Including new friends who already feel like family.”
Mia's eyes widen in surprise, a flush creeping up her neck at the unexpected inclusion. Under the table, I squeeze her knee gently, feeling her tension release slightly at my touch.
As cake is served and conversations resume, I find myself watching Mia instead of participating. She's laughing at something Lily said, her entire face lighting up in a way I've rarely seen. In this moment, surrounded by the chaos and love of the Taylor family, she looks like she belongs.
And that realization terrifies me, because I'm starting to want her to belong—here, with us, with me—more than I've wanted anything in a long time.
It's during a lull in conversation, as Mom serves homemade peach cobbler, that Connor mentions Jake.
“Remember how Jake used to steal all the peaches before Mom could bake with them?” he says, smiling at the memory.
I tense, expecting the mood to darken, but instead, Mama laughs softly.
“That boy would have lived on fruit if we'd let him,” she says, her eyes shining with both sadness and affection. “He'd hide in that big oak tree by the kitchen window and drop peach pits on anyone who walked underneath.”
“Got me right on the head once,” Eric adds, touching a spot on his crown. “Kid had perfect aim.”
I feel the corners of my lips quirk at the memories. “He waited for hours for the perfect shot,” I say. “Said it was revenge for making him clean the stables that week.”
