The conversation flows on, memories of Jake woven naturally into the fabric of family history—present but not dominating, honored rather than avoided. I look at Mia’s profile and from the wistful look on her face, I imagine it must have been such a different experience for her, where her father’s grief turned her mother into an untouchable subject, her memory preserved in silence rather than stories.
When Dad produces a faded photo album after dinner, I’m mortified as Mama shares my childhood pictures with Mia. She laughs as she says how much Jake looked like a younger me—skinny, gap-toothed, but with the same mischievous eyes.
“He was a mini-Grant,” Dad says softly as we look at a picture of my brothers with fishing poles by the river.
“Better than me,” I respond, his finger tracing the edge of the photo. “Kinder. Funnier. Everyone's favorite.”
“Not true,” Mama says, overhearing as she collects dessert plates. “Different, not better. Just like all our children are different parts of our hearts.”
Later, as I drive us back to my house under a canopy of stars, I find Mia unusually quiet, processing the evening.
“Too much Taylor for one night?” I ask, glancing at her with concern.
She shakes my head. “No. Actually, just the right amount.” She pauses, as if struggling to articulate what she’s feeling. “Yourfamily talks about Jake so... naturally. Like he's still part of your lives.”
“He is,” I say simply. “Took years to get there, though. The first couple of birthdays, holidays... those were brutal.” I shudder at the memories of how heartbroken we all were and each of us trying to deal with it, to process the loss of him in our own ways. “Dad wouldn't even go near the river. Mama put away all Jake's pictures.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “But gradually, we learned that remembering hurt less than trying to forget.”
“My dad never learned that,” she admits, watching the darkened landscape roll past. “After my Mom died, it was like she never existed. No photos, no stories, no mention of her name.” Her voice cracks as looks off into the distance.
I reach over to take her hand, my thumb tracing circles on her palm. “I'm sorry, Mia. That's a different kind of drowning.”
Turning her head to me, her eyebrows draw together as if this understanding hits her square in the chest, unlocking something in her that she’s kept tightly sealed. “Yeah,” she whispers. “It is.”
The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence, my hand still in hers, our fingers interlaced as if they've always belonged that way. It's a small gesture, but it’s anchoring for both of us. I look over at Mia and she’s deep in thought.
When we reach my house, a strange reluctance comes over me. I don't want this night to end, don't want to break whatever spell has been cast over us.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask as we step inside, seeming equally unwilling to say goodnight.
“Yes,” she answers quickly. “I mean, sure. If you're having one.”
I smile and turn but not before I catch the movement of her chest as her breath hitches. “I'll meet you on the back porch. The view of the stars is better out there.”
***
Mia
While he heads to the kitchen, I slip into my room to kick off my heels and grab my phone. Three missed calls from Brè. Guilt pricks at me – I've barely thought about work, deadlines, or real life all evening.
“I should call her back,” I say when Grant appears with two tumblers of whiskey.
“Go ahead,” he says, handing me a tumbler and nodding toward the porch. “I'll be outside.”
I dial Brè's number, sinking onto the edge of the bed as it rings.
“She lives!” Brè's voice is dramatic when she answers. “I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by cowboys.”
“Sorry, I was at a family dinner,” I say, then immediately regret my phrasing.
“Family dinner?” Brè pounces on the words like a cat on a mouse. “Whose family? Not yours, unless your dad suddenly materialized in Texas.”
I close my eyes, knowing what's coming. “Grant's family. For his mom's birthday.”
“Grant? The cowboy you're 'absolutely not interested in' Grant?” I can hear her smirk through the phone. “The same Grant whose house you're currently staying at, completely platonically, of course?”
“It's…complicated,” I sigh, falling back on the bed. “His family caused the plumbing disaster that flooded my rental. They felt responsible.”
“Uh-huh. And do all responsible Texans invite the victims of their plumbing disasters to family birthday parties? Is that a southern hospitality thing I'm unaware of?”
