Ryder and Jesse squeeze through the sliding glass door right then, overhearing the tail end of the conversation.
“And speaking for a vast majority of heterosexual males on planet earth, and probably more than a few women of the other persuasion”— Ryder lifts his glass in a toast, his entire posture and voice reverent and serious—“I say, thank you sweet baby Jesus for that.”
Jesse clinks his glass against Ryder’s. “Amen to that, brother.”
We’re all laughing now, because the men are just so serious about it, and it’s funny and endearing.
Franco pushes in, then, followed by the girls, who are chattering in overlapping chorus. “Make way, make way,” Franco says. “Mr. Snakeypants wants to say hi to everyone.”
He assumes center stage in the kitchen, a three-foot-long garter snake in both hands, one hand pinioning just behind the creature’s jaws to keep it from biting or escaping.
Laurel dances back, shrieking. “What the hell is wrong with you! Why would you bring a live snake into the kitchen? Get it out!”
Franco just laughs. “Oh calm down, it’s just a garter snake. He’s totally harmless. His name, according to Miss Ella here, is Mr. Snakeypants. Which, personally, I feel is a wonderfully appropriate, and not at all suggestive name, for a snake.”
Ella, the younger of the girls is dancing in circles, chanting, “Mis-ter Snakey-pants! Mis-ter Snakey-pants!”
Nina, trying to be more subdued now that there’s a larger adult audience, reaches out to touch the top of the snake’s head. “He slithered right over the top of my foot and didn’t even bite me. I was a little scared—but not too much—because then he just sat there on my foot looking up at me, so I called for Uncle Franco, who caught him and he was chasing us with him because snakes are kind of yucky, but he’s nice and not too yucky, even though his skin feels weird.”
“Snakes are yucky, full stop,” Laurel says. “Now put Mister Snakeypants outside before I faint.”
Ryder is laughing. “Let me see him.” He reaches out, carefully takes the snake by the back of the head from Franco, letting the rest of the long body wrap around his arm. He moves over to Laurel, who dances around the island, screaming, until Ryder traps her in a corner of the kitchen. “Just calm down a second. Jesus! Look at him! He’s not even doing anything.”
“I don’t care! It’s a snake!” Laurel hisses.
Ryder is keeping his distance, but not letting her escape. “Have you ever touched a snake?”
“No, and I don’t plan to.”
“Just try it,” Ryder says, his voice smooth and low. “He won’t hurt you. I’ve got him, so he can’t. But he probably wouldn’t anyway.”
“No.”
“Just touch the top of his head.”
Laurel meets Ryder’s eyes, hesitating. “You’re sure he won’t bite me?”
Ryder makes sure the snake’s head is pointing away from Laurel. “See? He can’t. I’ve got him.”
“It’s okay, Laurel,” Ella says. “I was scared too, but it’s kind of tickly, that’s all.”
Laurel reaches out, yanks her hand back, and then steps closer to Ryder, moving up behind him and peering out around his bicep. “You’re sure you’ve got him?”
“Yes!” Ryder laughs. “And if he’s gonna bite anyone, it’ll be me.”
“What if he does?” Laurel asks, still hesitating with her fingertip an inch from the snake’s body.
“It’ll hurt, I’ll get a tetanus shot, have a couple sweet puncture wounds for a few weeks, and that’s it. They’re no threat to people.” He grins at her. “I’ve been bitten before, actually, several times.”
“By a garter snake like this one?”
“Ummm, no. Well, yeah, by a garter once when I was a kid.” He pauses for effect. “I got bit by a copperhead while swimming in a lake in Louisiana, and by a rattler while hiking in Colorado. And by a few other harmless ones other times.”
Laurel stares at him. “I can’t decide if that makes you a badass or a dumbass.”
“A little of both?” Ryder says.
While all this is going on, I’ve somehow ended up standing next to Franco. He washed his hands and is drying them on a handful of paper towel. His eyes are on me, and mine on his, as if neither of us can seem to help it.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
He gestures at the reptile in Ryder’s hands. “You say hi to Mr. Snakeypants yet?”
“I’m good.” I can’t help a smirk. “That name was your idea, wasn’t it?”
He laughs. “No! I swear. It was all Ella.”
Silence descends between us, even with the commotion all around us: Ryder and the girls take the snake outside to let him go, Laurel is squealing again and everyone else is trooping outside to find places at James’s extra wide, extra long picnic table.
Which leaves Franco and I alone in the kitchen, just staring each other down, not saying a damn word.
“Why’d you have to go chasing snakes, Franco?” I murmur. “I was doing so well at ignoring you.”
“You were not. You were staring at me every chance you got.”
“Like you haven’t been doing the same?” I counter.
He shrugs. “Sure. But you’re wearing a dress that basically screams to be ripped off. So I can’t be held responsible for staring at your tits, which are, to be fair, all but out there.”
“I didn’t realize it would be a problem for you.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not a problem.” His smooth voice is deep, feral purr.
Nearly everyone is sitting down, at this point, which provides me with an exit. “Time to eat.” I push past him, holding my breath so I don’t accidentally inhale his scent, closing my eyes so I’m not tempted to turn them up to his.
I feel him watching me as I make my way outside and take a place at the picnic table—on the very end, with Ella beside me, Ryder beside her, and Jesse and Imogen across from me; the only other open spot at the table is on the other side and at the other end…far, far from me.
The meal is…honestly, one of the most relaxed, convivial, and enjoyable of my life. The food is plentiful and delicious, the drinks flow freely—but not to excess, as everyone seems to be pacing themselves well, at least partially out of respect for our two youngest members. The conversation is easy, with friendly ribbing between the guys, and rolled eyes between the women, and constant chatter from the girls.
When the meal is finally over, James and Franco set to work building a bonfire in the fire pit at the back of the yard, near the downed tree and the pile of split wood, which is now much larger thanks to Franco. Within a few minutes, they have a roaring blaze flickering and dancing in the boulder-lined fire pit, and the rest of us are dragging deck chairs and loungers and kitchen stools across the yard. James plops down on the massive, gnarled, flat-topped stump of the downed tree, which seems to be his personal spot—the fire pit, indeed, appears to have been put in place specifically so he could sit on the stump and poke at the fire. Franco drags over a section of the tree, flips it on end, and sits on it next to James, and Ella crawls up onto his lap. Franco, without missing a beat, hauls her up and settles her in place; a familiar dance for them, it seems.
My heart is not melting. Nope, it sure isn’t. NOPE NOPE NOPE.
Nina drags a chair to sit by her dad, resting her head against his arm. Gradually, everyone finds a spot, and the fire grows brighter as the evening grows darker and the stars start to pop and prickle against the blackening velvet sky, and there’s a drowsy, contented wash of cross chatter.
Nina, apropos of nothing, hops up, runs back into the house and reappears after a moment, dragging two hardback guitar cases. They’re almost too big for her skinny frame to carry, but she manages to haul them across the yard to the fire pit. She plops one case at her dad’s feet, and the other at Jesse’s.
“I’m bored!” she announces. “Papa and Uncle Jesse should play some tunes!”
James rumbles wordlessl
y. “I haven’t touched that in years, sweetie.”
“Yes, you have,” Nina argues. “I heard you playing it in your room the other night. You were playing super quiet like you didn’t want me to hear, but I heard because I can’t sleep sometimes. You were playing that one song you like to play a lot.”
James sighs, nudging the case with the toe of his boot. “That’s different. Nobody wants to hear that.”
Nova, sitting next to him, bumps him with her shoulder. “I don’t know if I’d say that’s true.”
“It’s just an old sad song I play when I’m bored,” James says, staring at the guitar case.
“You mean when you’re sad because you miss Mama.” Nina says this quietly, gazing somewhat nervously at him from lowered lashes.
“Nina,” James growls, the rumble a clear and dire warning.
“What? It’s true! I’m not saying anything private! I just wanna hear you play again. It’s been so long and it’s a perfect night for it and you don’t have to play that song. Uncle Jesse can pick and you can play along like you guys used to.”
Jesse unclasps the guitar case, flips it open, and pulls out a beautiful acoustic guitar. He settles it on his lap with easy familiarity, plucks the strings one by one, and adjusts the tuning. “I’m game if you are, buddy,” he says to James.
James sighs again, a deep, gusting breath of resignation. “Fine. A couple songs. But if you pull this mess again, girly, you’re in trouble.”
Nina claps happily and plops down in her chair, settles her chin in her hands, and watches, eyes sparkling in the firelight, as James tunes his own guitar. Jesse is already noodling, strumming a chord here and there, plucking out little riffs, humming under his breath—finding the tune, I suppose. I glance at Imogen, curious.
Sitting beside me, Imogen leans close. “I’ve never actually heard him play before,” she whispers, excited.
“I didn’t even know he was a musician!” I whisper back.
“He mentioned he plays in a cover band sometimes, but I guess they sort of disbanded and he’s been too busy lately with Dad Bod to play.”
After some more noodling, Jesse settles in to play a recognizable melody: “Hotel California” by the Eagles. After a little guitar intro, he starts singing the lyrics, and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for Jesse’s voice to be so amazing. It’s deep, raspy, charged with intensity, beautiful. After a minute, James joins in, strumming around the melody. His voice is deeper, smoother, providing a harmony to Jesse. They go through that song, and then transition to “Jesse’s Girl”, which makes Imogen blush and snuggle against Jesse’s arm. After that, they do “Fade to Black” by Metallica, and then “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin.
The songs they do and the way they play the melodies and harmonize tells me Jesse and James have been sitting around bonfires jamming to those tunes for decades.
Nina, leaning sleepily up against James’s arm, gazes up at him. “Play the song, Papa.”
“No.” A gruff, terse, monosyllabic refusal.
“Please?” Her voice is cracking, sad.
“Dammit, child.” He sighs. “It’s more’n just me and your uncles this time, Nina.”
“So?”
“So…it’s hard.” He scrapes at a guitar string with his thumbnail, making a raspy hum.
“Good thing you’re so tough, huh, Papa?” She nuzzles closer. “Please? And then I’ll go to bed. Promise.”
James sighs again. “Fine.”
“Fuck,” I hear Jesse mutter, under his breath so low probably only Imogen and I could hear him. The word is hissed, bitten out, a sound raw pain.
James plucks a slow, sad melody, and then sings— “Every Time We Say Goodbye”, by Ella Fitzgerald. Jesse doesn’t accompany him on this one, and his expression is neutral, almost shut down.
As are Ryder’s, and Franco’s.
This song is clearly thick with meaning for all four of them, and for Nina.
When the song is done, James lets the strings hum the final note until the sound quavers into silence. The guitars both go back in their cases, and then James lifts a now almost sleeping Nina into his burly arms, while Jesse scoops the long-since slumbering Ella into his. Imogen follows Jesse inside, and Nova follows James. Ryder and Laurel rise, too, and wander off into the darkness beyond the pale orange light of the dying fire, murmuring to each other in low tones—it sounds like Laurel is asking about the song, and Ryder is giving what seems to be the party line for Jesse, Franco, and Ryder when it comes whatever happened with James and the girls’ mother: “It’s not my story to tell, it’s his.”
And, just like that, Franco and I are alone at the fire.
I’m not drunk, but I’ve been slowly drinking all night, leaving me loose and floaty.
“If I asked you about Nina and Ella’s mom, would you tell me?” I hear myself asking.
Franco slowly shook his head. “It’s not—”
“Your story to tell,” I say, in unison with him. “Gotcha. Nina told me she was going to have a baby and went to be with Jesus, and so did the baby.”
Franco blows out a tight breath. “Yeah, that’s pretty much all there is to tell.” He pauses, considering; I finally let myself look at him, and find his piercing blue eyes fraught with sadness and hazed with old memories. “She was Jesse’s sister.”
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea. Were he and Jesse friends before they got together?”
“Reneé.” This is from Jesse, standing behind me, startling me; I twist and see Imogen hanging on him, gazing up at him lovingly, sadly. “Her name was Renée. James and I have been friends since middle school. We met in seventh grade. We got in a fight during lunch, and my sister broke it up. The three of us were inseparable after that. We met Ryder and Franco a few months later, when all of our parents collectively decided to sign us up to play flag football through the local YMCA. To get us out of their hair, I guess. But yeah, James and I were friends long before he and Renée started dating, which was in high school.” He pauses, laughing. “Franco’s stupid ass had a crush on her too, actually.”
“It wasn’t a crush. Your sister was hot as hell, so half the guys in town had a crush on her. And I knew James was gaga for her, anyway.” Franco says this with good-natured irritation.
“And you were hot for Lacey Wright at that point, too, weren’t you?” Jesse asks, steering the conversation away from Renée.
Franco stabs the fire with a piece of stick. “Who wasn’t? Of course, the problem with Lacey was that she had no problem getting with any guy who’d pay her the least amount of attention.”
“Which included you, am I right?”
“Shut up. We went on one date.”
“Yeah…date.” Jesse says this with a snort.
“Are you done?” Franco snaps. “Because I could bring up Amy Collins…or Judy Fredrickson…or Prissy McLane.”
“Oh god, please don’t bring up Prissy McClane,” Jesse pleads.
“We all tried to warn you.”
“Like we all tried to warn you about—” Jesse starts.
“I will stab you in the eye with a cinder if you say another fucking syllable,” Franco snarls.
Jesse laughs, holding up his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay. Jesus, dude.” He stops laughing, and eyes Franco. “That’s some seriously old history, man, get over it already.”
Franco shoots to his feet and stalks away, ripping his hair out of the ponytail, shaking it back and combing his fingers through it, and then retying it as he vanishes into the shadows.
I glance at Jesse, who’s still standing behind me. “Let me guess, more old history that’s Franco’s to tell and not yours?”
“Yep.” He smirks down at me. “But if you could get him to tell you about it, it might explain some things.”
“She’d have to do some explaining herself, though,” Imogen says. “And she’s as miserly with her history as the rest of you seem to be.” She pauses, and I realize w
hat she’s about to say it. “She’d have to tell him about Jared.”
“Dammit, Imogen,” I snap.
She shrugs. “Like Jesse said, it’s old history. We all have it. No sense hoarding it like it’s something precious. Just get it out there and move on. Quit letting it have this hold on you.”
“Easy for you to say.”
She frowns. “You think it was easy for me to get over Nicholas? Just because I have Jesse now, and I’m happy as can be with him, doesn’t mean I’m over what Nicholas did to me. I’ve just found something worth having that makes it easier to keep moving on, one day at a time. It’s a choice—I made a choice. And it wasn’t easy.”
I get to my feet with an aggravated huff. “Whatever.” I grab my bag and head for the house, just to get away from Imogen’s truth.
“I guess we get the fire to ourselves, huh?” I hear Jesse say, and then the thunk and spark of a log hitting the fire, followed by the renewed crackling of flames devouring the fresh fuel.
I see shadows in the distance—Ryder and Laurel strolling along the fence line of James’s property. I angle away from them to give them their space and privacy. Where to go? Where did Franco go? I want to know so I can go anywhere else. The house seems like a safe bet—but, as I head for the kitchen, I see James and Nova standing chest to chest by the fridge, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist. They’re not kissing, though, and their body language is tense, as if they’re fighting the obvious attraction between them. I see Nova shake her head and pull back, twisting away from him, then James scrubs a hand through his hair, mussing his usually neat brown locks.
Nope, not going in there.
The eight-foot-high wood-slat privacy fence surrounding James’s backyard runs up to the side of the house, dividing Jesse’s property from the neighbors’. A large gate that spans the driveway up near the front corner of the house separates the road and the rest of the property. I see moonlight glint on the metal gate as it swings open on silent hinges, only the slight rattle of the latch giving him away.
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