Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Poor kid.”
“Yeah, my son…” She trails off with a sad shrug. “I wish he had made different choices. Become a different man.” She brightens. “But he gave me a soul friend to love, so I can’t complain.”
“Soul friend,” I murmur, liking that. “Parker’s definitely a soul friend. And a good man. You’re right to be proud.”
Nana squeezes my shoulder. “I know. But I’ll try not to be obnoxious about it.”
We’re laughing as Parker rejoins us, but we don’t tell him why. Back downstairs, Nana ends the tour in the guest room where we’ll sleep. Inside is a four-poster bed with a quilt that looks handmade, more art on the walls, and windows overlooking the back garden where her tomatoes run riot.
“Towels in the hall closet,” Nana says. “Parker knows where everything is, but try not to fornicate too loudly. The neighbors are Baptists.”
“Are Baptists not allowed to fornicate?” I ask.
“I don’t think so, baby.” She winks at me. “At least I’ve never heard anything fun going on over there.” She leaves us with a promise to have dinner ready at seven, but we’re free to “relax” as much as we want before then.
“So,” Parker says, when she’s gone. “That’s my nana.”
“Sure is,” I say. “She’s the best.”
“The very best,” he agrees.
We unpack and take a walk around the neighborhood before jumping back into his truck to fetch Nana some extra potatoes from the store for dinner. After another fantastic meal on the porch, with fireflies dancing in the shadows beneath the trees, we get ready for bed with the easy rhythm of people who’ve been sharing space far longer than we have. Parker flosses while I wash my face. I brush my teeth while he takes off his knee brace. We move around each other with grace, easily making room, space.
The sheets smell like lavender and sunshine from being hung out on the line, and I make a mental note to grab a clothesline for the backyard so I can hang our sheets out to dry, too. I curl into Parker’s side, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
“Thank you,” I whisper as we drift off. “For bringing me here.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t know family could feel like this,” I confess, my throat tight. But I’m not sad. This feeling is something else.
Something that feels like roots finding good soil.
Parker hugs me closer. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “I’m good. Really good.”
He kisses my forehead. We don’t say anything else. We don’t need to.
Outside, cicadas sing their summer song. Inside, the house settles around us, its art and bright walls and accumulated love holding us safe, giving beautiful things room to grow.
Chapter
Twenty-One
PARKER
The Oxford Sausage Festival hits different when you’re stupid in love.
I’ve been coming to this thing since I was a kid, back when my parents’ marriage was held together by passive aggression and spite. It was always one of the highlights of the summer, but I’ve never noticed how the morning light turns the whole town square golden. How the smell of grilled meat, apple fritters, and magnolia blossoms combine to create an irresistible perfume, or the genuine warmth between neighbors calling out to each other as they flood the streets.
It’s nice, sharing this with Makena, seeing it through her eyes.
But then, everything is more fun with her around.
Her eyes go wide as we turn the corner, and the town square comes fully into view. “Holy shit, Parker. You didn’t tell me it would be this…”
“Insane?” I supply, as she takes in the chaos. There are food and merch booths everywhere, local bands warming up on the stages, and approximately seventeen thousand sausage-themed decorations bobbing in the breeze.
Most of them are inflatable.
“Magnificent,” she breathes, pointing to a twenty-foot inflatable bratwurst. “Reminds me of you.”
I laugh, she beams up at me, and my chest squeezes tight. It’s like my ribs are trying to lock my heart down before it leaps from my chest, but it’s too late. It’s already yeeted itself to the ground at her feet like a suicidal crab.
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. “Let’s get you properly introduced to Oxford’s finest meats.”
“Pretty sure I already met that last night, but please do,” she murmurs, her commitment to making jokes about my cock proving we’re meant to be.
We dive into the crowd, her fingers laced tight with mine. The festival’s already in full swing. Old men man their grills in aprons that say things like “Grill Sergeant” and “Sausage King,” and Nana’s art friends hold court near the mimosa tent, already hard at work getting three sheets to the wind.
“Parker!” A familiar face in a tie-dyed muumuu waves from a table at the edge of the tent’s seating area. “Leo Parker, you gorgeous thing! Chaz said you were in town. Glad you’re here. Been too long, honey. And who’s this with you?”