Page 94 of Awaiting the Storm
“Boy, I could write a damn book.” He squeezes my shoulder once, then starts for the door. “Don’t lose hope. You’re a good man, with good instincts. Even if you got shit timing.”
He disappears for a second, and then his head pops back in. “And call your mother and figure out how she’s getting here.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” I say as I give him a mock salute.
When he’s gone, I sink back into the chair and glance out the window again before closing my laptop and picking up the phone to call Mom as I head out to help corral some horses.
Inside, I’m a mess, but I’ve got to pull my head out of my ass.
The ball’s in Matty’s court now. I can’t chase her. I won’t manipulate her. If she wants to talk, she will. If she doesn’t … well then, I’ll have to accept it.
And I’ll love her from afar.
Whether she knows it or not.
Because I’m nothing like fucking Carl.
The mulled wine in my mug is warm and spicy, made with a bold Malbec that Grandma Evelyn says is “just right for cold nights and baking.” The porch boards creak under my socked feet as I lean back in the old swing, watching the stars blink to life, one by one. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and roasted pecans still clings to my lounge clothes. We baked a small village of pies tonight—apple, pecan, pumpkin, and even that cranberry orange custard pie Grandma insists is “an acquired taste.” The turkey’s brining in the cooler, taking up half the fridge in the mudroom, and the kitchen smells like the holidays and a lifetime of memories.
Behind me, the screen door springs open and slams shut. Charli saunters out first, a cup of mulled wine in one hand, a half-eaten sugar cookie in the other. “You hiding out here so you don’t have to do dishes?”
“Yep. I figured you three had it covered,” I say, tipping my cup toward her.
She settles into the swing beside me, tucking her legs up like she did when we were little. “My feet hurt. Grandma had us rolling pie dough for hours. It’s like she thinks we’re gonna be feeding the entire county.”
“In all fairness, Axle, Royce, and Cabe could probably out-eat the rest of the county,” Shelby says as she comes out the door next, her wild curls tied up in a high bun and flour dust still smeared across one cheek. “Plus, you kept eating the filling before it hit the pie shells.”
“I have no regrets,” Charli says, licking sugar from her thumb.
And then, like a little firecracker, Harleigh bounces through the door, glowing with the energy only a college student on holiday break can summon. “Y’all didn’t wait for me.” She pouts, flopping down onto the step at my feet with exaggerated drama.
“You took forever in the bathroom,” Shelby says, handing her a glass of spiked cider. “What were you doing in there anyway?”
“I was video-chatting with Marco.” Harleigh rolls theRin Marco seductively and waggles her eyebrows.
“Marco? I thought his name was Paulo?” Shelby quips.
“Paulo is Marco’s brother, and she switched,” Charli teases.
“Switched? It’s not like they’re handbags you can change out to match your outfit,” Shelby gasps as she chokes down a sip of cider.
“Sure you can. Paulo already graduated. He was only in town to visit some friends and his brothers. We hooked up at a party. It was super hot, but he was on his way back to San Diego the next day,” Harleigh explains.
“And Marco is okay with the fact that you hooked up with his brother?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t tell him. Paulo didn’t tell him. It was before we went out. It’s not a big deal.”
I shake my head. My sisters have always been more adventurous than me. Sometimes, I wonder who I would have been if I’d gone off to college. Would I be as uptight, or would I run headfirst into anything that caused my heart to race?
“You’re trouble,” Charli says.
“I am trouble,” Harleigh replies with a wink.
We all laugh, the sound wrapping around us like a blanket. It’s one of those rare moments—when all four Storm sisters are in the same place at the same time, no one’s fighting, no one’s crying, and no one’s covered in horse shit.
Thanksgiving is two days away, and we’re ready. Grandma’s kitchen is off-limits to all menfolk until the feast is served, and Grandpa’s already declared a three-day suspension on healthy eating.
“None of thatmodified recipenonsense,” he said earlier, wagging a finger at Grandma Evelyn. “We want the traditional Thanksgiving feast with all the trimmings.”
