Chapter 3

Marie’s POV

I see him watching us. And something in me just... stalls.

There’s nothing soft in his eyes. No trace of the boy I remember. Just a steady, unreadable stare that makes my pulse jump and my throat suddenly useless.

Look away.

I don’t.

His gaze drops for half a second, then returns to mine.

Jesus.

Marie. Move.

I finally force myself to, breaking eye contact just as Tristan pulls back with a grin.

"God, Marie. Look at you. You got taller!"

"I did not get taller, Tristan."

"Okay. Cooler, then. DJ, right? Frank told me. Fancy clubs, big lights, people throwing themselves at you?"

"That's exactly what being a DJ is like."

"I knew it."

I laugh.

Something in me finally loosens.

"You look good," he says. "Millhaven's better already."

"You're laying it on pretty thick."

"I haven't even started."

"Should I be worried?"

"Probably."

I laugh again.

God, it's nice to see him. Easy. That's what it is.

Nothing to figure out. Nothing hiding underneath every word.

"Come on. There's dessert."

I turn toward the dining room.

Dean is still sitting exactly where I left him.

His eyes move from Tristan to me, then to Tristan's hand, still resting on my back.

I look away.

***

Dessert migrates to the kitchen island. Mom is perched on one of the stools beside Frank, stealing bites from his bowl even though she has one of her own, while Tristan tells us about a customer who tried to fix his motorcycle with duct tape.

"I swear to God," Tristan says. "The whole exhaust pipe."

"No," Mom says.

"Yes."

"What did you even say to him?"

"Nothing at first. I just stood there looking at it."

Frank laughs. "That's because he was trying to figure out how much to charge the idiot."

"I was trying to be professional."

"You called me into the garage just to show me."

"After he left."

"Very professional."

I smile into my bowl.

It's strange how quickly the room has settled into something comfortable. Frank and Mom are pressed together at the island like they've been doing this forever. Tristan keeps pulling me into stories I only half remember, filling in the pieces when I don't.

Dean is leaning against the counter by the sink, drinking coffee.

He hasn't said much.

I know because I've been noticing.

Which is annoying.

The back door opens.

"Sorry, sorry. Don't start yelling."

Luke barrels into the kitchen with a six-pack under one arm.

Frank looks at the clock. "You're an hour late."

"I specifically said don't start yelling."

Then Luke sees me and his whole face changes.

"There she is."

"Oh, no."

He sets the beer down and crosses the kitchen before I can get away, wrapping me in a hug so enthusiastic he nearly lifts me off the floor.

"Jesus, Luke."

"Let me have this."

"You have three seconds."

"Still mean. Good."

He lets me go and holds me at arm's length.

"Okay. Yeah. Still terrifying. I was worried adulthood would've mellowed you out."

"You first."

"Never."

He steals the spoon out of Frank's hand on his way past him.

"Get your own," Frank says.

"Why? Yours is right here."

And just like that, Luke is still Luke.

Loud, ridiculous, talking with his mouth full while Frank threatens to throw him out and Mom laughs beside him. Tristan is leaning against the island next to me, close enough that his shoulder bumps mine every now and then.

Even Dean, quiet by the sink, fits into the picture.

The three of them do.

I look between them.

"You guys really stayed close?"

"Thick as thieves," Luke says.

"Unfortunately," Dean adds.

Luke points Frank's stolen spoon at him. "He'd be devastated without me."

"I'd sleep better."

"See? That's basically an I love you."

Tristan snorts. "He does love you. He just hates that you know."

"Exactly."

Dean flips him off.

I laugh before I can stop myself.

His eyes find mine.

The laugh dies somewhere in my throat.

"Frank probably already gave you the whole speech about handing the place over to us," Tristan asks, and I gladly turn to him.

"He mentioned it."

"He's been saying that for two years and still shows up every morning before any of us."

"I heard that," Frank says.

"You were supposed to."

Tristan turns back to me. "You should come by sometime. It's not what you're picturing."

"And what's in my head?"

"Leather. Cigars. Men arm-wrestling over territory."

I laugh. "That's oddly specific."

"You'd be surprised how many people think that. Mostly somebody's grilling, half the guys have their kids running around, and Luke DJs badly off his phone."

"Fuck off," Luke says.

"It's more like a big backyard," Tristan continues, ignoring him. "For a lot of people, anyway."

Something shifts in his voice on the last part.

I look at him. "You came back after your dad died, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

He gives me a small smile. "Long time ago."

There's clearly more there, but this isn't the place to ask.

"So," Tristan says beside me, saving me from whatever that was. "How long are you here?"

"I don't know yet. A while."

"That's vague."

"It's all I've got."

"I'll take it."

Frank starts arguing with Luke about the beer he brought, and Mom joins in when she realizes it's already warm.

Tristan leans closer to hear me over them.

"You settling in okay?"

"I've been here for three hours."

"So that's a no."

I smile. "Ask me tomorrow."

"I was thinking Sunday."

"What about Sunday?"

His voice drops a little.

"Let me take you somewhere."

I turn toward him. "Where?"

"There's a place downtown I think you'd like."

"How do you know what I'd like?"

"I remember you."

That catches me off guard.

"Dinner," he adds. "We catch up properly."

I glance toward Mom and Frank. Neither of them is paying attention.

"Just us?"

"Unless you want to bring Frank."

I laugh under my breath. "Hard pass."

"Then just us."

It's so simple with him.

No guessing. No trying to figure out what he means.

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sunday."

His smile widens. "Sunday."

A sudden crack cuts across the kitchen.

Everyone stops talking.

My eyes snap toward the sink. Dean has set his mug down too hard. A thin fracture runs up the side, coffee already starting to seep onto the granite.

Luke blinks. "Jesus, man. You alright?"

Dean doesn't look at him.

He looks at me.

Just for a second, but it's enough. His jaw tightens, his eyes dark and heavy.

He heard every word.

He wipes the coffee off his knuckle, sets the ruined mug in the sink, and pushes away from the counter.

Then he opens the back door and steps outside.

The screen door slams behind him into the sudden, suffocating quiet of the kitchen.