Page 122 of Five Brothers

Army carves up the turkey, and I pause for a second, just enjoying the moment. It won’t last forever, just hopefully for today.

I grind my fingers in my fist, feeling the small cut I didn’t notice until this morning. Glass from my dad’s windshield must’ve hit me.

I’m a rabble-rouser, it seems.

No matter how Milo treated me and how I fought back, I’ve never thought of myself as a fighter. Until now.

Luckily, my dad doesn’t seem to be pressing charges. I haven’t heard anything yet.

Which means he doesn’t know it was me or … he knows it was me.

“‘Shout, shout, let it all out,’” I sing.

The music goes off, and I see Army with the remote in his hand. I fall quiet. They want to talk at the table, of course.

But then Macon strolls up. “Turn it back on,” he orders his brother.

Army looks at him but doesn’t argue. The music plays again, Macon sits, and I take the only seat left, slowly lowering myself into a chair at the foot of the table. I feel like I shouldn’t be sitting there, but I seem to get stuck with this seat a lot.

I lift my eyes over the food, to the other end, but Macon doesn’t look at me.

“To the first family of St. Carmen,” Clay calls out, holding up her glass. Everyone follows, and I take the Coke I poured myself. She looks around. “The traitors are at your disposal.”

Then our eyes meet, and I laugh. “Yeah, we are …”

“Woo-hoo!” Trace cheers.

Glasses clank, everyone tips back their glasses—Dallas and Trace with bourbon already—and we dig in, sampling everyone’s contributions to the table.

Paisleigh eats two bites of her hot dog and wastes no time in standing up in her chair, leaning over the table, and grabbing a slice of pizza.

“Paisleigh!” I chide, laughing at the same time.

But Trace holds out his plate, stuffing the insides of a tamale into his mouth with the other. “Yeah, pass me one, kid,” he mumbles over his food.

She doles him out a slice.

“Pepperoni for me,” Liv tells her, holding out her plate, too.

I shake my head and scoop some black beans and rice onto my plate. It’s amazing how quickly etiquette disappears around family. True family.

But she’ll remember this Thanksgiving.

The air outside sweeps through the house, making flames fight to cling to their wicks, and curtains blow like the trains of dresses. Music plays, Mars goes for a second ear of corn, and I find myself watching everyone more than I’m eating, because nothing lasts, no matter how tightly we hold. This table won’t look the same next year.

Just like, I’m sure, it doesn’t look the same this year with Iron gone. Maybe next year others will be, too. Liv will spend it with Clay’s family, or not come home at all, waiting until Christmas.

Maybe Trace will go for it, leave to work at some small inn somewhere that has a pub where he can learn the trade.

I raise my eyes, seeing Macon through the strands of hair blowing in my face. He dips a spoon in and out of his mug, staring at the melted ice cream dripping from its end, and I suddenly feel like my arms are made of steel, and so are his, and if he reaches around and I reach around, we’ll hold the table together.

But he doesn’t look up at me.

Liv serves me some of her cheese fries, which I dip in ranch, and Clay periodically checks my plate to see if I’m eating her stuffing, and then gives me a quick scowl when I haven’t yet touched it.

Finally, I roll my eyes, scoop up a glob, and shove it into my mouth, grabbing Trace’s shot of bourbon and washing the mouthful down with the only thing on the table that tastes worse.

Trace laughs, and I cough, swallowing about three more times to get everything down my throat.