Page 82 of The Check Down

In unison, Griffin and Shaw blurt, “Lacey family rules.”

“Sorry, Mom. Cam texted that he’s running late, but he’ll be here.”

Trixie huffs a breath from Griffin’s other side.

The family launches into story after story about the boys’ childhoods, and I soak it all in, marveling at the chaos of dinner with a big family. When I was growing up, our family mealtimes were substantially more mellow, though Mom could be gregarious enough for two people.

Mistaking my silence for discomfort, Griffin leans in, his shoulder nudging mine. “You okay?”

“Perfect.” I press against him and scoop up a bite of potatoes.

Fred passes a basket of rolls to Tucker and lifts his chin. “Don,” he says to his wife, who’s seated at the other end of the table, “tell Brynn about the rock.”

More groans from the boys as Trixie and Fred laugh.

“That there,” she points her fork toward the living room, “is my lying rock. And let me tell you, it was a sanity-saver with these three.” She eyes each of her boys with fondness. “Any time one of them got into trouble, they’d be quick to blame each other. And oh, thearguing. ‘Shaw did it’ and ‘No, it was Griff’ or ‘It’s Tucker’s fault.’ It was constant. And they were so convincing, all three. We had the hardest time discerning the truth.” She smirks at her husband. “One summer day, one of them broke a window playing with a ball in the house, even though they’d been told a million times to keep all balls outdoors—”

All three brothers pipe up. “Lacey family rules.”

“No one would confess, so I marched outside and found the biggest rock I could hold in one hand. I lined them up and told them that when I threw my rock, it would only hit the boy who was lying. So I wound up,” she raises her arm to throw an imaginary rock, “and pretended to throw the rock at them. The guilty party automatically ducked, telling me exactly who the culprit was.”

The three Lacey boys are unamused while the rest of us laugh. Griffin scrubs a hand down his face and points to Shaw. “That was your fucking fault. You dared me to throw that baseball.”

Shaw holds up both hands. “I wasn’t the one who ducked, fucker.”

“Boys, no swear words at the table.” Fred leans back and crosses his arms.

Even Donna joins in on the next “Lacey family rules.”

I scrunch my nose at the six-five man beside me, imagining a little Griffin dodging his mother’s lying rock. “You ducked, huh?”

Donna answers for him. “That time, yes. But they all had turns ducking through the years. That rock was a lifesaver before they became wise to my tricks.”

The stories continue, and when Cam eventually arrives, we spend the remainder of dinner listening to him, Tucker, and Griffin reminisce about their high school football glory days. Shaw pipes in with a comment here or there, and nothing could wipe the proud, joyful smiles from Fred and Donna’s faces.

Trixie was right. The Lacey love is fierce. And I’m happy—and privileged—to be surrounded by it tonight.

Chapter eighteen

Griffin

As usual, I can’t keep my eyes off Brynn.

Watching her interact with my family, sitting at the table where I ate breakfast and solved word problems as a kid? Hearing her laugh at our rehashed family anecdotes, surrounded by the people who’ve been with me through all my highs and lows? I pull in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs. The heady sensation that flows into my limbs makes my eyelids grow heavy.

Could also be a side-effect of the wine that Mom opened an hour ago.

Shaw left after we cleared the table, claiming it was almost his bedtime. I didn’t miss the scrutinizing glances he cast Brynn’s way during dinner. I’ll make an effort to get my brother alone in the next day or two so I can ask him about it.

Trixie bailed not long after Shaw, wanting to check on Aunt Dot at the bar before she headed home. And when Cam stood not five minutes later, insisting he had an early shift at the station, Tuck and I exchanged knowing smirks.

When Brynn yawns beside me, Dad follows suit. “This young lady has the right idea. The sheep aren’t going to count themselves.”

“I put you two in your old room,” Mom says as she collects empty wine glasses.

When she turns and heads toward the dishwasher, Brynn drops her head and studies her lap, cheeks ablaze.

“That’s fine,” I say, giving Brynn a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks.”