Daisy finishes chewing and washes it down with a big gulp of milk.
“What’d you think, Daisy?” Blaire asks, making a thumb’s up then down.
With a tooth-gapped smile, my niece gives her a thumb’s up.
“Wow, honey, I’m so proud of you.” Kendi kisses Daisy’s cheek.
“Well, color me impressed.” Mama bats a hand. “I’ve been trying for years to get her to try my honey butter carrots and sweet corn. Guess I’ve been going about it all wrong.”
“Wyatt, you fix that well yesterday?” Cash changes the subject.
“Which one?” I ask before realizing what he’s doing.
“You said you were going to fix the east well yesterday. It was acting up again or something?” Cash says.
I slice into my roast beef. “It’s running just fine now.”
Mama’s gaze passes between us, as if she knows something’s up but she can’t quite pinpoint it.
“So, Blaire,” Mama perks up. “Have you done much dating while you’ve been in New York? I imagine it’s much easier fishing in a well-stocked pond. If you don’t like the one on your line, you just throw it back until you get another bite.”
“It’s … been interesting,” Blaire says, choosing her words carefully. “It’s just such a big place and it’s kind of this melting pot of personalities. Lots of big … egos … with a few nice guys mixed in …”
“Are you seeing anyone at the moment?” Mama asks with no shame.
“Mama,” I interject.
She points her fork across the table. “What? It’s a natural question. She’s a beautiful young lady living in New York and I’m a sixty-year-old woman who never left her hometown. Forgive me for wanting to live vicariously a little.”
“It’s all right.” Blaire’s tone is gracious, but it doesn’t make this conversation any less awkward. “No, ma’am. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
My heart trips over itself without permission, and tension leaves my shoulders.
I’ve got no business feeling an ounce of relief at that revelation. If anything, I should be sad for her. She deserves to be loved.
“So why don’t you guys fill me in on what you’ve all been up to?” Blaire turns the tables, and we finish our meal between bites, seconds, and small talk as Mama fills her in on Hart and Kendi’s shotgun wedding, my father’s untimely passing, and Cash’s foray into single fatherhood and barkeeping.
An hour later, we disperse one by one, everyone leaving their dishes in the kitchen sink before retreating to various rooms of the house to let their stomachs settle.
Back in the day, Blaire would never miss a Sunday supper, and she’d be the first one washing dishes with Mama. They’d turn on the radio under the cabinet and sing their hearts out to some oldies station. Every time an Elvis song came on, Blaire would grab the broom from the corner closet and do a ridiculous impression with the curled lip and the wide stance. Mama would laugh until she turned pink every time.
There were moments, even as a teenage kid, that I’d close my eyes and see my future so clearly—Blaire in our kitchen, Blaire riding shotgun in my truck with a gold wedding band on her finger and her hand on her growing belly as she croons some sleepy lullaby to our unborn child.
I never had a doubt that we’d end up together eventually—one way or another.
Blaire was a Buchanan. She was one of us. From the day I brought her home, she fit right in like the missing piece of an old puzzle you find under your sofa when you least expect it.
They say if you tell God your plans, he’ll just laugh at you. So I never did any praying for it. In retrospect, maybe I should’ve.
“Uncle Wyatt, can you play Rodeo Racers with me?” McCoy tugs on my hand, and I realize I’m the last one left at the table. I’ve been sitting here for who knows how long, listening to the clamor and clatter and conversation coming from the kitchen, trying to capture an ounce of what it used to feel like all over again.
“Let’s raincheck that,” I say before pushing myself up from the table. “Your Uncle Wyatt needs some air.”
He leaves deflated, but how can a man focus on some silly video game when the love of his life is standing less than twenty feet away serving as my personal melancholy distraction?
McCoy runs off, and I duck out to the front porch, sinking into one of Mama’s rocking chairs to be alone with my thoughts.
The sky has a hint of light to it, though the sun is in a hurry to set. A faint moon hangs high and in the distance, a bull frog croaks.
Inside, Mama and Blaire are laughing about Lord only knows what.
I close my eyes and pretend that things worked out. That this is our life. It’s a cruel daydream to inflict on myself, but damn if it doesn’t feel real for a few endless moments.