* * *

14

Raylan

I didn’t expect to feel so much emotion being home again.

I thought I was over everything that happened in this house. Every convoluted tie I had to it.

But it’s all rushing back much harder than I expected.

In a way, I’m glad Riona is here with me. It gives me something to focus on, and it keeps the conversation with family from getting too personal. I know they want to demand why I haven’t come back to visit more often. But they can’t attack me with that in front of Riona.

I am glad to see them.

My brother Grady never hides anything he’s thinking or feeling. And my sister Bo thinks she keeps it all bottled in, but I can always read her face. And Mom. I know she missed me most of all.

Lawson and Tucker look like two completely different kids from the ones I met last time. Lawson was only a toddler, barely speaking, and Tucker was shy and sweet. Now they’re both talking away a mile a minute to each other, and fiercely fighting over the last roll, until Shelby separates them and makes them sit on either side of her.

Riona is sitting stiffly upright in her chair next to mine, obviously feeling like a fish out of water. Southern hospitality can be a lot. It’s warm and welcoming, but also overwhelming and smothering when you’re not used to it.

She’s a city girl through and through. I’m sure the endless green hills and the wooden furniture and the smell of horses and the massive platters of ribs, biscuits, and corn on the cob are all as bizarre and exotic to her as if I’d taken her to Shanghai and fed her fermented fish.

I like that, though. I like seeing Riona out of her element. Not in control of the situation. I like seeing her sharp green eyes examining everyone at the table, so she can adapt and overcome. Riona has a certain relentless drive to excel in any circumstance that I relate to. I’m the same.

At first she’s trying to eat her ribs tidily, using her knife and fork, but soon she realizes that’s impossible. She sees the rest of us—especially my brother—attacking the ribs like wild animals, and she eventually picks one up with both hands and takes a big bite.

“This is really good,” she tells my mom. “I can see where Raylan learned to cook.”

“He always picked it up the best.” My mom nods. “He makes apple pie better than I do. While poor Grady could burn water.”

“Bo is the worst cook,” Grady says. He’s just stating a fact, not deliberately trying to piss her off, but my sister shoots him a venomous look all the same.

“I don’t like cooking,” she says.

“Neither do I,” Riona says.

Bo looks slightly mollified to have someone agree with her for once.