Logan let out a singular “ha.” The concept of a family dinner in the middle of everything going on was so alien she thought Alejo had momentarily slipped out of English. Even before the murders, and before Snakebite, the Ortiz-Woodleys didn’t do “family dinners.” They did dinner shifts, which usually meant that Alejo cooked a huge batch of picadillo and ate alone, Logan took a serving to her room at some undetermined point in the night, and Brandon came home after everyone was asleep to microwave leftovers for himself.
But she’d promised Ashley she would talk to them about the cabin, the ghosts, all of it. It was now or never.
“Sounds fun,” Logan said. “Maybe we could get fancy and push our tables together. We could even microwave a pizza.”
“Very funny,” Alejo said. He looked back at Brandon. “I think we’re feeling diner food?”
“You don’t think the mob will come out?” Logan asked.
“Don’t worry about everyone else. You’ll have us. We know how to take the heat off.” Alejo nudged Brandon, who wordlessly nodded. “As long as me and your dad are there, no one will have time to bug you.”
“That’s true,” Brandon said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Nothing this town loves more than roasting a couple gays on the pyre,” Alejo said. When Brandon and Logan both went silent, he laughed. “Sorry, that’s a little intense. But what do you say—wanna grab some burgers before they get the pitchforks?”
Logan shrugged.
“Okay, fine, the real reason.” Alejo’s expression was somber. “I found my old hat and I wanna wear it in public before I’m banished.”
He pulled a short-brimmed black cowboy hat from his bed and placed it squarely on his head. It had a musky leather scent, and Logan couldn’t fight off a smile. Alejo dipped his head cowboy style and said, “I’d be much obliged if you came to dinner with us, ma’am.”
“Oh my god.” Logan laughed. “You’re really gonna wear it?”
“I wish he wouldn’t,” Brandon said, almost too quiet to hear.
“Why not? My dad used to wear his everywhere.” Alejo pulled the hat off and ran his thumb along the leather. “Let’s call it assimilation. I’m blending in. Embracing Snakebite culture.”
“My dad always had his, too.” This was Brandon, forcing himself into the conversation like he feared he might fade out if he didn’t contribute in time. He smiled, momentarily snagged in memory. “I didn’t know he was bald on top until I was sixteen.”
Logan looked between them and something behind her ribs sank. They were trying—both of them—and she was shutting them down. There was a piece of her that wanted this more than any answers. She wanted something easy—casual family dinners, nights on the town, movie mornings on the weekends. She wanted conversations that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.
She put a hand on her hip. “Where’s my hat? You guys are really robbing me of my cultural heritage.”
Alejo plucked the hat from his head and clapped it on Logan’s, immediately mussing her hair. She took the brim between her fingers and tilted it over her brow like they did in old Westerns.
“Yeehaw—let’s go.”
* * *
When Logan and her fathers arrived at the Moontide, it was completely empty. They slid into a vinyl booth near the back of the diner without a word, each glancing over the other booths to make sure they were really alone. The diner didn’t have the piles of memorabilia that the Chokecherry had, but it did have a sense of timelessness. It was at once a diner that could be anywhere and one that could only exist right here. Logan nestled into the booth and sank into the worn cushions.