“Good.” Ashley nods maternally as I continue to move down the line. “I’ve invited someone else to come, too.”
When she winks, my heart sinks.
“You have to tell her,” Jonathan whispers in my ear as someone slides a stack of pancakes onto my outstretched plate.
I don’t acknowledge his comment, but I’m quietly horrified. Maybe Sullivan and I haven’t been as stealthy as we think we’ve been. Or maybe Sullivan is kissing and telling. But the second that thought enters my mind, I dismiss it. He wouldn’t.
I head to the drinks table for coffee in a Styrofoam cup and end up in a conversation with one of my former teachers about the merits of the University of Iowa and whether I think the Hawkeyes can go all the way this year. I’m not even sure if we’re talking about basketball or football （maybe baseball?）， so I smile and nod, and by the time I turn around, my family is nowhere to be seen. I scan the growing crowd, and to my utter panic watch as Law takes a seat next to Franklin Tate. Reb is reaching out her hand to Franklin’s wife, Annabelle, clearly oblivious to how rigid Jonathan has gone beside her. From thirty feet away I can sense his discomfort like a crackle in the air.
What choice do I have? To sit apart from my family would draw unwanted attention, and I can’t think of a single logical reason to do so. I walk slowly toward the table where the Tates and Bakers have cozied up, hoping that I’ll catch sight of a former classmate or someone who might entice me to join them. There’s no one. Even worse, by the time I arrive, there’s only one spot available at the entire table, and it’s next to Sullivan.
I take my spot gingerly, sliding onto the bench as if I’m mounting a green-broke horse instead of sitting down to a breakfast of pancakes and bacon. Surely Sullivan can feel my hesitation, but instead of scooting over, he remains exactly where he is, so I have no choice but to sit with my hip pressed against his. Even touching him in such a discreet way is comforting, and I let out a quiet, ragged breath. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I’m expecting. I actually feel like I can draw strength from Sullivan’s presence. I would lay my head on his shoulder if I could.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met,” Dalton Tate says, reaching across the table to shake my hand.
“We haven’t. I’m June Baker.” I put my hand in his and try not to wince when he squeezes it tight. He looks a lot like Sullivan, though his hair is much darker and shorter, and he weighs a good twenty pounds more. I’m probably reading into things, but he has a cruel look about him, or maybe he’s just serious. He doesn’t smile at me to soften his automatic greeting.
“Oh, I know who you are.” Dalton lets go of my hand and returns to the pancakes he was shoveling in when I sat down. “Jonathan doesn’t really talk about you, but I know who you are.”
Jonathan is across the table, sandwiched in between Law and Wyatt, and I can’t stop myself from glaring at him for just a second. I wish it didn’t, but it hurts to know that he doesn’t talk about me—even to the Tates. I catch myself almost immediately and focus instead on the strips of bacon that are crisscrossing my pancakes, but not soon enough.
Dalton hoots. “I like a good sibling rivalry. She could kill with that look, man.”
“Stop it,” Annabelle tells her son. “Leave her alone.” To me, she says: “I’m Annabelle, you can call me Anna. I invited your family to join us because we have so enjoyed getting to know Jonathan.”
Her comment stings, but she can’t possibly know that, and we shake hands across Sullivan and Reb. Anna fixes me with a direct, appraising look, and I feel like I’m on trial. Her tone is cordial enough, but this is not a woman I would like to cross, and I let go of her rough hand as soon as I can without appearing rude.
Soon we settle into eating and chatting, almost as if we’re good neighbors and friends casually enjoying a Fourth of July community breakfast together. But there’s tension in the air, a sense that not everything is as it should be between the nine people crowded around the picnic table.
Anna Tate clearly knows my brother better than I would like her to, and she leans across the pinwheel centerpiece a couple of times to say something to him that demonstrates their familiarity. Dalton acts like he and Jonathan are best friends, and Wyatt has a strange habit of slapping him on the back at regular intervals.
Jonathan’s not the blushing sort, but I can tell that it makes him feel awkward to be included among the Tates as if he’s practically a family member. It’s making Law crazy, too. When we were young and still begged Law and Reb for a boat, a vacation to Disney World, a bigger house, he used to shut down our requests with the same tired line: “Do I look like Franklin Tate to you?” It was meant to remind us that our parents weren’t made of money, but there was an edge to his reminder, too. We understood by that one line and the way he delivered it that Law didn’t want to be Franklin Tate. And the reason behind that always seemed mysterious—and slightly ominous.