Page 27 of To Regret a Raven

Fisher unbuckled and twisted, stretching an arm to grip the back of her seat as he explained. “My Uncle Don, the oldest of my father’s brothers, had his kids first. Shepherd, and then Sawyer. Connor and I were born two years after Sawyer. Brea, too, of course, but she’s not relevant to this story. Anyways, so with us three—Sawyer, Connor, and Fisher—you can imagine the jokes.But what’s funny is that it wasn’t intentional. Until Uncle Terry’s wife got pregnant and he lost a bet with four-year-old Sawyer, so Sawyer got to name the kid.”

“No.” Drie slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Yes. Aunt Marlee waspissedbecause baby Sawyer was obsessed withThe Fox and the Hound. He wanted to name the baby Copper, but Auntie put her foot down, and they settled on Cooper, though everybody pretends to forget that fact. Then Uncle Simon’s son was born a few weeks later, and he wanted in on the joke, so he named his kid Thatcher. And I guess, by that point, the convention just stuck.”

Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t quite smother the smile that threatened to rise. “You sound like a bunch of medieval blue-collar townsfolk.”

“Hey now, save the roasts for when you get inside. Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to think of anything we haven’t already heard.”

“Nowthatsounds like a challenge,” she said as she stepped from the car, turning to look at him over the front hood.

“Do your worst.”

“She already is, hanging around with the likes of you,” a woman’s voice called out. Drie turned, brows raised as a fun-sized, feminine version of Fisher approached, zig-zagging around the abandoned slide and trike and bowling set littering the freshly-mowed grass.

“You must be Brea,” she said, holding out a hand to shake. “I’m?—”

“Drie Raven. Yes, I’vefinallybeen caught up,” Brea sighed, throwing a stink eye in Fisher’s direction before she took the proffered hand and shook it firmly. But when she let go, she twisted on the spot, throwing an arm over Drie’s shoulders as she guided her up onto the porch, leaving him to trail behind them.

Drie was surprised to find that once they passed under the shaded awning of the porch, there was a group of five teenage boys sitting around a rectangular glass table. All but one had a variation of the popular swoopy bangs. The one closest to the wall—the youngest-looking one of the group—had his hair trimmed nearly to his scalp.

“Archie, Walker, Ranger, Parker, Trap, say hello to Drie, Fisher’s girlfriend.”

“We’re just?—”

“She’s not?—”

Drie and Fisher exchanged a glance as their voices overlapped, but before either could clarify, the kid with the buzzcut spoke up. “If you’re not dating anyone, I’m available.” He finished the offer with an exaggerated wink.

“Pipe down, Ranger. She’s not looking for jail bait,” Brea said, making the others “Ooooooh” in response.

“I’m legal.” The one closest to the edge of the table shrugged, his blue eyes striking beneath his mop of dark curls. He flashed her a crooked smile.

Brea dunked her fingers in the nearest drink and flicked the liquid in the boy’s face. “Down, Cujo.”

“On that note, how about I take you inside?” Fisher said, guiding her away from the porch as the boys continued arguing with Brea. “Teenagers,” he said, shaking his head as if the two of them weren’t just twenty-one themselves. They passed through the house, and he murmured the names of everyone they spotted, pausing occasionally to introduce her to a new cousin or aunt or extended relative. It was never-ending, just a perpetual stream of people—primarily male—with the same shade of silver-blue eyes and loud, cheerful voices.

“Is thisDrie?” a voice cried out from across the room as they passed through the living space, causing a hush to befall thecrowd. Which was no small feat for a room filled with seats that had been reduced to standing-room only.

“Oh, hell,” Fisher moaned, freezing in place. Drie giggled as she watched him plaster on a fake smile before turning, angling his body in front of hers. “Hey, Aunt Kris, how are you?”

Drie felt her mouth twisting in a smile despite her efforts to suppress it. Krazy Kris. Fisher had warned her plenty about that woman during the drive. Particularly about how she enjoyed picking fights that made no sense and then talking her opponent in circles until she managed to break their will.

“Out of my way, child. I want to see her.”

“I was looking for Mom…”

“She’s out back with Ted. Now scoot so I can meet your little lady.”

“I was taking her with me?—”

“Fisher Bree, I know you ain’t hiding that girl from me!”

“Best move, kid,” a man called from the La-Z-Boy chair across the room, watching the scene play out beneath the brim of his trucker hat.

“Thanks, Uncle Mark,” Fisher grumbled as he stepped to the side, flashing Drie an apologetic grimace.

“Oh, well, aren’t you just pretty as a peach?” Kris crooned, fluttering her hands around Drie’s face.