Page 61 of Sealing the Deal

My smile lingers. I miss him more than I expected to. Sunday’s championship playoff game in Kansas feels a lifetime away. I miss the weight of his hands on my body, his kisses, the heat. I miss the way his gaze finds mine, lingering just a second longer than necessary, like he’s checking in, checking I’m OK. I miss the easy banter, and how he laughs when I tease him.

Grayson is someone who notices the little things. Grabbing a throw when he saw I was getting cold when we were watching a movie. Having my favorite coffee order waiting for me in the car to the airport, along with another of the buttery croissants I loved. Best of all, I miss the way he listens when I talk. Like he’s really seeing me and cares what I have to say.

“Found them,” Mama says, stepping into the kitchen with a shoebox tucked under her arm.

I turn as she sets it down on the long oak table that dominates the open-plan space. When Mama handed Dylan the ranch house and designed this place by the lake for herself, she built it around this room. Kitchen, dining, living all rolled into one. A big sofa facing the TV. A desk tucked into the corner. A space meant for people to gather.

I pull out a chair and sit opposite her as she slides the lid off the box. Inside is a jumble of photographs, corners curled and colors faded with age.

“What are we looking for?” I ask, already feeling myself slip back into my world—black jeans, black sweater, splitting my time between the bar, my apartment, and the ranch.

“Photos of Dylan on horseback as a boy,” Mama says, tipping the box so the pictures spill out. “With Harry, if we can find one. I know I took plenty.”

She hands a stack of photos to me and takes another stack for herself. “Madison’s doing a family tree project at school. They want photos of parents when they were Mad’s age.”

Mama’s mouth curves into a fond smile. “She told her teacher Dylan isn’t her dad, but she’s refusing to do the project without including him. She said, ‘Some trees have more branches than others, and mine has a branch with all the Sullivans on.’”

“Smart kid.”

We fall into an easy rhythm, sifting through the photos, laughing and cooing over baby photos and family shots of Christmas and holidays.

“Look at this one,” I say, sliding a photo across the table. It’s me looking scrawny and pale, all elbows and knees. I’m standing beside Jake, who looks sturdy and sun-browned next to me.

“Gosh,” Mama says, smiling at the picture. “That must have been your first weekend here. I remember you looked so haunted. So out of place. Like you didn’t know how to be a kid.”

I take the photo back, studying the washed-out girl. Oakwood air, Mama’s cooking, and being folded into this family were like nutrients.

“You didn’t mind?” I ask, even if a part of me already knows the answer. “Harry bringing me here, I mean. You already had three boys to look after. The last thing you needed was another mouth.”

Mama’s smile softens. She shakes her head. “I remember I woke up to find Harry pacing the kitchen one night. He couldn’t sleep. I asked him what was wrong and he told me about this little girl—seven years old, hanging out at a ranchers bar most evenings and all weekend. Collecting glasses. Reading a book in the corner.”

My chest aches. As a kid, I thought it was special that I spent so much time at the bar. That I got to help out. I didn’t know any better.

“He wasn’t sure what to do about it. But it ate at him. He knew it wasn’t right.”

I lean closer without realizing it, hanging on every word. I’d always assumed it was an impulsive decision. I never knew how much thought went into the moment that changed my life forever.

“We talked about calling social services,” Mama says. “But he knew your mom loved you and that she was doing her best in a bad situation. So, I went to see her. I told her who I was. Showed her photos of the ranch. Of my boys. And asked if she thought you’d like to spend a weekend at the ranch. One mom to another, I figured she’d be relieved to know her child was safe and cared for. One less thing to worry about.”

“And one weekend became every weekend,” I say softly.

“You slotted into this family like a missing piece. The boys adored you. Suddenly they had a sister to protect instead of just fighting each other and getting into trouble.”

I snort. “Pretty sure they still managed that.”

“They did,” she agrees, smiling. “You all did,” she corrects.

I glance down at the photo again, emotion pressing tight behind my ribs. Oakwood Ranch didn’t just give me weekends. It gave me a home.

For years, I’ve told myself that was the whole story. That Mom had been grateful for the help. That she’d trusted the Sullivans enough to let them fold me into their world. And maybe that’s true. But sitting here now, looking at that scrawny little girl who spent more time at a bar than a playground or even at home, the wound I keep sealed tight suddenly feels exposed. I wonder what it felt like for Mom when Mama knocked on the door that first time. Did she feel relief? Or guilt? Or both?

I’d always seen Mom leaving for Florida as the moment she walked away from me, too. But maybe the distance started long before that. Maybe it began the day she realized someone else could give me the things she didn’t have the time for. The things she didn’t make the time for.

The thought churns uneasily in my gut, but I push it aside before it can settle too deeply. Because whatever the reason, Oakwood Ranch gave me a place to belong and a family, and that’s all that matters.

Mama and I fall quiet as we continue searching through the photos. A few minutes later, I find it: Dylan on a horse, squinting into the sun, biggest smile on his face. Harry stands beside him, just as happy, one hand on the reins, the other on the horse. I feel a pang of sadness. They both look so solid, like nothing could knock them. But just a few short years later, Harry was killed in a horse accident during a storm. Like always, I wonder what all our lives would’ve looked like if he hadn’t died that night. Would Mama have thrown the boys and herself into football?

“How’s this one?” I ask.