Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
A cheer went up as we entered the room, and I stopped short at all the smiling faces.
“What?” I said. “I mean, Happy Thanksgiving?”
“Avery.” My brother, Tenn, stood with his arm around Scarlett. “Royal here has threatened to open your beer about ten times in the last half-hour. We told him he had to wait until you got here.” His eyes narrowed on West. “I’m not going to ask what took you so long.”
I felt heat hit my cheeks and scowled at my brother. “You can wait for a beer. It’s not even lunchtime.”
“It’s Thanksgiving. Normal drinking rules don’t count,” Royal said. Daisy leaned into his side, her smile warm, her riot of curls hot pink, perfectly suiting her dusky skin.
“They’ve threatened to text you about a million times in the last hour. We made them leave you alone. She got shot yesterday, you idiot,” Daisy said, smacking her palm against Royal’s chest. “She gets to sleep in.”
“Whatever,” Royal said. “Come on, open the beer.”
I looked over to see Ford standing next to the tub, an opener in hand. He held it out to me. “Only you can do the honors,” he said. “Come on, don’t keep us in suspense any longer.”
I glanced up at West. “I’m nervous,” I said under my breath.
“It’s going to be great,” he promised. I wanted to believe him.
I took a deep breath and reached into the tub to pull out a brown bottle dripping with ice water. I took the opener from Ford’s hand. I muttered, “Thanks.” This was it. Scents, flavors, memories swirled in my mind, lit by hope, bright and sharp and a little desperate. Please, please…
I fit the opener to the cap and flicked my wrist in a practiced move that felt suddenly like I was opening a beer for the first time. With a gasp, the cap lifted, and the scent of it hit me. So far, so good. I lifted the bottle to my nose, breathing in.
It smelled like what I’d been going for. A touch hoppy, a hint of spice, and citrus. I lifted the bottle to my mouth and took a slow, experimental sip, my eyes closing as the beer washed across my taste buds, feeling the promise I’d hoped for.
This wasn’t the Fall brew. Not exactly. It was better.
I took another sip, swishing the beer in my mouth, letting the aftertaste settle in. It was brighter somehow. Less heavy on the finish, but it still had substance. Not a light summer brew. It had weight, but not too much. The hints of spice were just enough to bring depth without density. A tinge of apple, the spark of lemon, the sweetness of orange—it was all here, but the beer took the lead. Water. Malt. Yeast. Hops. I let my eyes slide all the way closed and took another long sip. It was perfect.
I swallowed, my eyes flashing open and locking on West’s. He plucked the bottle out of my hand and drank. When he was done, he looked a little dazed and let out a whoop.
“You did it again,” he said, stepping back from the tub of beer, pulling me with him. “You good?” West asked me.
I answered him with a wide smile. “Never been better. I did it.”
“And then some,” West agreed. “I may have to bring Holt a bottle in jail, just to watch him cry at how much better it is than anything he’s ever made.” He leaned down and kissed me. “I knew you could do it.”
“You really did,” I agreed. “And now I do, too.”
He set the empty bottle on the table, snagged another, and held it out for Ford to open. Then we settled in to enjoy the day. And for the most part, we did. I may have had a few too many beers, and my arm hurt when I paid attention, but mostly I just enjoyed seeing my family—and people who might as well have been family—all together, celebrating. The kids ran around, tearing off their ties and losing their jackets before we made it halfway through the hors d’oeuvres Savannah had set out. Finn even came up for a bit, leaving the turkey and ham and whatever else he had going on in the kitchen to congratulate me on the beer and hang out with the family.
West’s parents blended in as if they’d always been at our Thanksgiving table. I liked the way his mother stood with Aunt Ophelia and Nash’s mom—the youngest of the three, but a similar kind of lady all the same—gossiping and laughing together. West’s dad huddled up with Edgar and Harvey, occasionally haranguing our generation, complaining about how willful and modern we all were. When my father had said those things, they’d stung. But from these three, it felt like love, and we gave them hell right back.