Everything We Didn't Say(75)

“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.

I’ve lost my appetite, but I force myself to take a bite every few minutes anyway, and while I listen in on the conversations around me, I study Franklin and his boys. He’s a large man with a thick neck and a bald head that’s been baked brown by the sun from years of working outside. Still, he’s attractive, and I can tell that he used to be distractingly so. It’s obvious where Sullivan got his looks, but I’m not sure what to do with that information. It’s hard to gaze at Franklin—at the marble-hard glint of his eyes and the way he watches the room as if taking stock of everything and everyone—and see bits of Sullivan reflected in him.

For just a moment I imagine what it would be like to join the Tate clan, to be a daughter-in-law to a man who, according to the Murphys, willfully and intentionally poisoned their wells and scoffed at the consequences. Who swallows up small farms when people get behind on their mortgage. Who allegedly pays off the cops when his wife gets a speeding ticket and bails his son out of jail and turns a blind eye when another son throws parties on his land that include meth and strippers. (I asked around—turns out the nature of Wyatt’s parties is hardly a secret.)

A tremor passes through me, and without thinking, Sullivan wraps an arm around my waist. We both stiffen immediately, and he makes a show of rubbing his hand on my back and then looking at the floor. “Spider,” he says roughly. “I think I got it.”

I’m not sure that anyone would have noticed the familiar way that he touched me, but Dalton barks a laugh and then gives Sullivan a knowing smirk.

“What?” Reb says, looking around the table and, frankly, sounding a bit batty. Her eyes are wide and confused, and I feel sorry for her because it must seem like there’s some inside joke that she is simply not a part of.

“There was a spider on my back,” I say, getting up. “It’s gone now.”

I’m the first to gather up my things, and once I’ve done so, everyone else moves to do the same. Our table disperses quickly, Franklin leaving without a backward glance, and Anna offering a cursory wave before heading off to say hello to a group of well-dressed, perfectly coiffed ladies who look like a much better fit for her than my sweet mother.

Jonathan grabs Mom’s plate and says in one breath, “I’ll take this for you; I’m going with Dalton,” as if a trifling act of kindness will soften the unexpectedness of his departure.

Mom opens her mouth to say something, but Jonathan doesn’t wait around for an answer. He’s weaving through the growing crowd before she can even say goodbye. “I thought we were going to the Pattersons’ together,” she muses, sounding sad.