It is unbelievable that Raylan and his brother came out of this much smaller lady. Hard to imagine either of these men being little enough that she could hold them in her arms.
“You must be Riona,” Celia says, coming over to shake my hand.
Just as I expected, her grip is firm and competent. I can feel the calluses on her palm.
“Thank you for letting us come stay with you,” I say politely.
“This is Raylan’s home,” she says. “He’s never a visitor here.”
There’s no rebuke in her tone. Just a simple statement of fact.
“And you’re equally welcome,” she says to me kindly.
Grady isn’t content with a handshake. He pulls me against his broad chest for a hug. I usually would hate this—but despite his wild appearance, Grady smells nice, like soap and woodsmoke. And his grin shows slightly pointed incisors very like Raylan’s. I find myself liking him immediately, despite the fact that he’s loud and overly familiar, things I usually hate.
Raylan’s sister is the only one who hangs back in the entryway, watching us all silently.
She has thick, long, black hair like her brothers. But her complexion is darker—even more deep than her mother’s. Her eyes are brown, not Raylan’s blue. And she has none of her brothers’ laid-back charm. If anything, she looks fierce and a little bit wild. Like she doesn’t really want to be inside a house at all.
Raylan introduces us. “Riona, this is my little sister Bo.”
She watches me, unsmiling. Not holding out her hand to shake, her arms crossed firmly in front of her.
“Nice to meet you,” I say anyway, giving her a respectful nod.
I’m not offended when people aren’t friendly. Actually, it just mirrors how I feel inside myself. So I’m quite comfortable with it. Neither of us has to pretend.
“Come on in,” Celia tells us. “Dinner’s all ready.”
The interior of the ranch house is open and airy, not crowded and cozy as I expected. All the furniture is arranged to focus on those massive windows, and the sprawling view of the Boones’ land.
Everything is made of natural materials. The bare wooden boards of the walls and ceiling, and the worn floorboards. It all looks weathered and natural, though perfectly clean. The furniture likewise looks like someone made it by hand, including the huge farmhouse table on which Raylan’s mother has spread out enough food to feed an army.
Grady’s wife Shelby is already seated at the table with their two sons, who look to be about five and seven years of age.
“Hi!” she cries, as we come in. She’s pretty and petite, with her blonde hair in a plait, and freckles across her cheeks. Her boys are likewise freckled, though they both have the same black hair as the Boone children. They’re staring hungrily at the food, impatient for the adults to sit down so they can eat.
“Sorry I didn’t get up,” Shelby says, pointing to her heavily pregnant belly. “It’s a lot of effort to stand these days.”
“Stay right where you are, and stay comfy,” Raylan says, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.
She throws an arm around his neck and kisses him back with friendly affection.
“You almost missed your first niece!” she accuses him.
“I might still,” Raylan says. “I don’t know how long we’re staying . . . ”
Everyone at the table turns their eyes on me, like it’s my decision. I should inform them that Raylan practically kidnapped me, driving me halfway here while I was sleeping. But I don’t want to tell anyone my personal business. Least of all why we came in the first place.
“I don’t know either,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” Celia says, shaking her head. “We know that nobody can tell Raylan what to do. Least of all us.”
There is a note of reproach now. I glance over at Raylan. It’s clear that everybody at this table adores him. Yet he spends most of his time on the other side of the world. Why is that, exactly?
I’m not usually interested in people’s family drama. But I’m curious, in this particular instance. There’s a lot more to Raylan than meets the eye. I want to know more about him, while simultaneously feeling that I really shouldn’t get close to him in any way, shape or form. It can only lead to trouble for both of us.
14
Raylan
I didn’t expect to feel so much emotion being home again.
I thought I was over everything that happened in this house. Every convoluted tie I had to it.
But it’s all rushing back much harder than I expected.
In a way, I’m glad Riona is here with me. It gives me something to focus on, and it keeps the conversation with family from getting too personal. I know they want to demand why I haven’t come back to visit more often. But they can’t attack me with that in front of Riona.
I am glad to see them.
My brother Grady never hides anything he’s thinking or feeling. And my sister Bo thinks she keeps it all bottled in, but I can always read her face. And Mom. I know she missed me most of all.
Lawson and Tucker look like two completely different kids from the ones I met last time. Lawson was only a toddler, barely speaking, and Tucker was shy and sweet. Now they’re both talking away a mile a minute to each other, and fiercely fighting over the last roll, until Shelby separates them and makes them sit on either side of her.
Riona is sitting stiffly upright in her chair next to mine, obviously feeling like a fish out of water. Southern hospitality can be a lot. It’s warm and welcoming, but also overwhelming and smothering when you’re not used to it.
She’s a city girl through and through. I’m sure the endless green hills and the wooden furniture and the smell of horses and the massive platters of ribs, biscuits, and corn on the cob are all as bizarre and exotic to her as if I’d taken her to Shanghai and fed her fermented fish.
I like that, though. I like seeing Riona out of her element. Not in control of the situation. I like seeing her sharp green eyes examining everyone at the table, so she can adapt and overcome. Riona has a certain relentless drive to excel in any circumstance that I relate to. I’m the same.
At first she’s trying to eat her ribs tidily, using her knife and fork, but soon she realizes that’s impossible. She sees the rest of us—especially my brother—attacking the ribs like wild animals, and she eventually picks one up with both hands and takes a big bite.
“This is really good,” she tells my mom. “I can see where Raylan learned to cook.”
“He always picked it up the best.” My mom nods. “He makes apple pie better than I do. While poor Grady could burn water.”
“Bo is the worst cook,” Grady says. He’s just stating a fact, not deliberately trying to piss her off, but my sister shoots him a venomous look all the same.
“I don’t like cooking,” she says.
“Neither do I,” Riona says.
Bo looks slightly mollified to have someone agree with her for once.
“What do you like doing?” she asks Riona.
“Working,” Riona says promptly. Then she seems to realize that you’re supposed to have hobbies as well, so she adds, “Running and swimming, too. And traveling.”