Chapter 5: In Which Past and Present Collide Over Roast Chicken and Loud Opinions

Saturday nights were sacred.

Not because Lillian had plans. Or dates. Or an urgent need to reorganize her spice rack by emotional damage level.

No, Saturday nights were for family dinner.

She pulled into the familiar driveway just after six, the scent of rosemary and something vaguely caramelized already slipping through the open kitchen windows. Her adoptive mom, Diane, never let anyone go hungry—or quiet. The porch light flicked on as she walked up the steps, the door opening before she even knocked.

“There she is!” Diane exclaimed, pulling Lillian into a hug that smelled like cinnamon and lemon cleaner. “You’re late.”

“I’m literally three minutes late.”

Diane narrowed her eyes. “In this house, that’s thirty.”

Lillian laughed and stepped inside, immediately enveloped in noise. Someone was shouting over music. Something was definitely burning. Someone else was laughing too loudly at their own joke.

Home.

Her brothers were all there—chaotic, loud, taller than she remembered, and still incapable of putting dishes in the actual dishwasher.

“Hey, nerd,” came the voice of Caleb, the youngest, currently half-in, half-out of his graduation gown, posing like a beauty queen.

“Is this what higher education looks like now?” Lillian asked, tossing her purse on the bench and hugging him.

“Jealous of the drip.”

She moved to the kitchen where Eli—the middle child, culinary snob, self-declared “gastro-genius”—was stirring something on the stove with unnecessary drama.

“Is that smoke for effect or should I call the fire department?”

“It’s called aromatics, peasant,” Eli said, not looking up.

On the couch, Noah—her second youngest and the most emotionally stable of the bunch—was playing a game on his phone, headphones in, completely ignoring everyone. He looked up only long enough to give her a lazy two-finger wave.

She smiled.

It wasn’t perfect. It was never going to be. But it was hers.

They sat down to dinner just after seven, passing dishes like it was a competitive sport. Diane sat at the head of the table, her husband David on the other end—quiet, kind, and always the one to refill wine glasses before anyone had to ask.

The conversation was fast and overlapping and deeply irrelevant. Caleb’s finals. Eli’s new restaurant gig. Noah’s latest book binge. Lillian floated in and out, laughing where appropriate, chiming in when needed, and watching it all with that strange, distant warmth that only older siblings truly understand.

She used to worry. Constantly. About them eating enough. Sleeping enough. Hurting too much. Missing too much. She still did. But now the worry had evolved into a quieter kind of responsibility. She didn’t need to fix everything anymore. Just show up. Be present. Ask the questions. Love loudly.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Diane said gently, mid-dish pass.

Lillian shrugged. “Long week.”

“Work or that guy you hate?”

Lillian blinked. “I… what?”

“You always refer to him as that guy I hate,” Diane said. “You’ve said it so often it’s become a character in your stories.”

Caleb grinned. “Oh, the Hot Enemy?”

Eli leaned in. “Wait, wait, wait. You have a nemesis? This is amazing. What’s his villain origin story? Did he steal your lunch in kindergarten? Publish a comma splice?”

“He’s just a coworker,” Lillian said, stabbing her green beans. “We’re editing a project together.”

“Editing, huh?” Noah said, not looking up from his phone. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

“Oh my God,” Lillian groaned.

Diane just smiled knowingly. “Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not. He’s annoying. We clash. The end.”

But even as she said it, the image of Oliver leaning over his coffee, his voice low and his gaze sharp, flickered across her mind. She shoved it aside. This was not the space for that.

Here, she wasn’t a snarky editor or a reluctant office flirt. She was big sister. Mother figure. Guardian of grocery lists and bad dreams and emotional triage.

And in this house, she liked being just that.

As dessert appeared—Eli’s attempt at something “bourbon-forward”—Lillian looked around the table. Loud. Messy. Loving. Alive.

Her past lived here. Her present, too.

And despite herself… maybe even her future.

—

Dessert was half-eaten, the bourbon-forward whatever-it-was surprisingly edible, and the conversation had shifted into movie quotes and mock-debates over which Avenger would survive in a corporate office.

Lillian leaned back in her chair, full and warm and quiet in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

Later, when the table was cleared and the brothers were deep into a Mario Kart death match, she slipped out to the porch for a breath of air and a moment alone.

She pulled out her phone. A few missed texts. One from Jane—“Should I be worried that I actually miss Chaz’s smug little wink?”—and another from her group chat, a quiet little ping from FitzWill:

FitzWill:

Ever feel like someone’s getting under your skin without even trying?

She hovered over it. Smiled a little. But didn’t open it.

Instead, her attention caught on a new email—subject line:

Invitation from Avery Thorn – Private Reading Salon

She opened it.

Dear Ms. Stewart and Mr. Hollingsworth,

I’ve been informed you’ll be co-editing my manuscript, and I must say I’m delighted. In light of this collaboration, I’d love to invite you both to a small, private reading at my home next Saturday evening. Just a handful of publishing folk and literary types—a casual evening to discuss the book and meet face-to-face.

I hope you’ll both be able to attend. There will be wine. And likely gossip.

With admiration,

Avery Thorn

Lillian read it twice.

Then again.

A private reading. With Oliver. At someone’s house. As if their professional tension needed wine and forced mingling to complicate things further.

She exhaled. Tapped her phone off. Let the quiet of the night settle around her.

Behind her, the door opened and Caleb’s voice called out, “You coming in or what? I need someone to beat!”

Lillian turned. “You sure? I’m twelve years undefeated.”

He scoffed. “Delusional.”

She smiled and slipped her phone into her back pocket.

The email—and the message—unread.

For now.