called a beauty mark. And yet this Macon is something entirely different—willingly showing me pieces of himself that aren’t perfect.
I want to ask him why his family weren’t themselves, why he felt the need to play a part. But it’s clear that regret for speaking too freely is creeping up on him, his gaze darting around as though he’d rather look at anything but me.
Whether he wanted to or not, Macon gave up a private piece of himself. One that I doubt anyone has ever seen. I feel . . . humbled.
“Oh, my family were ourselves all right,” I say with a light shrug as if the air between us hasn’t become too heavy with old ghosts. “To the point of oversharing. Don’t tell me Sam never mentioned ‘Family Grievance Night.’”
A protracted, shocked laugh escapes him. “No. What?” He grins, easier now. “Do tell, Ms. Baker.”
Ordinarily, I’d take the horrors of Family Grievance Night with me to the grave. But he shared with me. I can do the same for him.
“Whenever we started bickering too much for Mama to take, she’d sit us all down as a family, and we had to ‘air our grievances.’”
Macon is clearly a hair’s breadth from cracking up. His eyes are glossy with restraint. “You mean like Festivus?”
I cringe, remembering too well. “But without the pole.”
A snort rings out, and he runs his hand over his mouth.
“I’m pretty sure Mama got the idea from Seinfeld. Whatever the case, it never went well.”
“You don’t say.”
“Inevitably we’d end up squabbling so badly that—”
“You engaged in the Feats of Strength?” He waggles his brows, biting his lower lip in an ill-concealed attempt to hold back a full grin.
“Might as well have,” I admit ruefully. “Mama would threaten to turn the hose on us and lament about where she went wrong.” If I close my eyes, I can picture it now: Mama with her hands on her hips, a frazzled look about her. “I once made the mistake of answering that ending Family Grievance Night would be a good start in fixing the error.”
He laughs freely. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry I didn’t know this then. I would have found a way to attend.”
“I would have been scarred for life if you had.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe Sam never told you.”
“Why would Sam tell me about it?”
I stop short, my gaze searching his face to see if he’s serious. He appears genuinely confused.
“It was a nightmare for both of us. You and Sam were in each other’s pockets all through childhood. I assumed she told you everything.”
The tendon along his neck stands out as he looks away, his brows drawn tight. “Sam did most of the talking, and I’d pretend to listen. But it was never about anything personal. She’d complain about her hair or if someone was being a shit to her, and I’d nod along. Truth is, I found her boring as all hell.”
My mouth falls open. “But you . . . she . . . God, Macon. You were with her on and off for years. Why would you do that to yourself if you thought she was boring? Why would you do that to her?”
His lips curl in a parody of a smile. “You don’t get it, Delilah. The feeling was entirely mutual.”
“How do you know?” I challenge.
“Easy. She told me.”
“Bullshit.” Sam had thought Macon was the bomb. She loved him for a time.
He scratches his chin. “Let’s see; if I recall, she said, ‘I don’t particularly like you, Macon Saint, but aside from me, you’re the best-looking person in this school, so we really should be together.’”
I wince. That sounds exactly like something Sam would say. “And you agreed?”
His nose wrinkles as if he smells something off. “No, I couldn’t have cared less what people thought of me. But if I was with her, other girls wouldn’t bother to approach me.”
Everything in me goes still, and I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach as understanding finally hits. “You’re gay.”
“What? No.” His brows wing upward. “Why the hell would you think that?”
I lift my hands in confusion. “You’re describing Sam as a beard, Macon. You went out with her to keep girls at bay.”
The crests of his cheeks flush again. “Oh, for the love of . . . I did not keep Sam around because I secretly liked guys. Sam was safe, Delilah. She didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t really want to get to know me. I was a