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"Smells incredible in here," Lainey states.

"Hope you're hungry. Mom always cooks enough for leftovers," Sebastian comments.

Before I can push Lainey about staying overnight, Mom starts herding everyone toward the tables. Several of my sisters holler that dinner's ready and everyone rushes toward the dining room.

Dinner sprawls out across the huge table that Dad made Mom so all of us could fit at it. But we also have a second table for grandkids now.

Mom makes us go around the whole table saying what we're thankful for before anybody's allowed to touch a plate.

Isabella says, "Charlie and Knox."

Wilder declares, "Football."

When it gets to me, I glance at Charlie, then Lainey. "I'm thankful I got a second chance to get something right that matters more than anything else ever has."

Lainey's eyes turn glassy, and she gives me a soft smile before pressing a kiss to Charlie's hair.

Dad directs his stare at me, but I don't look at him. This morning's conversation is still too raw.

The day rolls by fast, but it's good. Football's on, but the game isn't that great. Kids run the last of their energy off in the yard before the cold chases them in. Lainey's hands are in mine more often than not. For a few hours, the ache from this morning goes quiet, buried under pie and noise and the simple, stupid happiness of having her close.

It's a little after seven when Lainey comes downstairs with Charlie. She has a fresh diaper and turkey-print pajamas on. Lainey hands her to Lorraine.

"Tell Carla I said hi, and I hope I get to see her," Lorraine says.

"Okay." She hugs her mama and smiles at me. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I glance out the window. The freak weather from two days ago disappeared and it's starting to snow. "It's not very nice out. Let me drive you."

She stops near the door. "To Carla's hotel?"

"Yeah. I'll drop you off. I can hang at the apartment until you're ready to come home. No reason for you to drive into town tonight on your own."

"Don't be silly. It's just snow. I can handle it."

"I know you can, but I want to make sure you're safe."

Her expression shifts. She firmly states, "Jagger, I'm driving myself."

Dad's words still sit heavy in my chest, but instead of letting it go, I push. "Why? So you can drive back here alone after midnight?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Exactly."

Her eyes narrow. "What does that mean?"

"It means, I don't love you being out on the roads alone that late when I could easily drive you."

"Jagger." She exhales, glancing toward the living room before lowering her voice. "I love that you want to keep me safe. I do. But I need you to back off a little."

"I'm offering you a ride."

"No. You're deciding I shouldn't drive myself and then calling it an offer. I don't need to be controlled."

That shuts me up for half a second. But then I argue, "I'm not trying to control you."

"I know you're not trying to." Her voice softens, but somehow that makes it worse. "You're trying to take care of me. But I don't want you to do so much of it that I can't breathe."