Page 147 of Break Out the Girl

We all recognize the driver immediately.

“Jim!”

I’m always so pleased to see Layla’s dad. He looks a decade or more younger than when ‘The Director’ had him.

He slams the truck into park right in the middle of the clearing, a massive, face-splitting grin stretching across his kind features. The window is rolled down and I can hear country music on his radio.

Strangely, he doesn’t get out, just sits there, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel.

I look at Tally and London, then shrug.

Stepping out of the main cabin, laptop under his arm, François joins us.

Suddenly, a canvas tarp in the back of the truck bed bursts open. “SURPRISE!”

Two figures spring straight up from the truck bed, covered in loose straw and laughing hysterically.

Layla and Clay.

“Lay!” I scream, bolting across the clearing as she leaps over the side of the truck bed. Within a second I’m throwing my arms around her neck as she squeezes me so tight I can barely breathe. Clay and Tally are hugging and laughing.

“What’s going on?” Sky steps out then her mouth drops open. “Lay?” The girl bursts into tears.

Layla immediately drops me and runs to Sky. “Hey, babe, did you miss me?”

Opal, who stands by the picnic bench with her arms crossed, looks thoroughly smug.

“That’s why you brought the extra bedding,” I accuse her, laughing. “You knew!”

“Guilty as charged,” Opal says softly, her eyes welling. “I knew they were out and had a strong suspicion you all would be one of their first stops.”

Behind me, the scent of cologne signals François stepping closer. He slips his laptop under one arm and reaches out, taking my hand. His fingers are slightly tense, and when I look up, his usual assurance is gone. He casts a hesitant glance over toward Clay and Tally, who are still laughing.

Yeah, I get it.

Clay and Layla never got to know the real François, but only time will fix that.

Before the awkwardness can even settle, Clay pulls away from Tally’s bear hug and jogs over to join us.

He stops directly in front of François and puts out a hand. “I hear you saved the day, man,” Clay says, his voice genuine and entirely devoid of any Digger malice. “How ‘bout we start fresh?”

François blinks, a wave of visible relief washing over his features. He lets go of my hand to firmly clasp Clay’s, nodding once. “I would like that very much.”

✽✽✽

By the time the sun disappears behind the trees, Jim’s truck is chugging back down the mountain path. Opal has also headed off with Basil, because the kid is going to debate club.

That I’d love to see.

Now, the seven of us are gathered around the massive family table that Tally and London spent three days building from reclaimed oak.

“Pretty sweet, T-man,” Clay whistles. “Fucking fancy.”

We’re in the main cabin. The kitchen area is filled with the warm, rich scent of sizzling butter and wild herbs. London is singing about little-fishies in little-dishies while passing out plates of steelhead trout.

Tally and Sky had landed it just yesterday.

“Dig in!” he calls out.