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Double-check TVs—all set to Knights’ game, volume staggered—check

Firewood stacked by fireplace—extra basket—check

Fireplace lit—cranked and lower when the place is packed—check

New banners hung—no sagging corners—wait for Mom

Keg lines flushed and chilled—check

Restock pint glasses—no fogged ones—check

Update tap handles—Wait for Riley to decide which we need to highlight and put on special.

Bathrooms checked—full soap, extra paper towels under the cabinet—check

Refill sugar and creamer bar—even if no one uses it—check

Pretzel trays ready—keep near the kitchen pass, Mickey’s orders—check

Solar-powered backup lights charged just in case—over fireplace + back booths—check

Cash drawers counted and set—check

First round of food orders prepped—Mick did it last night—check

A little spark of satisfaction flickers through me.

Order.

Routine.

Things I can control.

I live for this. The feeling of completion, of knowing what’s supposed to happen next.

If I focus on the list, on the napkins being folded just right and the glasses lining up straight on the shelves, I don’t have to think about the mess curling low in my gut. I don’t have to think about Kolby Grimes. I don’t have to think about how cold it felt afterward, how final it was, how stupid I was to believe it would feel like anything else.

It was a transaction.

A checkbox.

First time—done.

I’m the one who wanted it that way, remember?

No promises. No dreams. Just get rid of it.

Mom, Great Aunt Maggie—whom Mags was named after—Aunt Tessa, and Aunt Phoebe walk in, all carrying huge pans of food that they didn’t have to make but did.

“Riley here yet?” Aunt Maggie whispers.

“She’ll be here around three.”I nod toward the kitchen.“Go hide the evidence. You’re turning our business into a charity buffet for starving millionaires for the second day in a row. I’ll let Mickey know we can’t pay him his meager wages this week because …” I stop when Aunt Maggie’s face falls. “I’m joking.”

“Is money tight? Do you need some help?”

“Aunt Maggie, we make our money on the bar.” I laugh. “Mickey won’t cook anything but the best, and we will never charge city prices.”

She smiles. “The food for the boys is here with your cousins and Jackson,” she whispers. “Izzy told me you girls call them commandos. They’re going to have a meeting at the field, and then come have lunch while the team practices. The millionaires can pay or go on Legacy’s tab.”