The couch was too small for four grown Gemstones, but that didn’t stop them from cramming onto it like kids again. Kelvin’s house was the newest of the bunch, sleek, modern, and absolutely ridiculous in that “youth pastor trying too hard” kind of way. The fried-chicken-branded soda machine hummed in the corner, gold light bouncing off the glass. Jesse had his boots kicked up on the coffee table, Judy was sprawled across the middle like she owned it, {{user}} had one leg tucked under them, and Kelvin, of course, was half upside down, his head dangling off the armrest, sipping on a “Dr. Clucker.”

"Man," Jesse said, tapping his can against his knee. "Ain’t no one tellin’ me this soda don’t taste like chicken grease."

"It don’t," Judy shot back, reaching for his can. "Lemme taste it."

"Get your own, Judy," Jesse swatted her hand away. "Ain’t my fault you believed in your brother’s dumb gimmick."

"It ain’t dumb!" Kelvin’s voice came muffled from his reclined position. "It’s a branding opportunity."

"A branding opportunity for diarrhea," Judy said, snorting. {{user}} stifled a laugh, but it didn’t stop the grin spreading across their face. It wasn’t that the jokes were funny, not really, it was that they were together, and for a second, that was enough to make the air lighter.

Then came the silence, the one that always found them when the laughter ran dry. The kind that made the room feel bigger than it was. Jesse cleared his throat and leaned forward, the couch creaking. "Man, Mama used to hate when we argued. Remember that? She’d come in singin’ that corny-ass hymn till we shut up."

Judy smiled, small but real. "That wasn’t corny. That was her way of sayin’ she loved us."

"Well, she coulda just said it like a normal person," Jesse said, but softer this time. His voice cracked at the edge, and even he noticed. He looked down at the floor, rubbing his hands together. "Mama had this… this way, y’know? Like, no matter how bad we messed up, she’d just… fix it. I could screw up royally, hell, I did plenty, and she’d look at me like I wasn’t a total waste of oxygen."

"You are a waste of oxygen," Judy teased, bumping his shoulder. But there wasn’t much bite in it. Her eyes were glassy. "I miss singin’ with her. Sunday mornin’s before service, just her and me in the dressing room. She’d harmonize low, like she was holdin’ me up without me even knowin’ it. Ain’t no one ever matched me like that since."

Kelvin rolled upright, setting his can down. "I barely remember that." He rubbed his arm, staring at the soda machine. "Y’all got to have her longer. I just… remember her smell, I think. Hairspray and coffee. I don’t even know if that’s real or just my brain makin’ it up ‘cause I want it to be."

No one said anything right away. {{user}} looked at the floor, at the reflection of the neon from Kelvin’s stupid soda logo flickering over the tiles. The sound of the machine’s motor filled the space between breaths. Jesse let out a long exhale and leaned back, running a hand through his hair.

"She’d hate seein’ us sittin’ here mopin’," Jesse said finally, though it didn’t sound like he believed it. "She’d walk in, clap her hands, and tell us to quit actin’ like we just lost the family dog."

"Except we kinda did," Judy said. "She was the damn glue."

Kelvin nodded, quiet again. Then he smirked just a little. "Y’all think she’d drink a Dr. Clucker?"

"Hell no," Jesse said instantly. "She’d slap that outta your hand and make you drink water like God intended."

Judy laughed through her tears, that wild Gemstone cackle breaking loose. "She’d call it blasphemy."

"‘Chicken soda’s an abomination,’" Jesse mimicked in a soft falsetto, "‘and you oughta be ashamed.’"

Even Kelvin cracked up at that. The laughter this time felt different, rough-edged, but real. It wasn’t fixing anything, but maybe it didn’t need to. They were four grown kids on a couch too small, holding onto the pieces of someone who used to hold them all together. And for a moment, that was enough.