Page 28 of Almost Yours
She blinks up at me, deadpan.
“Right,” I mutter. “You’re the picture of emotional stability. You tried to eat a sock yesterday.”
I take another swig of my beer, eyes drifting to the tree line. I scrub a hand down my face, pushing the frustration out with a dry laugh. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “What the hell am I doing, talkin’ to a damn dog about a woman?”
I’m a Marine. I’ve eaten sand, dodged bullets, held brothers while they bled and didn’t flinch. Now I’m out here spilling my guts to a rescue mutt with trust issues and a taste for tube socks.
Pathetic.
But then again, not half as pathetic as realizing I spent years convincing myself she didn’t want me because the alternative would’ve leveled me. I saw her looking sometimes back then, in high school. That dreamy stare that would stick with me for hours.
I told myself she was just sweet, and she looked at everyone that way. Even when it gutted me to think it.
Even when it wasn’t true.
God, it makes me sick that I ever let her believe she wasn’t enough.
I was so afraid of being the one to break her that I did it anyway.
eleven
. . .
Violet
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house is a weekly ritual, set in stone, and as unbreakable as a commandment. Show up by six, take your shoes off at the door, and brace for small talk with a side of sweet tea.
The porch light is on when I pull up, just like always. Home. Sweet, slightly suffocating home.
I didn’t have a bad upbringing by any means. Mom was always there, warm and steady, reminding me to slow down when I raced through life. Dad—proud, demanding, relentless—taught me to work hard, aim high, and never settle, even when I was drowning under the weight of his expectations. Love wasn’t absent in our house. It was just woven tightly into every meal, every chore, every conversation, and every lecture about ambition.
But sometimes I think that’s the catch. I was loved fiercely, yes, but I was also trained to measure up and anticipate disappointment before it arrived.
Whitley’s sitting in the passenger seat beside me, tapping her fingers on her knee. She only half jokes about being my human shield, but she knows how much I appreciate the hell out of it. My dad’s less likely to dig into me with her around. He’s got apolished version of himself—charming, collected, and perfectly restrained. When it’s just the two of us, he can’t help but turn the disapproval dial up a little.
My mom always tries to smooth things over. Most of the time, it’s a losing battle.
“You’re quiet,” Whitley says, looping her arm through mine as we walk toward the porch.
“I’m fine,” I lie, even though my insides are still tangled up from last night. “Just…distracted.”
“You’re thinking about him.”
“Nope,” I say, too fast.
She doesn’t press, just gives my arm a quick squeeze as we climb the steps. The screen door creaks open before we even get the chance to knock, and there’s my mom, apron tied around her waist, hair perfectly curled like she’s about to be photographed for a Southern Living cover.
“There y’all are! I was about to send your father out to find you.”
I step inside, and that familiar mix of lemon cleaner and something roasting in the oven wraps around me. In the living room, sprawled across the leather recliner, is my older brother, Ethan. His legs are stretched out, ankles crossed on the ottoman, looking both impossibly relaxed and somehow completely out of place in his designer jeans and button-down shirt that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he drawls, lifting his glass in mock salute.
I arch an eyebrow, taking in his smug grin. “I’m surprised to see you. No important meetings or client dinners to prep for?”
Ethan lives two hours away and rarely makes an appearance for Sunday dinner. There’s always some important work thing Dad never questions, because unlike my job, Ethan’s career actually gets his approval.
“Looking very Wall Street,” Whitley comments. “How’s life in the ivory tower?”
