Page 29 of Almost Yours
He turns his attention to Whitley with a smirk. “The tower’s not that ivory. Just a little beige concrete and a lot of glass.”
That earns him an eye roll. From the moment Whitley and Ethan met, they fell into this sibling-like rhythm, throwing jabs and insults like they’d known each other their whole lives.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, setting my purse down on the side table.
As if summoned by his name, my father appears in the doorway, still in his Sunday church shirt but with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes scan over me, then Whitley, then settle on Ethan with that look of approval he never seems to have for me.
“There you are,” he says, nodding at me before turning to my mom. “Marie, is dinner ready? I’m starving.”
“Yes, yes. Everyone come sit.”
We fall into our usual seats. Dad at the head of the table, Mom to his right, Ethan to his left. Whitley takes the seat beside Ethan, and I settle in beside Mom. Already, I can feel the familiar tension settling in.
“How’s business, son?” Dad asks Ethan.
“Busy, but good. We just landed the Henderson account.”
Dad’s eyes light up. “Bob Henderson?”
“He was impressed with our proposal. Said nobody else came close.”
I reach for my water glass, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Judging by Dad’s reaction, you’d think Ethan had just solved world hunger. And maybe, in Dad’s eyes, he kind of has. Ethan runs a consulting firm that lands high-stakes corporate accounts, and Dad treats it like the pinnacle of achievement, proof that his eldest isn’t just talented but a real-world success story.
“Pass the potatoes, please,” Whitley says, cutting through the love fest like the pro she is.
Mom hands them over with a relieved smile. “How’s the art program going, Whitley? Any exciting events coming up?”
“We’ve got the spring fundraiser next month. Should be ourbiggest yet.” Whitley serves herself a mountain of potatoes. “Actually, we’re looking for corporate sponsors if Ethan’s interested in some good PR.”
Ethan doesn’t miss a beat. He leans forward and flashes that grin of his that could sell ice to an Eskimo. “Well, if there’s one thing I love more than a tax write-off, it’s my face on a banner.”
Whitley snorts into her napkin, the sound muffled but loud enough to make me crack a smile. “Perfect. I’ll add ‘inflated egos’ to the sponsorship perks.”
Dad clears his throat. “How’s the clinic, Violet?” he asks. “Still thinking you don’t want to go to vet school?”
I freeze for just a beat, my fork hovering midair, just long enough for the silence to thicken.
“I like where I’m at,” I say, the words coming out rehearsed, like they’ve been said a thousand times before…because they have.
Dad hums. “Sure. But you’re smart. You could do more.”
Right on cue. The unspokenyou could be more.
Across from me, Whitley offers a soft smile and nudges my ankle under the table, a silenthang in there. Ethan doesn’t say a word, but I recognize his knowing gaze. His version of solidarity. He’s never had to justify a thing in his life, but still, he gets it.
“Iamdoing more,” I say finally, a little firmer this time. “It just doesn’t come with a white coat or student loans.”
Dad doesn’t argue. Not out loud anyway. But I can see his brain rifling through its mental filing cabinet in real time, already prepping for round two. Constructive concern locked and loaded.
Just as I think we’ve rounded the corner back into safer territory, he sets his fork down with a little too much care. He gives me that casual, measured look he always pulls right before he tosses a grenade into the room.
“Someone mentioned they saw you out at the diner the other night.”
My entire body stills. Whitley pauses mid-chew, eyes wide, and Ethan’s brows creep toward his hairline.
“Yeah,” I say carefully, reaching for my glass. “I grabbed a late bite with someone from high school.”
Dad’s brow lifts. “Rowan Wolfe?”
