I fell the first time I saw him.
Literally.
Pitch forward, face inches away from the pavement, scary stomach lurch fell. The sort of unexpected motion that leaves your palms sweaty and your heart pounding long after you’re back upright.
My best friend, Sloane’s, babysitter returned me home after picking our five-year-old selves up from the first day of Charleston Zoo’s summer camp. And there he was—a scrawny stranger playing basketball by the garage with my older brother, Noah, as movers unloaded furniture from two yellow vans parked in front of the house next door. I tripped on one of the scooters Noah often left lying on the asphalt driveway and was saved from the unfortunate fate of two skinned knees—the worst non-life-threatening injury besides a stubbed toe, in my opinion—by quick reflexes.
I looked up into the green eyes of my seven-year-old savior, and I was done.
Bye, heart. It was nice knowing you.
Following that fateful afternoon, my feelings for Grayson Phillips went through cyclical phases. Awed, annoyed, attempts at apathy. Five months older than Noah, he was a couple of grades ahead of me in school. A small separation that felt gaping, especially when the two of them moved on to middle school and then high school.
As we grew older, Noah became less childish and more protective. He’d invite—even encourage—me to hang out with him and his friends. I spent plenty of time around Gray from the day he moved in next door until he moved out when I was sixteen. The more time I spent around Gray, the better I became at acting indifferent toward him. I adamantly denied having a crush on Gray to all of my friends, even Sloane, especially once it became very evident he was interested in girls, just not me.
It probably would have been a more convincing lie if not for the fact that Gray was the guy every girl had a crush on.
The last time I saw him was almost four years ago—he was back in Charleston on break from the Air Force Academy in Colorado, and I was home from Boston, visiting my parents. Noah and I ended up at a local bar to catch up with a bunch of people from high school. Gray showed up as I was ordering a drink and proceeded to loudly ask if little Evie Collins was old enough to consume alcohol. Never mind that I was only six weeks past twenty-one at the time. He followed it up with a joke about my bangs, which I now acknowledge were a mistake. He left after forty-five minutes—not that I counted—with Miranda Hendrix, my junior year biology partner.
That was the extent of our interaction.
I thought I was finally indifferent to his existence. The acrobatics in my stomach as I flick my gaze between the phone in my hand and the mirror I attached to the back of my bedroom door this morning say otherwise. I’m overreacting. Slightly. Okay, a lot. I’m close with my brother and ecstatic about being able to see him more than once a year, which became the norm. His worst offense today is the six-worded text I’ve spent the past ten minutes staring at.
Noah: Running late. Picking up Gray first.
There’s a slim possibility Noah isn’t referring to the Gray who’s been his best friend since the Phillips family moved in next door. Noah started work at a new architecture firm a month ago; he could have made a new friend. My older brother could become best buddies with a brick wall.
And Gray isn’t that unusual of a name.
But it’s him. It has to be him. And it shouldn’t matter he’s in Charleston instead of deployed who knows where. I’m an adult now, not a starry-eyed kid. A doctor. Who cares if the only guy I’ve ever really wanted has never shown any interest in me? I gave up on the fantasy of having a fairy-tale romance with Gray a long time ago. My younger self envisioned it all—candy-heart deliveries in homeroom, going to homecoming together, making out under the bleachers, trips to the beach. I could picture it happening so clearly, watch it like a movie in my mind. And it all did happen…just not with him.
I’ve dated other guys. One of them turned into a serious relationship. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to encounter a single guy who has ever elicited a tenth of the emotion in me Gray Phillips does by simply existing.
Growing up, I was the girl who arrived home ten minutes before curfew. Who was the designated drunk driver for most of high school. Who took every advanced placement science course Charleston East High offered so I was ensured a spot in Boston University’s uber-competitive seven-year medical school graduation program. At twenty-five, I have a bachelor’s degree and already took the Hippocratic oath.
I’m accomplished. I’ve done everything right. I’ve always been the girl who does everything right.
But one text mentioning his name, and I’m reassessing my entire outfit. It’s infuriating. Pathetic. I’m back to being the twelve-year-old girl who biked two miles to peruse Charleston Surf’s flipper collection just because Gray worked there his freshman year. It could be considered sweet, I guess.
Or stalking.
I yank off the green T-shirt dress I was wearing and swap it for a pink cotton one that’s tight in the torso but flares at the waist.
“Evie! You ready?” Sloane calls.
If she’s ready, then I’ve taken even longer than I thought. Sloane is notorious for her tardiness. In high school, our shared friend group used to tell her we were meeting an hour earlier than we actually were. Half the time, she was still late.
I cast one final glance at my reflection. I got my hair cut yesterday. Now, the blonde strands fall just past my shoulders. I let it dry naturally, so there’s a slight wave to the texture. My blue eyes look wide, excited. The sleek lines of the pink dress make me look put together. Poised. Professional. Like I’m headed to a polo match or a lawn party. I take a deep breath and open my bedroom door before I decide against this outfit too. Most of my wardrobe is still in boxes. I don’t have any other option that won’t involve hacking at tape and flying fabric.
Sloane, my best friend and roommate, is lounging against the couch in the living room, scrolling on her phone. I’d bet my meager savings she’s on a dating app.
She glances up and eyes my appearance. “You changed.”
“Yeah. Did you like the green dress better?” I literally can’t remember the last time I wore anything besides scrubs or yoga pants. I’m out of practice on the whole dressing-up thing.
Sloane’s head tilts to the left as she studies me. “No, the pink is cute.” She stands. “Is Noah almost here?”
“No, he’s running late.” I don’t say why. “Let’s just Uber.”
One brown eyebrow arches. “You were just complaining about how broke you are last night.”
“I am broke. But I’m also earning money for the first time ever, not just sinking further into debt.”
Sloane rolls her eyes. “Please. You’ll pay off your med school loans in no time. Doctors make a ton. The Phillipses are filthy rich.”
“Dr. Phillips runs the whole hospital, Sloane. I’m a first-year resident. Two very different pay grades.”
“Whatever. Dr. Phillips loves you. You’ll be promoted in no time.”
I smile. “That’s not at all how it works.”
Sloane is no longer listening to me, back on her phone and pulling up what I’m guessing is the Uber app. “Jimmy will be here in two minutes,” she announces, heading toward the door.
“Great.” I double-check I have everything I need in my bag, triple-checking for the two boxes of candles, then follow her out onto the porch and down the stairs.
We’ve lived here for just over a week. I moved back to the South from Boston as soon as I graduated from medical school. Sloane left her job as an administrative assistant at a fashion magazine in New York City to return to Charleston and start work as a paralegal at a private law firm. After one week, both of our jobs are still exciting and nerve-racking—and in my case, exhausting.
My first shifts as an honest-to-God doctor were fueled by pure adrenaline. It was mildly—and by mildly, I mean, paralyzingly—terrifying to realize that years of flash cards and tests and clinicals resulted in the responsibility of having people’s lives in my hands. Knowing that would be the case was very different than actually meeting patients relying on me to diagnose and treat them correctly.
I found my first few days overwhelming. Sloane found hers underwhelming. I’m not sure if she regrets moving back—not yet, at least—but I’m grateful she did. The two of us grew up practically attached at the hip. It wouldn’t feel like home without her here.
June sunshine filters down from the sky as we wait for Jimmy to arrive. It’s only eleven a.m. The sun hasn’t risen directly overhead, but it’s already burning bright and full. I acclimated more to the Northeast climate than I realized because the heat is harsher than I expected.
I study the exterior of our new home from the curb. We lucked out, finding this place. The bungalow is newly renovated but still has the charm the bazillions of cookie-cutter apartments we looked at sorely lacked. Its only downside is that the bus routes ensure it takes me half an hour to make it to work. Once I have a car, that will get cut down to fifteen. The brick exterior and front porch make up for it for now. There’s also a patio in the backyard, perfect for enjoying the summer nights. Sloane and I strung up lights out there last night. Despite the fact that less than half of our belongings have been unpacked, it feels like home.
Jimmy pulls up in a silver Prius less than a minute later. I text Noah back as we start down the street.
Evie: We’ll just meet you there.
I slip my phone back into my bag and then stare out the window at the colorful buildings of Charleston as they flash by.
“What do you think?” A photo of a blond man standing next to a surfboard is waved in front of my face, blocking the scenery. “He’s cute, right?”
I squint at the screen. “That’s an old photo.”
“What?” Sloane pulls it back and peers at it. “How do you know?”
“That’s at Folly Beach. They built that huge hotel up behind it, remember? The construction started right before I moved to Boston.”
“Dammit. You’re right. How’d I miss that?”
“Probably because you were more focused on his abs than the swimming pool atop old sea turtle habitats.”
Sloane rolls her eyes, then swipes right. “Well, maybe he has an eight-pack now.”
“Or he’s over thirty,” I say before I go back to staring out the window.
Under thirty and employed are Sloane’s two requirements when it comes to men. She views online dating as the highest form of entertainment. She’s tried to get me to sign up for it countless times by telling me it’s the only way to meet someone these days, but I guess unrequited feelings didn’t completely destroy the hopeless romantic in me. I’m still clinging to the fantasy of meeting a decent guy without the aid of computer code and carefully curated photos.
The Prius stops outside my childhood home ten minutes later. It’s a white-shingled ranch my parents bought when they got married. They’ve hung on to it as the value of the neighborhood skyrocketed, resulting in the surrounding properties being torn down and larger homes being built in the sought-after location close to Edgefield Park. My parents’ place has two bathrooms and three bedrooms. The Phillipses’ house next door comically towers over it with its three stories, screened porch, upper balcony, and four-car garage. The only feature my parents’ house has that theirs doesn’t is a pool.
Our lot is large—mostly thanks to the fact that the house’s square footage is a small fraction of the neighbors’—and my mom is an avid swimmer. The installation was a fifteenth wedding anniversary gift to her from my dad. I wonder what he has planned for their thirtieth, which is what we’re celebrating today.
Sloane and I walk up the driveway and toward the backyard. Excitement fizzes in my stomach at the number of cars and the commotion coming from the backyard. I haven’t been home since Christmas, and that was a short visit. Even worse than the excitement is the anticipation.
It doesn’t matter if he’s here.
I’m not great at lying to myself. But I have perfected bored nonchalance when it comes to Gray. Even Sloane has stopped winking at me when his name comes up, and she can read me like a book most of the time.
The backyard is overflowing with people. It’s a perfect summer day—clear, sunny, and not too hot. Long tables line the patio, covered with dishes of food. My father is standing at the giant gas grill, which is his pride and joy, flipping burgers. My mother is in her element, placing tiny paper umbrellas in glasses of lemonade between replenishing appetizers. Most of the party attendees are friends of my parents, close to them in age, but the whole neighborhood was invited. There are a few couples here with younger kids, most of who are splashing around in the pool.
I head for my mom first. Sloane follows.
“Hey, Mom. Happy anniversary.”
“Evie!” My mom’s smile rivals the sun’s wattage as she hugs me tightly. She smells the same as always—like lemon and eucalyptus with a faint hint of chlorine.
I think my parents were worried I’d stay north after graduation. They’ve both made their relief that I decided to return to Charleston to complete my residency obvious.
“Happy anniversary, Mrs. C,” Sloane says, hugging my mom after me. She’s the youngest of eight and spent more time at my house than at her own growing up.
“Thank you, Sloane.” My mom beams. “I’m so happy you’re both here. Help yourself to some food.”
Sloane grabs a plate and starts filling it.
“I’m going to go say hi to Dad first,” I announce.
He’s still standing by the grill, proudly wearing The Grillfather apron Noah and I got him years ago, as he talks with Henry Phillips. Our next-door neighbor, my dad’s best friend, Gray Phillips’s father…and the chief of the hospital where I started my residency a few days ago. Which makes him my boss’s boss’s boss, basically.
“Hey, Dad,” I say when I reach him.
My dad hugs me to his side with a squeeze while simultaneously flipping sizzling meat. “Leigh-Leigh! You made it!”
I cringe at the childhood nickname. “I live ten minutes away now, Dad. Of course I made it.”
My dad chuckles. “I’m sure you had better ways to spend your Saturday.”
Not really. My social life is sadly lacking. The only reason Sloane hasn’t successfully dragged me out to a bar yet is because we’ve been too busy with our new jobs and unpacking.
I turn to greet Henry. “Hi, Dr. Phillips.”
He’s insisted I call him Henry since I was little, but the dynamic between us has changed. I sat in a sea of awed faces during orientation as he welcomed us all to Charleston General Hospital. I personally witnessed his mere presence in an examination room make an experienced surgeon’s hands tremble.
He chuckles. “Save the formalities for the hospital, Dr. Collins.” He winks.
Even after years of hard work to earn the title, it still feels weird to hear it.
“How have your first few days been?”
Overwhelming. Chaotic. Stressful. “Good.”
Henry smiles knowingly. “Parts get easier. I’ve heard nothing but good things about your work so far.”
I flush, forever unable to take a compliment gracefully.
Henry’s eyes flit away from my face to look behind me. “You’re here.” His tone changes. I know what that means before I turn around to look.
Gray Phillips closes the final couple of feet that separate us, appearing at my side to face our fathers. “Don’t sound so excited, Pops. I might think you’re happy I made it home in one piece.”
My father and I both shift uncomfortably. Gray and Henry have always had a strained relationship. They butt heads at every possible opportunity. Henry likes to be in control of situations, to command them. It’s what makes him a fantastic chief. And it’s a trait he passed along to his son.
“You signed up for it, Grayson.”
Henry held out hope for years that Gray would follow his footsteps to Duke and its medical school, right up until Gray announced he was headed to the Air Force Academy in Colorado instead. Gray hadn’t even told anyone he applied. It was the talk of Charleston East High School—not to mention, our neighborhood—for weeks.
“Damn right, I did.” Gray looks away from his father to mine. “Good to see you, Adam.”
“You too, Gray. Nice to have you back.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Out of all other options to greet, his gaze slides to…me. Last choice, like always. Aside from the occasional teasing comment, Gray usually treats me the way people who don’t like animals treat their friends’ pets—with polite indifference.
“Hey, Everleigh.”
My teeth grind together. I hate being called by my full name. Which he knows. With the exception of my parents and Noah, who occasionally call me Leigh-Leigh, I go by Evie everywhere.
“If you’re going to be so formal, Grayson, you should call me Dr. Collins.”
I don’t know what his official title in the Air Force is, or I would use that. Noah mentioned he was the youngest something or other, which doesn’t surprise me at all. Gray is a born leader. He oozes charisma when he wants to, and he uses it.
Gray studies me, the picture of amused indifference. If the sniping with his father bothered him, there’s no trace of it visible on his handsome face now. His green eyes scan my features. Aside from my lack of bangs, I don’t think I look that different from the last time he saw me, even though it’s been three and a half years.
“Noah mentioned you finally graduated. Well done.”
Angry heat crawls across my skin as I absorb his tone. It suggests I took more than the four years that it usually takes to graduate medical school, not a year less, thanks to Boston’s unique program. That I was behind the curve when, actually, I finished at the top of my class. He also manages to make it sound like he’s congratulating me for winning a middle school science fair.
My dad and Henry have turned back to the grill. I should take the opportunity to leave as well.
Instead, I ask, “How long are you back for?”
“Three weeks.” Gray appears relaxed as he leans against the railing of the deck, but for some reason, it suddenly seems like he’s on edge about something.
“Big plans?”
“Nope. You want to hang out?”
I stare at him. He’s fucking with me. I know he is, and the amused twinkle in his eye—the only thing that hasn’t changed from his seven-year-old self—confirms it. Still, my stomach flips at the suggestion.
“I’m busy.”
“Uh-huh. I regret not becoming a doctor less and less every day.”
I glance at our dads, who are fiddling with the grill settings and paying no attention to us. “You considered it?”
“Not really.”
Gray leans down and snags a can of seltzer out of the cooler next to the stairs. The lines of muscle in his forearms tense and shift. I could list each tendon off by name. Instead, I take the opportunity to ogle the rest of his body. I have no idea what sort of physical training airmen go through. Whatever it is, it must be intense because Gray is ripped. Flip a tire in shape.
He’s wearing navy shorts and a light blue button-down. Both look tailor-made to his tall frame. At five-nine, I’m used to guys being roughly my height or shorter. It’s not a problem with Charleston East’s former star shooting guard—the one guy I’d like to have some sort of advantage over.
He tilts the sparkling water up to take a long sip. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and his dark brown hair flops to the side, revealing freckles on his forehead. It must have been sunny wherever he was located for his last deployment.
I don’t usually have any trouble coming up with small talk. Especially when I’m nervous—that’s often when I’m chattiest. Unfortunately, the last few minutes have confirmed that Gray Phillips still throws me off-kilter. Despite the fact that I’ve known him for most of my life, I’ve never acquired any form of immunity to his presence. If anything, time has weakened my defenses.
“Hey, Evie.” Noah appears and breaks the awkward tension hovering between me and Gray.
Well, I find the silence awkward. Gray is just standing a few feet away, casually sipping like he’s posing for La Croix’s spring marketing campaign.
“Hey.” I give my brother a hug and am enveloped by the scent of bergamot. Noah has used the same brand of aftershave ever since he was old enough to. Probably before then, actually.
Noah glances between me and Gray, likely wondering why we’re standing next to each other. I know Noah wasn’t oblivious to my South Carolina-sized crush on the boy next door, growing up—just was nice enough not to say anything. He knew he had nothing to worry about when it came to his best friend and me.
“You getting settled into the new place okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “You and Emmett were lifesavers. I owe you each a beer. Or six.”
Noah smiles. He and his friend Emmett Baker helped me and Sloane move a seemingly endless stream of boxes into our new place last week with minimal grumbling. Despite the fact that she and I each lived in tiny places with multiple roommates in New York and Boston, respectively, Sloane and I managed to accumulate a surprising amount of stuff.
“Did you remember to get the cakes?”
Noah snaps his fingers. “Shit. I knew there was—” He laughs at the horrified expression I feel my face twist into. “Kidding. Yeah, I got them.”
I punch his shoulder and have to hide my grimace as my fist encounters solid muscle. Unlike me, my brother works out on a regular basis.
“I’m getting food,” Gray announces abruptly before shoving off the railing and heading for the buffet.
I’m grateful I no longer need to act like I forgot he was standing nearby. I’m less enthused about how his departure is setting me up for a healthy helping of some brotherly concern.
As soon as Gray is gone, Noah’s gaze turns worried.
Called it.
“You sure you’re doing okay, Evie?”
“Yes,” I state emphatically. I soften my voice when he continues to stare at me with obvious uncertainty. “I’m fine, Noah. Really.”
“It’s a lot. The move, the new job, Logan…” Noah scrutinizes me closely as he lists each life change off, lingering on the last one.
I sigh in response. Noah is taking my breakup with Logan Fitzgerald harder than I am. I ended our ten-month relationship a week before we graduated. Logan had sat beside me on the first day of orientation; we became fast friends from there. I knew he wanted more than platonic for a long time before I gave it a shot. Just like I knew he wanted to stay in Boston for his residency, and I knew I wanted to return to Charleston. A long-distance relationship with a guy who had always felt more like a friend wasn’t appealing to me.
“It’s not like I’m in a strange place with strangers, Noah. And Logan…I’m over it.”
“You just broke up.”
“Exactly. We weren’t…it wasn’t really a hard decision,” I admit. It sounds callous, but it also happens to be the truth. I don’t know what it feels like to be in love. But I’m pretty sure I know what it feels like not to be.
Noah reads the sincerity on my face. Surprise mixes with relief. “Okay.”
I give him a spontaneous hug. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
He smiles with a mixture of pride and affection that makes me feel ten feet tall. “Always.”
“How’s work?” I ask, eager to shift the attention off me.
That question leads to ten minutes of feigned interest in the mall project Noah is working on developing. I love my brother a lot. Yet I have absolutely no interest in blueprints or zoning laws or steel shortages. I nod along until our mom herds us toward the burgers that have just come off the grill.
I spend the next hour catching up with family friends and neighbors I haven’t seen in months, some in years. My trips back home over the last seven years were sporadic. It wasn’t a short journey—especially for someone who hates flying—and there’s a very good reason most people take eight years to graduate from college and medical school. Squeezing that into seven years was a challenging feat that required no shortage of sacrifices. I came home as often as I reasonably could, but those visits were mostly limited to catching up with close friends and family.
Noah reappears by my side as Mrs. Hanson, who lives at the end of the street, updates me on the horrific—according to her, at least—construction surrounding the condos going in along Hastings Cove.
“Time to get the cakes ready,” he tells me.
I smile at Mrs. Hanson. “Daughter duty calls.”
She waves me away with a smile.
“Didn’t you say your new firm designed the Hastings Cove condos?” I whisper as we head for the deck stairs.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I just wouldn’t mention that to Mrs. Hanson, is all.”
Noah chuckles under his breath. Our elderly neighbor is known for her long-winded opinions.
My parents’ kitchen hasn’t changed at since childhood. White cabinets line the walls, offsetting the cheery yellow walls that took three tries to paint. My mom decided the first color attempt was too “egg yolk,” and the second looked like “white paint that went bad.” The large wooden table where I used to eat breakfast and finish school assignments sits in the center of the room.
The cakes—a buttercream concoction from a local bakery that forms an elaborately decorated 3 and 0—are sitting on the marble counter next to the sink. I fish the two packs of candles out of my bag and start sticking them in the cakes while Noah leans against the fridge.
“Crap. There are only twenty-eight,” I say, shaking the paper container. No more candles magically appear.
Noah shrugs. “No one will count.”
“You know Mom will notice.” There’s a good reason Noah and I both ended up in detail-oriented professions. I squint at the back of one package. “They say they have fifteen each!”
Hinges squeak as the deck door opens again.
Noah straightens. “You bring any candles, man?”
“Oh, yeah. I never leave the house without them.”
I startle at the sound of Gray’s voice, spinning to watch him rinse his hands off in the sink.
“Cake crisis?”
Noah jerks his chin toward me. “She’s missing two.”
I love how our parents’ cakes have suddenly become my problem.
“Sure sounds like a national emergency to me,” Gray drawls.
Inspiration strikes. “Would your mom have any?” I ask Gray.
His mom, Juliet, loves entertaining as much as mine.
“Stranger things have happened,” he replies, drying his hands on the towel draped over the oven handle.
“Can you check?”
Gray blanches at the request. “For candles?” His tone makes it clear there’s nothing stupider one could search for.
I don’t deign that with a response. He knows the answer.
Gray lets out a long-suffering sigh; like this request is by far the most inconvenient one that’s ever been made of him. “I wouldn’t even know where to look.”
Noah groans. “Just let Evie in the house, Phillips. Everyone is going to be wondering what the hell is happening with the cakes.”
“Tell them we’re baking them,” I suggest.
Noah rolls his eyes.
Gray heads for the front door. “Come on, Everleigh.”
I huff as I follow him out onto the front lawn. “You know I hate being called that.”
“You know there are other things I could be doing than searching for candles with you, right?”
I focus on the rocking chairs on the Phillipses’ front porch rather than retorting. Gray types the code into the keypad by the front door, then opens it. I step inside the house next door for the first time in over a year. My gaze roves over the walnut floor, white walls, and neutral furnishings. Timeless and elegant.
“I love this house.”
Instead of the caustic answer I’m expecting, Gray says, “Yeah, me too.”
“Is that why you never moved?”
Despite his distant relationship with his father, Gray has kept this city as his home base instead of moving elsewhere. Although, I guess he did choose a career that requires him to be who knows where for lengthy stretches of time.
“Nah. Just easier not to.”
I snort. “Yeah, you hate challenges.” It would take me a long time to list all the stupid things I know he and Noah did growing up.
Gray crosses his arms and leans against the banister of the staircase. “I got you inside. Get the candles.”
I roll my eyes at his bossiness but head into the formal dining room. There’s a massive hutch I’m betting holds my best chance of candles. Sure enough, the third drawer down contains an assortment of them. I grab two, identical to the ones currently on the cakes—then a third just in case—and walk back into the entryway.
“Got them.”
Gray nods, then heads out the front door. I don’t miss the glance at the third cubby I know used to hold his basketball equipment. I wonder when the last time he was back here was. Longer than me, I’d bet.
We’re both silent on the short walk back over to my parents’ house. Noah is waiting in the kitchen, right where we left him. He heaves an overly dramatic sigh of relief when I wave the extra candles around like sparklers.
I add one candle to the 3 cake and one to the 0 cake. “Okay, they’re ready.”
An off-key, hastily modified version of “Happy Birthday” begins as Noah and I step out onto the back deck. Noah holds the 3 while I carry the 0.
“Happy anniversary to you. Happy anniversary to you. Happy anniversary, dear Laurie and Adam. Happy anniversary to you!”
Noah and I set the two number cakes down in front of our beaming parents.
“Happy birthday, Laurie,” my father jokes. “You don’t look a day over twenty-nine.”
My mom giggles. Noah and I exchange a grossed-out look. I love my parents. I love that they’re still so in love. I just have no interest in witnessing it—I saw plenty growing up.
“You guys can blow the candles out now,” Noah suggests with a smirk as we all watch them make googly eyes at each other.
They finally do, so the cakes get distributed among the onlookers.
“Guess it’s present time then.” My father pulls a white envelope out of the pocket of his khakis. He hands it to my mom. Based on his I did good smile, it’s not a gift card.
She pulls a slip of paper out and scans it. “Italy?”
My dad smiles. “I booked the ten-day cruise we’ve been talking about for years. We leave on Monday—and before you start freaking out, I already settled everything with work. We’ve just got to rope one of the kids into watering the plants and cat-sitting.”
Not me, Noah mouths at me. He hates the white, fluffy Ragdoll.
I sigh, knowing who that leaves. “Fine.”
Sloane sighs dramatically next to me. “Oh no. Over a week without being woken up at four fifteen a.m. by ‘You Belong with Me’? However will I go on?”
I stick my tongue out at her. “That song is classic T. Swift.”
“It’s the time I have an issue with, not the song.”
I turn to my parents. “I can stay here and look after everything while you’re gone.” Their house is ten minutes closer to the hospital anyway.
They both look thrilled, which makes it worth it. My father whispers something in my mother’s ear that makes her laugh as she leans against him.
It feels good to be home.
