Page 51

“Whatever you did to my sister,” his boss grunts as they roll a table inside a white, canvas tent. “Undo it.”

“I can’t believe you waited until now to do this.”

I glare at my sister’s reflection, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t share the disbelieving sentiment. “I’ve been a little busy,” I grumble, though to be completely honest, I really just forgot. That is, until Luna pulled me aside.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just stared, tapped her roots with one, pearly nail, and then she stared some more until the message started feeling like a threat— dye your hair, or die.

Making my twin drive me to the drugstore was an easy task—anything to get out of the tedious task of screwing light bulbs into mason jars and stringing them up inside both the gazebos the guys set up, the one for the ceremony and the one for the reception.

Convincing her to play hairdresser, on the other hand, is proving to be a little harder.

Hovering behind me, Grace frowns skeptically at the thin gloves that came with the box dye I’ve been slathering on my roots for years now. “This is gonna ruin my hands, isn’t it?”

“No.” Unless, of course, by ruin , she means stain them and everything else it touches bright red. Then, yes. Yes, it will.

Hazel eyes narrow, like they see right through my lie. “Can’t someone else do it? Red really isn’t my color.”

“Like who?” I ask sarcastically, and who chooses that exact moment to stroll past the open bathroom door?

“ Finn .”

The ranch hand comes to an abrupt stop. Eyeing him in the mirror, I watch as he slowly turns. The backs of my bare thighs burn as his gaze drops to the hem of my dye-splotched, oversized t-shirt.

That fleeting glance is all I get before his attention flicks to Grace. “What’s up?”

“Do me a favor?”

As if he trusts Grace’s sugar-sweet tone as much as I do, his expression turns dubious.

“Lottie needs help dying her hair.”

“Actually,” I interject, scowling at my twin’s reflection. “I can do it myself.”

Grace side-eyes me. “You literally just asked for my help.

Yeah. Her help. Not the man who won’t even look at me—he might burst into flames if he has to, gasp , touch me . “I changed my mind.”

I’ll figure it out. After all, what the back of my head looks like is none of my business.

As I set about squeezing developer and colorant into a plastic bowl, I don’t pay any attention to the pair still lingering.

Well, I try not to. Which is kind of impossible when their silent conversation is so very loud.

I imagine lots of eye bulging, head jerking, some made-up version of sign language thrown in for good measure, but I don’t indulge my curiosity by looking up.

When Grace retreats and the door finally clicks shut, I breathe a sigh of relief.

When someone else does the same, I almost drop the bowl and splatter dye everywhere.

Wide-eyed, I glance up to find Finn leaning against the closed bathroom door. Arms folded. Head cocked. Gaze low. Silent .

I’m certainly not going to be the first one to speak up. Pursing my lips, I shift my focus back to the task on hand—making sure my death date and my brother’s wedding date don’t coincide.

As the wet sound of me haphazardly slapping dye on my roots fills the bathroom, Finn clears his throat. “I can help.”

Using my pinky to swipe a glob of red off my forehead—God, please don’t let that stain—I decline his offer. “I’m good.”

Finn nods stiffly, but he doesn’t go anywhere. He keeps his gaze trained on my head, assessing my clumsy work, wincing as he quickly realizes I was not a hairdresser in a past life. “You missed a spot.”

Huffing, I angle my head to the side in search of this mysterious missed spot . I stab my brush into the dye bowl, lifting it to lather the patch of brown only to have the tool snatched away.

“ Hey ,” I protest, trying to turn around only for a hand cupping the nape of my neck to hold me in place. “What the hell are you doing?”

He shushes me.

Shushes me.

Quietly, and as politely as one can shush, but still.

And then he shushes me again—not with his mouth this time, but with calloused fingers digging into the soft tissue of my neck. A command that works a hell of a lot better than the verbal kind because I’m scared if I do open my mouth, a satisfied moan will come out in place of anything snippy.

A fear that persists as he tilts my head back and gets to work.

Rendered mute, I can only watch. Still. Confused. Unsure what’s happening, why it’s happening. Unsettled, which I guess is why I slip into familiar habits. Comfortable, quippy defense mechanisms. “Is this an attempt at seduction?”

A vaguely humored breath flares his nostrils. “If it was, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

I don’t say anything else after that.

By the time he finishes, my brain is a tangled web of conflicted thoughts and questions.

Twisting my hair into a bun, he secures it at the base of my neck with the clip he snags off the counter.

He nudges me aside so he can drop the bowl and brush in the sink and rinse off his hands, and then he turns to me—he turns me to him too.

He makes my breath hitch as he stoops to steal a towel from beneath the sink, wets it, and starts to dab at my hairline. And the curve of my ear, the lobe. When he gets to the stained slope of my neck, I watch his tense.

When I mouth his name quietly, he practically gulps.

I’m sorry, I want to say.

I miss you, comes to mind too.

Say it again.

Say it when you’re sober.

Say it until I believe it.

This time, it’s him who backs away. Who runs away. Who leaves me in his wake with a disappointed pit in my stomach that makes me think…

Fuck .

The night before my brother’s wedding is a restless one—a consequence of sleeping in a double bed with a sister on either side of me, and a third one squished in for good measure.

Because although the house that Jackson all but built with his bare hands technically has a room for each of us, we found ourselves only occupying one.

Although the main house is only a short drive away, it was Luna’s request that had us sleeping down the hall from her, and it’s because of her too that we gravitated towards each other—clung to each other, like we always did when we were younger, like we’ve always done when changes glint on the horizon.

Something none of us have ever been very good at dealing with, whether it be for the better or not.

“It feels like our dad is getting married,” Eliza whispered into the darkness, verbalizing what I suspect all of us were thinking, feeling .

With both her arms wrapped around one of mine and her cheek pressed to my collarbone, Grace snickered. “Do you think Luna would be mad if we started calling her our new mommy?”

It was me, laying flat on my back and frowning at the ceiling, who grunted. “I think she would enjoy that way too fucking much.”

No one disagreed.

No one else slept either, I don’t think. I guess that’s why none of them stir as I crawl out of bed, almost kicking a snoring Lux in the face, and slip out of the spare room and into the hallway—where I promptly mow down a tiny body.

“Little man.” I steady Alex with one hand, carefully shutting the door behind me with the other. “What’re you doing up?”

With force too great for such a small person, my nephew sighs. “Izzy is loud.”

“Really?” Fighting a smile, I turn the kid back the way he came. “Let’s go get him before he wakes the whole house then, yeah?”

He might make another one of those freaking aged noises, but Alex doesn’t protest as I steer him towards the nursery he spent the night in.

And when I hoist a chirping Izzy into my arms, wincing as he immediately winds a fist around my freshly-dyed hair, Alex giggles and pats his chubby, sleepsuit-covered thigh affectionately.

“Auntie Lottie, can we go outside?” he asks as we meander into the kitchen, his little voice an exaggerated, pleading whisper.

Even though it’s damp and chilly this morning, and the moms of the household will probably kill me for getting their children all soggy, I can’t tell the kid no. I just nod and follow him outside, sighing when he bypasses the nice, dry, covered porch in favor of sprawling on the mildewy grass.

Grimacing as I flop beside him and the cold ground seeps through my pajamas, I balance Izzy on my bent legs and whip off my hoodie, tossing it at my older nephew so no one can say I didn’t at least try to to protect that precious little immune system.

Leaning back on one hand, I soak in the stillness as much as I can before the chaos begins later.

The quiet. The peace—or as much peace as one can achieve whilst juggling two toddlers.

In a matter of hours, the ranch will be rife with people and noise and carefully curated chaos, but for now, it’s just me and the boys. Not a soul more.

Except for the woman who emerges from the house about a half hour after us, precariously balancing three mugs of something steamy.

“Green tea,” Caroline explains as she sinks down, bare legs folded daintily beneath her. “And a hot chocolate for my favorite guy.”

I swear, Alex is the mirror image of his uncle as he blushes. He accepts the drink with some mumbled, shy gratitude, and then he’s on his feet and toddling away, probably overwhelmed by being in the presence of a pretty woman he’s not directly related to.

“He’s so cute.”

Glancing over, I find Caroline coasting a hand along her stomach, and my brows raise. “Are you…”

“What?” She frowns, then follows my gaze and chokes. “ No . God, no.”

I smile a little. “ God, no? ”

Caroline ducks her head. “Not now. We only just got married.”

Right. Shit, I still kind of can’t believe that. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” She pauses, gnawing on her bottom lip. “You too.”

I’m not surprised that Lux filled her best friend in on my… circumstances—especially considering hers—but still, I flinch. Something akin to shame licks a path up my spine because I was horrible to her, I was always so fucking mean, and she never held it against me. Still, she doesn’t.

Dropping my gaze to my drowsy nephew, I fiddle with the collar of his sleepsuit. “I, uh, want to apologize. For…” Appropriate words evade me. “Everything.”

To her credit, Caroline only hesitates for a moment before setting a hand on the curve of my knee. “I appreciate that, Lottie.”

No that’s okay. No don’t worry about it . No automatic forgiveness.

My shoulders slacken, tension leaching out of them, because I really was a shithead.

A drunk, angry shithead who got a kick out of…

well, kicking Caroline when she was down.

Because I was down, and making someone feel worse than I did made me feel better.

And I do, believe it or not, regret a lot of that shitheadery, and I think Caroline brushing it off as if it was nothing would make me feel even shittier.

Just like I think what I’m about to tell her next is going to make her feel pretty shitty. “I, uh… I don’t know if Lux told you or if you wanna know, but I saw your dad.” I lick my lips. “At a meeting.”

A sharp inhale whistles between her lips. “She told me.”

Of course she did.

Sighing quietly, she fiddles with the hem of her silky, floral pajama shirt. “I’m sorry if he bothered you. I would say I’ll talk to him, but…”

But she doesn't talk to him. She hasn’t in years. She won’t ever again, hopefully. Because he was, is , a drunk. Destined to a life of solitude because of it.

A nasty, abusive drunk.

A drunk, angry shithead.

I gulp as something like panic flutters in my stomach. Makes me shakily admit, “I don’t wanna be like him.”

Caroline doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re not.”

“No?”

“That night,” her voice wobbles, her fingers locked tightly together, her whole body tightening at the vague mention of the night that changed her entire life.

The night her dad got so angry, so drunk, that he hurt her, he made her bleed.

“You could’ve let me walk away. He would’ve, he did . You didn’t.”

“I thought about it.”

Smiling softly, Caroline shakes her head. “No, you didn’t.”

I look away. She’s right. I remember that night like it was yesterday.

I remember being angry and seeing Caroline and getting angrier, and then actually seeing her, seeing the ugly marks marring her bloody face, and being…

fuck, I was scared. For Caroline, I was scared.

I was scared for her, but I yelled my sister’s name for me.

Because I didn’t know what to do, I only knew how to make it worse, and I knew Lux would make it better—Jackson too.

“Do you understand,” Caroline says quietly, “that you saved my life that night?

My gaze snaps back to her. “What?”

That elegant, freckled throat bobs nervously, honey-brown eyes flitting to something on the horizon.

“If you had let me leave, I probably would’ve gone back to that house.

Not right then, but at some point. I never would’ve told anyone what was happening to me.

I would’ve kept hiding it, I would’ve kept protecting him, and I really think it would’ve killed me eventually. ”

My mouth hangs open, but what am I supposed to say to that? Cool? Great? You’re fucking welcome? “I’m sorry,” is what I settle on. “I’m sorry you were going through that and none of us noticed.”

She laughs a quiet, sad noise. “I barely noticed I was going through it. How could I blame any of you?”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I know you are.” Shifting to face me once more, she flashes a smile that’s far more understanding than I deserve, so warm. “And that’s the difference. He never was. He never cared. His worst moments don’t keep him up at night because he makes every moment his worst.”

A hesitant beat passes, and then she reaches out and curls her fingers around my wrist, squeezing tentatively. “You're trying, Lottie. That’s what matters.”