“You are having feelings. It’s obvious and it’s real. You’ve been repressing them forever because she was married.” She nudged my shoulder. “And you won’t mess anything up. What is meant to be always finds a way. I believe that. I mean, hello? I experienced it firsthand with Cade.”
The backyard glowed with late-afternoon sun, golden light spilling over the weathered picnic table and dented cooler. It was messy and loud and home. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like enough.
I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. Because if I said what I suspected I really felt, it would all be out there. No takebacks. No more hiding behind tools, flickering lightbulbs, and muffins. No more hiding behind our friendship. Which, aside from my family, was the most essential thing in my life.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out; my thumb was still stained with frosting, and I saw her name.
Paige: Sorry, I bailed on the barbecue. Blame it on work. Really, it was more of a social-overwhelm-slash-what-am-I-even-doing situation. Anyway. Hope the steak was good. And that no one let Larry into the house.
I stared at it, rereading that middle line until it burned.
Typed back.
Me: Steaks are on the grill now. I wish you were here.
Paige: Happy birthday.
Me: Thanks
Three dots blinked.
Stopped.
Started again.
Then vanished.
And just like that, I was a teenager again, waiting on a maybe that was never going to happen.
Chapter 5
Paige
Family dinners were sometimes like minefields, and this one was no exception. It was only a few days after Hunter’s birthday, and I still couldn’t get him out of my mind.Not just because of what he said—though that would’ve been enough. The pact. The way he’d looked at me when he mentioned it, like he wasn’t entirely joking. But mostly, it was that kiss. Or...whatever it was. A misfire. A half-second mistake. My aim had been for his cheek, but then he turned at the last moment, and suddenly my lips were on the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a real kiss. It shouldn’t have meant anything. So why was I still thinking about it?
My family was also obsessed with the subject. If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me when I was going to start dating again. I could finally afford a vacation somewhere tropical and warm. They were driving me crazy.
It was almost a sport now, the way they couldn’t help sneaking glances at me whenever the conversation lulled. I’d learned to recognize the way their eyes would flick from their plates to my face, then dart away again—hopeful, nosy, brimming with anticipation, as if at any moment I might announce something dramatic about me and Hunter. Every time I picked up my phone or let my gaze wander toward the driveway, a ripple of silent speculation swept through the yard. It was only a matter of time before one of them broke and said something.
The first offender: My grandmother.
She sat down next to me at the picnic table, holding a plate loaded with baked beans, a burger, and some kind of kale salad that I had no intention of acknowledging because it had raisins in it.Raisins.Ew.
“Well, honey,” she said, patting my hand like I was a spinster in a Regency novel, “you’re not getting any younger.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” I muttered. “What a comforting thing to say at a family barbecue.”
We were at the Honeybrook Inn for our monthly Darlington weenie roast. Two of my sisters were here with their significant others, two came alone, like me, and my girls were here too. All I wanted was to stuff my face with hot dogs and relax, but that seemed unlikely with the specter of their matchmaking tendencies hovering over my head like a fricking storm cloud.
The heart of our family was the inn. The Honeybrook Inn, referred to by locals simply as The Honeybrook, which my grandparents had owned for as long as anyone could remember. My grandpa had inherited it from his grandmother, who’d inherited it from her grandfather, and so on, stretching back to some sepia-toned photograph of a dusty Main Street and a hopeful wooden sign. The inn itself was a patchwork of old timber and newer paint, with creaking floors that told stories with every step and flower boxes that overflowed from every window in the summer.
Tourists adored it—something about the promise of small-town peace and the proximity to some of the best ski resorts in Oregon. People returned year after year, scribbling their gratitude in the battered guestbook, promising to come back for the autumn harvest festival or just a piece of the homemade cherry pie. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours, and the way it held together through every family storm was almost miraculous.
My grandparents’ house was tucked right at the back of the property, beyond the clusters of lilacs and the rickety swing set, private but close enough that you could always catch a whiff of whatever was simmering on my grandmother’s stove. From their kitchen window, you could see straight across the sprawling lawn to the inn’s front porch. Their house was flanked by a small red barn and a ramshackle chicken coop. Just beyond that was Grandma’s rescue animal enclosure, complete with goats, a miniature donkey, and a goose who had beef with the UPS guy.
Near the porch was the outdoor kitchen my grandfather built from old barn wood and stone, with a giant grill, prep counter, and long wooden table that had seen more birthday candles and root beer floats than I could count. I loved it here. It was peaceful. It was home.
