I’d spent the walk trying to imagine tomorrow. What I’d say. How they’d react. Would they see me as an obligation? A complication in their close-knit family?
And beneath all of that, the fear I didn’t want to admit: What if I met them and still didn’t belong? What if I finally found this family and realized there was no place for me in it?
Downtown Willowbrook was prettier at twilight. Streetlights cast warm pools of light, restaurants had outdoor seating filled with people enjoying the early summer evening, and everything felt peaceful. Settled.
I walked past a gallery, a coffee shop, a bookstore. Everything prosperous in that small-town way.
Then I saw the bar.
Dylan’s Place, the sign said. Warm light spilled from the windows, and I could hear the low hum of conversation inside.
I hesitated for only a moment before going in.
The interior was all dark wood and brass fixtures, cozy and authentic. Not crowded, but comfortably populated. A pool table in the back, booths along the walls, stools at a long bar.
I slid onto a stool and caught the bartender’s eye.
“What can I get you?” He was middle-aged and friendly, with the easy manner of someone who’d been doing this for years.
“Whiskey, neat.” I needed something strong. Something to quiet the noise in my head about tomorrow.
He poured without comment and moved on to other customers.
I took a sip, letting the burn ground me, and tried not to think about meeting my brothers.
About whether they’d actually want me there or if this was just obligation.
About whether I’d ever truly fit anywhere.
“Rough day?”
The voice came from my left, and I turned.
He was a few stools down. Tall even sitting, with broad shoulders and dark auburn hair that caught the light. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with the kind of build that came from actual work, not a gym. He nursed his own whiskey, and there was something in his eyes I recognized.
Something wounded and real.
My photographer’s eye catalogued the details automatically. The way he held himself, the tension in his shoulders, the careful distance he maintained even as he spoke. Someone used to being on the outside. Someone who understood what it felt like to not quite fit.
“You could say that,” I said, taking another sip. “You?”
“Yeah.” He turned his glass slowly. “Rough year, actually.”
The way he said it, quiet and honest, made my chest tight. He meant it. Whatever he was dealing with was real and heavy.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.
He looked at me then, really looked, and something sparked between us. Recognition, maybe. Of seeing someone else who understood that life was complicated and messy.
“Can I buy you another?” he asked, gesturing to my nearly empty glass.
I should say no. I should go back to Jasper’s house and prepare for tomorrow.
But I didn’t want to. Not yet.
“Sure,” I said. “Thank you.”
He moved to the stool next to mine, and I caught his scent. Soap and something woodsy, masculine without being overwhelming. Up close, he was even more attractive. Strong features, a jaw that could cut glass. But it was his eyes that held me. Dark and intense and seeing me in a way that made me feel exposed and safe at once.
