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BECCA
The Hughes home matches what you'd expect from a family with country club ties. It boasts 6,000 square feet of spotless surfaces, high ceilings, and a backyard that opens to a private golf course. Everything is immaculate and feels bleached into perfection.
It’s a far cry from the house Sam and I live in now which, ironically, is the onehis dadgrew up in. His grandparents’ old place. A 1950’s craftsman, three bedrooms, nestled on an acre lot that backs up to woods and birdsong.
His grandparents couldn’t manage it anymore. The four brick steps to the front door were tough on his grandfather's knees. Grammy also struggled to manage the property by herself. So, the family struck a deal: Sam would rent-to-own the house—for the price it was worth twenty years ago. A gift, really.
To make it “even,” the payments Sam makes go straight to Holly. A little financial boost, supposedly, to help her get on her feet. Which in theory, I support. In practice, it is difficult to believe. She is only two years younger than Sam and six months older than I am.
Holly has also never lived away from her parents' house for more than nine months. Something always comes up, be it health flares, job stress, bad roommates. While she searches for her “passion,” she receives a generous monthly stipend. This stipend is funded by us.
Still, I love that house. It’s solid. Quiet. Honest. There's a separate shop in the back for Sam's gear. The gardens Grammy planted years ago still bloom each spring. I’ve started helping tend them and there’s something grounding about keeping her work alive.
So yes, this mansion feels like it belongs in a magazine. But I’ll take creaky floors and heirloom roses over polished granite and solar-powered fountains any day.
We step inside the party. I'm in a faded sundress and holding a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers from the garden. I arranged them myself this morning: lavender, wild roses, and cheerful zinnias. It’s simple, but it’s beautiful. At least, I think so.
“There’s my Samuel!” Sam’s mom calls from the patio, arms outstretched like she’s hosting a red carpet. She glides over in wedge heels and linen. Everything about her is deliberate—the necklace, the posture, the smile that arrives a half second too late. It’s all effortless elegance and warm charm.
Sam bends down to kiss her cheek, and she smooths a hand down his back. “Hey, Mom. Good to see you. I look forward to this party every year.”
“Oh, really?” Her voice is honeyed, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. “So much that you didn’t have time for a haircut? Or to wear something that doesn’t scream ‘walked off a job site’?”
“Hey, I wore a shirt with a collar,” Sam protests with a grin, smoothing a hand over it.
And he did. A light blue polo and khaki shorts. Somehow, he pulls off the retired golf pro look and still makes my heart stutter. Then her gaze slides to me.
“And Rebecca, you look lovely, as always, when you wear that dress.”
I feel the dig under the compliment, but I smile anyway. Wide, pleasant and practiced. “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I brought these for you.” I offer the bouquet.
She takes it with a pause that’s a beat too long.
“Oh … thank you. You shouldn’t have.” Her nose wrinkles, almost imperceptibly. “They don’t go with the theme, but maybe I can find a place for them in the back room.”
My jaw tenses, but before I can force out a polite reply, I hear the voice I’ve been waiting for.
“Is that my sweet Becca? And are those from my old garden?” Grammy sweeps in, a bright spark in soft cotton and silver curls. She beams as she crosses the room, already reaching for the flowers. “Oh, sweet pea, these scents take me back. Lavender and zinnias? Bring them out front; I want to show everyone what you’ve done. You always make everything look so alive.”
“Of course, Charlotte,” Sam’s mom says stiffly. “I was just saying how they might not fit the theme …”
Grammy raises an eyebrow at her daughter-in-law. “Flowers grown right here in Cascadia, during summer, don’t fit your summer kick-off theme?”
I could kiss this woman.
“Grammy, so good to see you,” I say as I lean in and kiss her cheek.
She’s the kind of woman I grew up with. Genuine, grounded, and completely allergic to bullshit. Her kindness has teeth. It’s why I made sure she and Grandad would behere. They’re the only reason these Hughes get-togethers don’t feel like a full-blown audition.
Grammy links her arm through mine and leads me toward the backyard.
We chat politely with some of Sam’s cousins. Then I spot Granddad sitting in the shade by the garden. He is weathered and unhurried, the kind of man who has nothing left to prove and knows it. His cane rests on one knee, and a glass of iced tea in his hand.
I veer off with a quick, “One second, honey.”
“Sure thing,” Sam says, already scanning the crowd. “I’m gonna try to find that property developer I told you about, Rick Saunders. He’s supposed to be here tonight.” He gives me a quick squeeze on the hip and disappears into the party.
