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“Nope, just Beau, and my middle name is Alistair, after my grandfather,” I add begrudgingly.

“Will he be coming to the wedding?” I wish I knew the honest answer to that question, but when he finds out what I’ve done, I might not even make it to the wedding.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

“Ohh, goodness, I almost forgot—what about groomsmen? Is there any family that you want to include or any children because it doesn’t have to just be the twins.

“There’s no one. I’m an only child. Besides my grandfather, there’s just his son and wife.”

“That would mean you have an uncle and a step-grandmother?”

“It would mean that my grandfather remarried, and he has a son. And groomsmen—” I don’t even know how to answer her. How do I explain to somebody that I’ve spent my whole life closed off? And that I’m friends with everybody, but I don’t have people I consider close confidants. It’s easier that way. Can’t hurt you if you keep them at arm’s length.

“You know what? It’s not a huge deal. We can figure that out later, and worst case, I can just have Emma stand up with me, and we don’t have to do a big bridal party.”

“Lucy, it’s fine. I want you to have the wedding that you want.” Even as they say the words, I regret them because I know the wedding she wants isn’t to a guy she’s just met. Somebody that she loves, not a transaction… me.

“It’ll be a beautiful wedding,” she whispers as she gazes out the window. Something tells me I’m not the only person she’s trying to convince. I know she needs this wedding, but we both know she doesn’t want it.

“Okay, that just brings us down to catering, tuxes, and a DJ.”

Wow! She’s good. Real good!

“Sounds like you have it covered. Wedding plans. Meet the family, a few appointments and appearances, make the townspeople fall in love with me,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

She laughs, but then her expression turns serious. “Nobody said anything about making the town fall in love with you. Oh, speaking of the town, did you read the email I sent over?”

I nod. “You mean your full-page report, bullet points outlining your family tree, and diagram of the town… I read every word front and back.”

“Thank you.” She brushes off the compliment, bringing up the one thing I hate to talk about: my family. “So, what about your family? You mentioned grandfather and uncle, and forgive me if I’m intruding, but what about your father?” she asks, and I feel a lump form in my throat.

“There’s not much to tell,” I reply curtly, avoiding her gaze. “When I lost my mom, my dad took off. I was an only child. My grandfather raised me. That’s about it.” I keep my eyes on the road, but I feel hers on me.

“I’m so sorry. I lost my mom to breast cancer, but I was in my early twenties. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you not to have her growing up.” I feel her hand rest gently on my shoulder. Both her touch and her words stir up feelings I would rather keep buried.

This is why I don’t get personal. Why I don’t meet the parents. And why I sure as hell don’t do relationships.

I hate pity, but at the same time, I also feel a pang of sympathy for her. Losing a mother at any age is devastating.

“I’m sorry to you too.” This time, I actually look at her, but I’m thankful she can’t see the emotion swimming behind my shaded lenses. I swipe my gaze back to the road, and she withdraws her hand.

After a few beats of silence, she fills the void talking about her father and their farm. Turns out it’s not animals like I assumed, but crops, gardens, groves of trees, and even a small orchard.

Lucy tells me funny stories of her upbringing and what small-town life was like. Spring blooms and egg hunts, summers spent swimming in creeks and town festivals, with fireworks, Friday night football in the fall, Christmas traditions, and Sunday dinners year-round. I can’t help but feel a sense of envy. She had a loving support system, a real family… something I never had growing up. My thoughts drift to my own family history, but I quickly push them aside. She doesn’t need to know about my dysfunctional family dynamics.

“So, how did you decide to do journalism?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I could give her the answer I tell everyone. That I wanted to piss my grandfather off, which is partly true. But I tell her the real truth. Something I’ve never told anyone else.

“When I was a kid, I had this therapist, Jami, and she gave me a journal. I was supposed to write my feelings, I guess, but I didn’t even understand what grief was, so I just used them to make up my own stories. A way to escape—an outlet.” I can’t believe I just said that out loud. But it felt… good. To share something real for a change.

And it scares the shit out of me.

“That’s amazing. Your grandfather must really love you to have gotten you support like that. A lot of kids—people, for that matter—deal with grief and trauma with no help.” I don’t bother telling her that my grandfather didn’t want me talking to strangers about “family business” because he was so lost in his own grief. But the private all-boys’ school he sent me to ordered it after I kept getting into fights.

When I don’t respond, she keeps talking.

“I talked to someone after my mom, and it helped me learn how to cope with everything—I still struggle sometimes, especially with all this wedding stuff happening.”