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I follow Presley since we’re in time-out for the fifth time since I arrived. I fist-bump my nieces and nephews, then overhear my niece Leighton tell Presley “not to worry about it” with some major attitude, so I turn her way.
“Hey, you can’t talk to your mom like that.”
“Oh, this is nothing, Ry. We’re in the teenage years now,” Presley says.
A few parents around her groan.
Since Cade is busy coaching, I pull Leighton aside. “I’m serious, Leighton, apologize to your mom.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Who are you? Oh yeah, our uncle. Everyone, y’all remember Uncle Rylan? You’ve probably mostly only seen him on television.”
I’m taken aback by her anger. I was here less than a year ago for Christmas and I don’t remember her being like this at all. We spent Christmas Eve playing cards, and I taught her and some of the older ones poker.
She walks away before I can think of a rebuttal.
“Just ignore her. She’s in a mood.” Presley looks at her daughter. “If I survive this, it’ll be a miracle.”
Presley’s giggle suggests it’s all fun and games, but I don’t remember ever being that mean to my parents. My dad would never have tolerated it, that’s for sure.
My thoughts are interrupted by cheers and Molly screaming for Peyton, who dekes out another player and hits the end zone. She spikes the ball and does a dance. All her teammates—a lot of whom are her cousins—run over to her until they’re a pile on the ground.
My dad knocks his shoulder against mine. “Thanks for coming. It made your mom really happy.” He nods in her direction, and it’s clear from the way she’s pointing at me that she’s bragging to one of the moms. “She’s your biggest fan.”
This is my dad’s MO—we act as if he’s not my biggest fan along with her and he’s not just as happy to have me home. Is this what Jamison meant? By the time my career is over, will it be too late for me to be really close with my family again?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out and see that it’s my agent. “Excuse me,” I say to my dad, who looks at the phone and frowns.
“Hey, Joran, what’s up?” I walk away from the field to take the call, happy for the distraction from my guilt.
Eight
Calista
My knee bounces, my heart races, and sweat pools along my hairline as I sit in Dough Me, a pizza place at the edge of Lake Starlight.
“This is completely unnecessary,” I say to Aubrey, who sits across the booth from me.
“I know, this was Declan’s idea and I hate to tell you this, but I kind of agree with him. It’s just pizza.” She’s looking at her phone’s camera and putting on lip gloss.
Meanwhile, I’m in jeans and a sweater that I’ve owned since college, my hair thrown up in a ponytail.
“You could’ve at least told me before I got here so I could’ve”—I run my hand down my ponytail—“looked decent.”
“You look beautiful as always, and had I told you before, you wouldn’t have come.” She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow and I roll my eyes because she’s right.
I’ve already seen Rylan since he arrived in town, but I can’t tell her because it’s all wrapped up around this whole slideshow her grandma wants done, on top of the fact that I found out my great-grandma left me a cabin.
“Don’t forget that I texted you the date for the final dress fitting.” Her smile brightens. “I know. Can’t wait to see you in your dress.” Again… for the fourth time.
I love my best friend, but this whole process has been a reminder of everything I thought I’d be doing by the time I turned thirty. Although she and Declan have been together forever, everyone knows what happens. Soon married friends replace single friends. Sure, I’ll get invites to the showers and the parties, and at first she’ll try to set me up with some single, divorced dad.
When that doesn’t pan out, we’ll grow further and further apart. And for some reason, every time I see her in her wedding gown, a vision of me in a rocking chair with gray hair, all alone, comes to mind.
“And you’re coming to the tasting next week for the meal with your dad?”
I plaster on a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Rylan made out in this deal. Because while I’ve been a part of almost every major wedding decision, especially when Declan himself can’t be there, he’s escaped all responsibility. Which is why last night, when I was trying to put the pictures in chronological order, I wanted to drive over to his house and dump them in his lap. But a part of me worries he’d either pawn it off on his mom or wouldn’t do it as perfectly as Aubrey would like, and I want this to be special for her.
