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He rolls his eyes. “There’s no way you actually think it’s a good idea to go alone.”
“I don’t. But I refuse to cancel.”
“If it’s about money, you know we could always—”
I move my head from side to side, cutting him off. “Not happening. Besides, it’s not about the money. Not completely.”
It’s more my pride than anything else. I refuse to be beaten by a goddamn cranky old landlord.
“Then there has to be someone else,” Mom says softly. “What about Cooper?”
Huffing out a breath, I look at the sun peeking over Dad’s shoulder. “I don’t need to be babysat, Ma.”
“I know you don’t. But he would take care of you over there. You know that just as well as your father and I do. Right, Oakley?”
Dad’s features are pulled tight, his emotions hard to decipher. Is it uncertainty that has him pulling into himself?
“Oakley?” Mom pushes, tone sharp.
The second his eyes fall on his wife, the strain leaches from his face, replaced with a soft, loving smile. “Right.”
A nip of what I’ve come to recognize as envy has me looking away, out at the treeline again. I dream of having a love that pure. That all-consuming obsession with another person.
I grew up watching the way my dad treated my mom and vice versa. I’ve seen first-hand how my oldest brother loves his wife so fiercely that he can’t breathe without her close, and even the way my other brother has silently pined over his best friend, doting on her for as long as I can remember.
I want to be that for someone. Their everything. Their heart and soul. Present and future. But I’m young, which means so are the men that I find myself hanging around, and they don’t want what I want. They don’t understand the pull I feel for those experiences.
I’m not saying I want to get hitched and pop out a million kids right this minute, but is it really so bad to want to be loved by something so deeply?
“There’s no harm in asking, Addie,” Mom says, squeezing my shoulder.
I swallow, tipping my chin as I shove those thoughts to the back of my head. “Okay. I’ll ask.”
3
COOPER
“I don’t like meatloaf, Mom,”my fifteen-year-old sister snarks from across the dinner table, shoving her plate away.
Her mom, Scarlett—or SP, as I always call her—gives her a stern look, the same one she’s used to chastise me for years. It still works like a charm because Amelia mumbles an apology shortly after.
“You liked it up until today,” Scarlett replies, scooping a heaping of mashed potatoes onto her fork and pointing it accusingly in Amelia’s direction.
“Do you ever think about how the animals we kill turn into . . .this?” Amelia scrunches her nose at the brown meat on her plate.
Dad’s low chuckle pulls my attention. Our eyes meet, amusement sparkling in his before he looks at his daughter. “Are you thinking of becoming a vegan, Amelia?”
“Maybe.”
“Vegans don’t eat eggs either,” Scarlett adds.
Amelia’s eyes widen slightly. “What?”
I hum, fighting a smile. “Are you really ready to give up Sunday morning breakfasts of eggs and bacon?”
“You know what? Just stop picking on me,” she grumbles before angrily grabbing her plate, digging her fork into the meatloaf, and shoving some into her mouth.
The repulsion on her face as the taste settles is enough to crack me open, my laugh filling the dining room. Her glare is ice-cold.
