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Guilt assaults me as I toss the phone down with a huff. I hate fighting with him, especially about the club. I’m not an owner. I have no real influence. Technically, I’m an employee and not even one with authority.
But Iwantto be.
Same sob story, different day. I love Brett, but the dream I’ve been carrying of us running that club together is getting hazier by the day. I can either fight for our relationship, or I can fight for the club, but I can’t have both.
What’s sad is I’m not really sure which one I would choose.
My phone buzzes again, so I lift it to see the screen.
Baby, don’t be like that.
You gotta trust me. I know what I’m doing.
My jaw clenches tight as I swallow down my resentment. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t hear just how condescending that sounds.
I’m going to sleep.
I almost put the phone on the table before adding in a quick,I love you.
He responds quickly.
Love you, baby.
He does. I believe he does.
And maybe that’s why I’ve stayed as long as I have. It’s hard to leave someone who loves you, even though you know realistically it’s not working. Love is stupid like that. It’s like drinking poison because it tastes good.
Roscoe jumps up onto the couch, nuzzling himself into the space between the back of my knees and the couch. Then he rolls himself into a little ball like a tiny armadillo and lets out a disgruntled-sounding sigh.
With a laugh, I pet his head and try to force myself to stop thinking about Brett and the club.
Instead, I reminisce about breakfast, reliving the moment Adam smiled at me, really looking me in the eye and not at my tits or my ass. The way I felt being next to him. The way I’d feel if a guy like him liked a girl like me.
Three
Adam
My mother cooks once a week, naturally, on Sunday. Since my father has the house fully staffed with chefs and housekeepers, there is really no need. But my mother, bless her soul, complains that Sunday dinner doesn’t taste the same when someone else makes it.
All this to say, my mother is old-fashioned.
And if my bitter, selfish brothers can offer her one thing in this life, the least they can do is show up for lasagna or chicken potpie once a week.
“Our Heavenly Father, bless this meal and the family at this table. We thank you for all these blessings and for the fortune to be together on this holy day. Amen.” My father’s voice takes on that deep, commanding preaching tone when he says grace—the same voice he uses in the church each week. But as soon as the blessing is done, he turns to my brother, Caleb, on his right and asks him to pass the sweet tea in a more casual and familiar inflection.
Growing up, I hated to hear my father preach. He didn’t start until I was seven, and it felt so strange to me. Like watching your parents be anything other than your parents. His tone, pitch, and even the vocabulary he used when he was preaching all felt so…rehearsed.
With time, though, I grew to appreciate it. I learned to separate my father, the man, from my father, Truett Goode, the most famous pastor in all of Texas.
“The sermon was beautiful today, Adam,” my mother mumbles quietly to me as she smears butter over her biscuit. “You’re a wonderful writer.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
“I liked the part about the Cowboys,” my brother, Lucas, adds.
I chuckle cynically as I glance sideways at him. “I thought you hated the Cowboys.”
“Oh, I do, but I liked how you related their draft pick to the Rapture.”
