"Including golf at the country club," Preston adds. "Best course in three counties."
"I've already volunteered to help with the arrangements," Wyatt announces, somehow making it sound like he's doing everyone a favor. "Just like old times, right Preston? Remember when Sarah-bear and I used to caddy for you?"
"Great," Matt mutters.
Greg looks directly at Caleb. "This week's your chance to talk to your brother about those entry positions in Boston. Matt knows people—"
"Dad—" Caleb starts, but Greg barrels on.
"Even if you're not as quick with the business side as Matt, getting your foot in the door could help you figure things out." He turns to Preston. "Didn't you say something about your firm having a training program?"
Caleb's shoulders go rigid beside me, his breathing shifting with it.
"Greg," Dottie warns.
"What? I'm trying to help." Greg's voice carries the frustration of a man who thinks he's being reasonable. "Matt found his way early, sure, but even if Caleb's not quite there yet . . . well, structure helps. Responsibility. A real paycheck."
"Some take longer to settle," Preston adds, with what he probably thinks is encouragement. "Though Bell Industries is always looking for fresh perspectives. When you're ready to getserious, of course."
Caleb stands so abruptly his chair scrapes against the hardwood. "Excuse me."
Matt half-rises to follow, but Greg's quiet "let him be" keeps him in place.
"After yoga," Kristal swoops in, "we have dress fittings, followed by lunch at the Rose Garden."
"Just a little something I arranged," Magnolia says. "Dottie, you'll join us, of course?"
"Wouldn't miss it." Dottie's smile is perfect, practiced, and doesn't reach her eyes.
"And tonight," Kristal continues, "movie night in the Living Room. Very casual, very cozy."
I should be excited about the plan. About being included in the bridal party. About any of this. Instead, my head is full of the look on Caleb's face before he left.
Pebbles grind under myboots as I stalk away from the house, past rows of pristine grapevines reaching toward the mountains. Perfect little rows. Perfect little order. Everything in its right place, just like Matt in his perfect job with his perfect fiancée and their perfect fucking life. I kick a rock, following its bounce off one of the fancy wooden posts.
The path winds around to some bullshit fairy tale pond that's featured in every basic bride's wedding album within fifty miles. A family of ducks cuts through the water like they own the place, and my brain thinks of Ivy's backyard bird empire. Because apparently, that's my life now, comparing pond rejects to Ivy's backyard chaos crew like it's a competitive sport.
Last week she sent me a video of Ducky strutting around like he's hot shit, leading some kind of rebellion against bedtime. All attitude and mohawk, practicing his splash attacks on her new flowers. And instead of doing the sane thing and going to sleep, I watched it six times because her laugh was so bright and sweet.
After, I caught myself ordering special organic duck treats at midnight because she mentioned Louie was being picky about his food.Me.The guy who eats a three-day-old pizza. Standing in my kitchen at ass o'clock, comparing dietary reviews as if its normal behavior.
Fuck my entire life.
I grab a handful of rocks, needing to do something with all this restless energy burning under my skin. The first one sinks with a pathetic splash that matches my mood perfectly.
Lunch was a complete shitshow. Ivy walked in wearing a sundress straight out of a woodland fever dream, and Carter spent the entire meal staring at her chest like it was a business pitch. His gaze never once cleared her collarbone during the entire walk-down-the-aisle rehearsal nonsense.
Another rock hits the water hard enough to scare the ducks.
And there she was, handling Preston's business questions like a boss, making Dad nod along when she talked about book clubs and local author showcases. Looking at home in a room full of people who spend more on wine than I make in a month. Meanwhile, I'm still delivering pizzas and dodging comments about "real careers" and "wasting potential."
The next rock skips twice before sinking. At least something's working.
"I'm trying to help." I mimic Dad's voice, throwing the next rock so hard it barely misses the dock.
The thing is, I could have a "real" job. That indie game company, Pixel Dreams, reached out after my last mod went viral. Something about my "innovative approach to environmental storytelling" and "unique perspective on player choice architecture." They wanted to talk about a junior dev position. Like, an actual career, not some hobby. A hobby my followers keep saying I should pursue professionally. The thing I love more than almost anything else.
I never replied.
