Before I can examine that inconvenient truth, the door flies open.
"There you are!" Kristal appears in a whirlwind of nervous energy. "We're late for lunch with Magnolia!"
I drag my feetup the winding path to the estate, back aching from hours of pretending I gave a shit about golf stats and investment portfolios. The day started with eighteen holes of pure torture, and watching my dad nail perfect drives down the fairway despite claiming he'd "only played twice before." Because of course Greg Miller would be naturally gifted at the most pretentious sport in existence.
"Not bad for a construction guy, huh?" Dad had gloated after sinking a thirty-foot putt, high-fiving Matt, who matched him stroke for stroke. The two of them spent the entire back nine discussing swing techniques like they'd discovered some secret father-son language I wasn't invited to learn.
"You're choking the club, Caleb," Dad had said, not even looking at my pathetic attempt to get the ball anywhere near the green. "Look how your brother is holding it."
Matt had jumped in with his big brother savior routine. "Dad, come on. If this was football, we'd both be eating dust right now."
"Football's over," Dad had replied, eyes narrowing. "And what good did it do him?"
And there it was, Matt's awkward laugh, the one he uses when he's trying to diffuse tension that's been brewing for years. As if he could swoop in after years of being MIA and fix everything.
"Hey, guys, come on. It's my wedding week," he’d said, forcing cheerfulness into his voice. "Let's just enjoy the beer and terrible golf scores."
I'd gritted my teeth and shanked another ball into the water hazard, wondering if I could "accidentally" clip Dad with my next swing.
Matt spent the rest of the afternoon shadowing Preston with all the eager loyalty of a corporate golden retriever, tossing out terms like "market projections" and "quarterly earnings" in a desperate attempt to impress him. It was painful to watch my brother stumbling over himself to laugh at Preston's vulgar jokes and nod along to every smug comment about 'old money wisdom.'
Even his laugh changed from his usual snort-wheeze to a tight, polished chuckle better suited to a country club boardroom. But the worst part? Preston didn't even notice. He was too busy trading stories with Wyatt about their 'glory days at the club', and shared summers at the lake house. Meanwhile, Matt kept pushing, dropping stock market references as if they might finally earn him a stamp of approval. I've never seen my brother work so hard to be someone he's not.
Then there was Carter, who apparently thinks asking about Ivy every five minutes is totally normal bro behavior.
"So, your friend," he'd said, lips curled into a smirk. "She single? Because I could—"
"She's not interested." I'd cut him off with a look that made Jefferson snicker into his craft beer.
"You sure about that?" Carter had pressed. "Because Virginia said—"
"Drop it."
Which, of course, only made Jefferson's sneer deepen. "What's wrong, Miller? Scared of a little competition?"
Now, hours later, I'm finally escaping what has to be the longest Tuesday in human history.
I push open the door to our room, already dreaming about a hot shower, and finding something mind-numbing to watch until my brain stops replaying Jefferson's snide comments. But I freeze in the doorway, caught off guard by two things.
One: Ivy's moved all my pillows and blankets to the bed, arranged with a quiet care that punches harder than it should. She probably didn't think twice—saw me curled up like a pretzel and decided to fix it.
Two: She's now stretched out across the very couch I was trying to survive on, phone on speaker, mid-conversation.
"You do sound jealous," Amelia's voice crackles through the speaker.
"I mean, I get it," Vinnie chimes in. "If someone was talking about my man like that—"
Ivy's eyes snap up, catching me standing there with what I'm sure is the world's most annoying smirk on my face. Her cheeks flush as she scrambles to end the call. "Love you, bye!"
"Wait, get some of that di—" Amelia's voice cuts off mid-sentence as Ivy throws her phone across the room.
"Should I be offended I missed the punchline?" I ask, enjoying how the pink in her cheeks deepens to red.
"It's nothing," she says quickly, sitting up and smoothing her oversized shirt. Today she's paired it with actual sleep shorts, which is somehow worse than yesterday's shirt-only situation. "How was the groomsmenbonding?"
I let out a groan and collapse face-first onto the bed. "If I have to hear one more story about Carter's hedge fund or Jefferson's yacht club membership, I'm walking back to Hallow's End."
Ivy laughs, and the knot inside me eases just a little. "Tell me about it. Sarah seems nice. Everyone else, on the other hand . . ."
