“We’re on a four a.m. flight,” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face like just saying it out loud physically hurts him. “As fun as it is being at dinner with you all tonight, flying out today would’ve been better. At least then I’d be in a hotel bed by now, not prepping for sleep-deprived, first-day-of-the-tournament hell. My dad would be so disappointed if he knew.”
Jameson rolls his eyes. “I wanted to spend one last night with my fiancée before wedding chaos fully sets in. We’re just over two weeks out, and things are officially...spiraling.”
“You’ve got three planners, six spreadsheets, and two overly organized bridesmaids. What’s spiraling?” JT deadpans.
I catch a glimpse of something that crosses Izzy’s face, but I’m not sure what it is. I would’ve said it was hurt, but I can’t imagine why. Is she insulted she’s not being called overly organized? She’s always been the easiest of the three Harper sisters to get along with, and clearly that has carried over into adulthood. I’d definitely consider it a compliment.
Jameson levels JT with a look. “The emotions, man. The emotions are spiraling.”
“Can’t you just FaceTime him, Bryn?” JT says. “That was my plan for the things I wanted to do with Lila.”
Jameson’s jaw tightens. “Can you not? She’s still my little sister.”
“And yet, shockingly still allowed to have phone sex,” Lila cuts in with a smirk, lifting her wine. “Though probably not this weekend. Our parents are flying out, and we’re spending the weekend in Denver getting their clothes for the wedding.”
JT dramatically places a hand over his heart. “I’m devastated. I hate missing Walker family events.”
According to Izzy, Jameson and JT have been friends for so long that JT was practically part of the family before he ever started dating Lila—something that made the summer they got together a landmine of awkward dynamics.
Izzy laughs beside me, a soft sound that vibrates through my ribs like I’ve swallowed one of those buzzers at a restaurant. It settles deep, in a place that feels like home. Like maybe it has always belonged there.
Shifting slightly in her seat, Izzy’s thigh presses against mine. Could be accidental. Could be the wine. Could be wishfulthinking on my part. But then I catch her sneaking a glance at me over her glass—cheeks pink, eyes bright and dancing—and I know I’m not imagining it.
She looks alive. Gorgeous.
Not runway-model, retouched beautiful. Not the curated, filtered pretty that trends on social media. No, she’s real. Radiant in the kind of way that makes you want to write songs about her.
And I have.
More than one.
I glance around the table—at Lila rolling her eyes, at Jameson whispering in Bryn’s ear, at Kelsey and Carter in conversation about some text Carter just got from one of their security team, and I wonder what my dad would think if he saw me now.
Sitting here. Laughing. Glancing sideways at a woman who makes me want things I’ve never considered before. Sometimes I think that, if I’d just stayed home, worked the farm, kept my head down, I would have friends like these. I’d have people who cared about me, not because I’m paying them a paycheck.
And would my dad be proud?
Or would he use this as another example of how I’ve failed? Proof that my life should’ve never been traded for my mom’s, even if I never had a say in the matter.
Maybe he’d say that if I’d stayed, Izzy would already be mine.
But I didn’t. And she’s not.
I’ve only been back from Nashville for a little over a day, so I haven’t had time to clean out my dad’s room. That’s my excuse anyway. The truth is—I’m not ready. Not ready to see what he left behind. Not ready to find out what pieces of him still linger in the dusty corners and creaky dresser drawers.
Hopefully just some old clothes. Maybe a bed.
Ideally, nothing that still carries the weight of his voice. His resentment. His anger that after all he gave up for me, I couldn’t just stay around and at least take over the family farm.
But being here again—in Wild Bluffs, next to Izzy, surrounded by the people she calls family—it’s stirring something old. Something raw. Something I thought I buried with the first album I ever recorded in Tennessee.
My chest aches at the thought that maybe home isn’t a place. It’s a person. Or maybe, for those who are really lucky, it’s a table full of idiots who won’t stop bickering about flower arrangements and private jet snacks.
Izzy’s knee bumps mine.
I turn to say something—anything—but she beats me to it.
“You okay?” she asks softly, her words just for me.
