Chapter 1
Jane
Caleb stands in the kitchen doorway, blocking my exit as if he thinks I might run away.
Rude.
Though I absolutely might run.
The fluorescent light above the sink flickers again. The barely noticeable strobe that everyone else seems oblivious to makes my teeth ache. The coffee maker gurgles, and someone has left the radio on low in the other room. The competing sounds layer over one another until my skull feels too small.
“Why do you have a bag?” Caleb asks, arms crossed and jaw tight, radiating the full weight of oldest-brother energy.
“It’s called luggage,” I reply, dragging my duffel strap over one shoulder. “People use it when they leave the house. Revolutionary, I know.”
Weston perches on the counter, mug of coffee in hand, wearing a look that says,This is better than cable.“Usually, people announce it first.”
“Ididannounce it,” I retort. “Internally.”
Boone’s newspaper twitches, which is the only sign he’s listening. “That doesn’t count.”
I set the duffel down and yank on my boots, stamping each one against the floor harder than necessary. “I’m heading out for a bit.”
Caleb steps closer. “For how long is ‘a bit’?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, and that’s the truth. “Long enough to breathe.”
The room falls silent.
That happens sometimes. When the thing I meant to keep inside slips out, sharp and too honest.
Weston lowers his mug. Boone folds his paper. Caleb’s expression changes. He’s not angry. Never angry. Just worried. Always worried.
And that’s the issue, isn’t it? Their worry fills this kitchen, a constant and inescapable presence. I’ve been breathing in their anxiety my entire life.
Caleb steps forward, eyebrows furrowed. “Outwhere?”
“Somewhere that doesn’t involve the three of you hovering like emotionally constipated cowboys.”
Weston’s mouth twitches. “Tell us how you really feel.”
“I’m practicing honesty,” I reply. “Apparently, that’s something people do.”
Caleb rubs the bridge of his nose—a gesture I’ve seen countless times, the one that means he’s counting to ten beforespeaking. He looks tired.
“We could’ve talked about this.”
“Idid,” I shoot back. “You just told me to calm down.”
No one argues with that.
Because it’s true.
The words hang in the air—calm down—and I watch them land. I see Caleb’s jaw tighten. Weston suddenly finds his coffee fascinating. Boone carefully avoids looking at anyone.
I love my brothers. I do. They raised me after our parents died—Caleb barely twenty-two, Weston twenty, Boone still ateenager—trying to figure out how to keep a ten-year-old girl alive when they barely knew how to keep themselves afloat.
They fed me. Clothed me. Gave me space. Too much space, maybe. No rules, no boundaries.Jane’ll figure it outbecame our family motto.
