“Objectively.”
Bradley narrows his eyes. “Am I being insulted in my own parents’ kitchen?”
“Yes,” I say at the exact same time Amelia says, “Always.”
He ruffles my hair as he passes, and then kisses Amelia like we’re not all right here.
“Gross,” I mutter, grinning as I stack plates and bail from the kitchen before they turn it into a rom-com scene.
After dinner, Mum insists we all stay put while she brings out dessert. None of us listen. Amelia clears plates, Bradley stacks cutlery in uneven piles that’ll annoy her later, and I ferry bowls to the sink while stealing a few more forkfuls of lamb straight off the tray.
“Liv,” Amelia scolds, catching me mid-bite.
“What? Waste not.” I shrug. “Besides, you’re about to roll out lemon tart, which—no offence—trumps lamb any day.”
Bradley points his fork at me. “Don’t touch half of it. That tart’s mine.”
“You mean ours,” Amelia corrects, hip-checking him as she sets the dessert on the table.
“Yours, mine, ours,” I say, reaching for the knife. “You two share everything now, remember?” Bradley glares. Amelia laughs. I cut myself a slab the size of my hand because I know how fast it disappears around here. Beside it is a pavlova, the cream already starting to slip, strawberries spilling over the edges like red jewels. Mum beams, pleased with her masterpiece. We all dig in. The table hums—wedding chatter, farm updates, Amelia’s latest school chaos, and Dad’s dry one-liners that somehow land between bites.
It’s loud, messy, and familiar.
Later, in bed, I crack the window to let the night in—frogs chirping, the occasional hum of a highway truck, the old bones of the house settling into sleep.
I start my list of small goodnesses: Dad’s laugh at the dinner table. Amelia’s lemon tart. Xavier’s quiet relief when the bolts I grabbed were the right size. A photo of a nanny ad I can’t quite bring myself to delete.
And then I picture a kitchen table years from now, crayons scattered across it. Boots by the back door that don’t belong to me.
Wild? Sure. Impulsive? Always. But the truth is, I’m solid when I stay. I’m sturdy as a fencepost once I’ve been planted. And I think—no—Iknow, I’m ready to plant it. To build something that starts with breakfasts like today and ends with someone small asleep on my shoulder… and someone tall stealing the last wedge of lemon tart while swearing he didn’t.
2
Olivia
Don’t Blame Me – Taylor Swift
I’m at Michael and Zoe’s place.
Uninvited this time.
Because if I asked, Michael would’ve said no, and I care too much to let him turn me away. He’s like that—gruff exterior, “leave me alone” energy. It used to work on me. Doesn’t anymore. Not when he’s got Zoe softening his edges. Technically, it’s Zoe’s place anyway, as she’s renting it.
They’re so love-shacked up, it’s borderline sickening. God, I thought Bradley and Amelia were bad. Turns out, Michael Price takes the cake when it comes to being disgustingly in love. With Zoe of all people.
And I adore it. Because I adore her.
Michael Price has been around my family forever. He grew up with my brothers—running wild on bikes, fixing cars at Joe’s, getting into trouble that Harrison usually dragged him out of.Harrison’s the oldest Price, the one who always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Michael is the younger one, the one who covered sharp edges with sarcasm and kept people at arm’s length. He’s basically been my pseudo-brother since I was a kid, always lurking somewhere in the background of our lives.
When I first met Zoe, I wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was all city polish in a small town, the kind of woman who looked you straight in the eye like she’d already lived through worse than anything you could throw at her. And she had. Her shitfaced, cheating ex nearly burned her to the ground, divorce papers and all. She came here raw and bruised, swearing she was done with men, only to find love in the most ridiculous, unexpected place—with Michael. Cocky, motorbike-obsessed, emotionally unavailable Michael.
Now? They’re basically teenagers with house keys.
Dinner had been proof enough. Zoe had cooked creamy chicken pasta with garlic bread, so good I nearly moaned at the table. The two of them fussed over each other while plating up, like no one else in the room even existed. She laughed at him, he softened for her, and I… rolled my eyes and muttered “gross” while sneaking extra bread onto my plate. Now I’m planted on their couch, Sprinkles curled up in my lap. I grab the remote and flick through the options like I own the place.
“Couldn’t you have bothered Bradley and Amelia instead?” Michael asks, arms folded as he drops onto the couch beside Zoe.
“They have date night,” I say with a dramatic whine. “You know that. Every Friday. Like clockwork. Don’t act surprised.”
