I stare at him.
“Wait. You want to break up?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Don’t call it that. That makes it sound final. It’s more like... a breather. Time to grow. Explore.”
“Explore,” I echo. “As in… sleep with other people?”
“Potentially,” he says, like he’s suggesting we try a new brunch spot.
A knot forms in my throat. “But I already know I want you. I’m not the one with doubts.”
“I’m doing this for you,” he says smoothly. “Because I love you. I want to be honest.”
“So you’re being honest about how you want to hook up with other people,” I say, blinking back tears. “And you’re wrapping it in a cute little Amish metaphor.”
He shrugs. “We’re leaving tonight. My dad’s jet. Big meeting in D.C. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”
“How considerate.”
He squeezes my hand. “This isn’t the end, babe. We’re still getting married. The Stinsons and Eastons—your dad’s dream, remember? I just think this could be... good for us.”
“You mean good foryou.”
He nods automatically. “Right. Yeah. For you. For us.”
One tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it fast, inhale deep, steady.
“This feels like being railroaded,” I say. “Like one of those midnight bills Congress sneaks through when no one’s paying attention.”
He laughs softly. “Don’t be so traditional. We’ll talk soon. It all came up fast.”
“It feels like a big deal, Keith.”
“Oh, honey,” he says with that condescending grin I suddenly want to slap off his face. “It’s just Rumspringa. We’ll be back together in no time. I’ve always seen myself with you long-term. You know that.”
I look at him, and I swear I can feel something inside me crack.
I glance toward the front—one of my tables is flagging me down again. Aunt Miranda is still watching me like a hawk, arms crossed, lips tight.
Dave returns from smoking, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Keith,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the front, “those idiot Holloways are coming in again.”
Keith groans. “Seriously? Those dogs think they can eat here?”
I exhale hard through my nose.
Vansborough’s not a big town—just big enough to pretend we’re civil. But the feud between my family—the Eastons—and the Holloways runs deep. Generations-deep. The kind of deep that no one even remembers how it started, just that it’s sacred.
Keith’s dad, Tim Stinson, is the mayor, and he hates the Holloways too.
Why does the mayor of a Tennessee town have a private jet? Great question. I assume he sold his soul and a chunk of stolen land back in the 90s. No one talks about it. One of those small town things we’ve just accepted.
At the entrance, the Holloway crew lingers, waiting for a table. I recognize a few of the usual faces—but one pair of dark eyes stops me cold.
Hunter Holloway.
Tall. Broad. Still somehow looking like trouble in a button-down shirt. His eyes sweep the restaurant like he owns the place.
