I’ve almost escaped the room when the lights dim, and a familiar sound blares through the house. My steps freeze. Limbs turn stone cold.
That sound.
Slowly, I turn my head toward the open French doors that showcase speakers and mics set up for the congratulatory speeches. My father sits on a patio chair behind a lowered mic, arm cradling his guitar like a long-lost friend. His fingers strum slow and soft, and my own fingers shake in my pockets. Isaac sits beside him, his plucks on his guitar a little clumsier. He only started to learn how to play after he moved out.
Father and son.
Picture-perfect.
The crowd quiets and draws closer to the music.
My heart thuds, pounding harder, harder against my rib cage.
My mom stands in the front row, angled just right so everyone by the moonlit pool can see the wetness gathering in her eyes. It can’t be real. Dad on the guitar again. Listening to him night after night was the reason I taught myself to play. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, but the better I got, the more distant he became. The guitar isn’t something we share together; it’s like my own private comfort now. I only ever pick it up on the one night of the week I can guarantee he’ll be out on some business trip or another, not able to overhear.
All these years, I thought something happened to make him hate playing. Turns out, he just hates playing with me.
Despite everything, I can’t stop listening. My hands fist in my pockets, and I’m caught so off-guard my eyes burn. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does it hurt so damn much? Each strum pulls me deeper into quicksand, until my lungs cave in from the building pressure.
Soft fingers touch my wrist, and my muscles tense. I glance to my right, where Eva now stands.
She’s staring ahead at the performance, but her eyes are glassy, melted chocolate glinting beneath the dimmed lights. Unlike my mother’s tears, Eva’s aren’t for show. A long, rough exhale leaves my lips, releasing some of the weight on my lungs. Her thumb brushes my palm, and a sudden heat in my chest drifts downward. Eva gently squeezes my hand before she turns and walks away.
I keep my eyes on the father-and-son duo, but now, all I can feel is the heat of Eva’s touch. The raw and almost painful sensation expanding in my chest at the gentle squeeze of her hand.
There’s a lot of bullshit in my life. But Eva is real. More real than the blood pulsing through my veins.
Eva
“Not only for the shining example of marriage, family values, and work ethic the Rutherfords have demonstrated over the past twenty-nine years ...” Vincent’s business partner, Jacob, raises his champagne glass, and the clones surrounding me follow suit. “But also for their generous contributions toward our schools, local charities, and, of course, for opening their home and hearts to the children who need it.” He turns and tips his chin toward Vincent and Bridget. “Happy anniversary, you two. May this year crush all the rest.”
Bridget smiles, Vincent nods in acknowledgment, and we drink. The sparkling water fizzes on my tongue, cooling the burn in my throat as I watch Easton from across the pool.
The ache in his eyes as he watched his father and Isaac play together was palpable. A living, breathing heart that broke right in front of me.
I’ve made a lot of bad decisions. Enough that I think it’s safe to say I’m not a good person. I haven’t earned a good life. But Easton isn’t like me. He’s good and genuine, and he deserves so much more than what his parents offer him. Than what any of us offer him.
Pulling in a lungful of cool night air, I skim the countless faces littering the enormous backyard. Whitney should be with Easton, but instead he’s standing alone. I lift my glass to my lips, and a sharp breeze draws a shiver from me.
Isaac told me about the purity bracelet. He told me because Easton wanted him to. Why? Did he want me to know he’s not fucking her? Now that I do, I’m more confused than ever. I’ve seen enough of him to know he’s not the wait-until-marriage type, so what’s he doing with Whitney?
A loud applause brings my focus back to the mic, where Isaac now stands. I arch a brow as I watch him pretend to shake off his nerves. What a bullshitter.
He grabs the mic and clears his throat. “Good evening, everyone.”
The crowd’s already eating him up like a tray of Jell-O shots. I’m proud.
“Some of you may not know me since I usually only make it out here for the Christmas party. I’m the oldest of the ‘children who needed saving’ Jacob was referring to.” He winks, and a few chuckles drift through the crowd. “I’m happy to be here tonight with my dapper big brother, Easton”—I flick my gaze to Easton, catching his little smirk—“and our fearless little sister, Eva.”
Isaac gives me a nod, and I try to lift my lips.Fearless. The word replays in my ears, overbearing yet hollow.
An elbow nudges my arm, and I slowly drag my gaze to the jerk I met once before who stands beside me. The one who thought he was slick enough to whisper sweet nothings into my ear and touch my waist.
“Is he serious?” he asks me, lips twisting in revulsion. “That guy’s your brother?”
I follow his focus to the other side of the pool where Easton leans against the bar.
“I was sure you two were dating or something.”
