“Yea. Tomorrow at two.” Sawyer’s grin is plastered to his face like the Cheshire Cat. “It’s at the Justice of the Peace, so I hope you can make it.”
“How long have you known about this? Have you planned anything? Do I need to find a dress?” My voice squeaks mid-tirade. I try to find someone with a sympathetic expression, but everyone seems on board.
I should have known better.
Dad just sighs and takes a sip out of his mug. “Soph, it’s his wedding. Not yours. Let them do what makes them happy.”
“I think it’s romantic.” Lori smiles as her palm runs over Dad’s shoulders. “They’ll be just as married the next day, right honey?” She leans over and presses her lips to his jaw tenderly.
I don’t stop my nose from wrinkling, but I also have stopped saying anything a while ago.
They’re happy, even if it is mydadand best friend making googly eyes at each other.
His arm wraps her hips and pulls her closer. “Exactly my point, baby,” he murmurs with another tender kiss.
Oh God, sometimes it’s so sappy.
“This is what we want too.” Sawyer seems oblivious to them pawing at each other over the table.
Char pulls a biscuit from the basket in the center and peels it apart to share with Paisley. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. We did Vegas and it was the best experience I’ve ever had.”
“Not helping,” I grumble. “What’s so wrong about wanting a big celebration?”
Wait.
“Is Val pregnant?” I blurt out. That would certainly explain them wanting to stay low key.
Sawyer shakes his head, readjusting his baseball hat. “Not yet that I know of,” he says sheepishly.
Double gross. I don’t want to think about my brother that way.
Shit. Am I?
It’s barely been a week sincethat night.
I don’t feel any different so I doubt it.
In fact I’m ready to try again, just to have the chance to touch Biggie again.
Every day it seems like we’re closer, sharing more secrets and revealing more dreams.
We all startle when Uncle Dixon bursts through the front door with a whip of snow billowing around him. With his heavy coat and broad brimmed hat, he’s the size of a mountain.
From the snarl on his lips and the furrowed forehead, more like an angry grizzly.
“He was fucking here,” he roars, slamming the heavy oak shut to stomp across the living room.
“Who?” Dad starts to stand, but Uncle Dixon waves him down.
Then he slaps his palm on the table, making an audible cracking sound.
When he pulls his arm away, a bright green smooth rock sits on the chipped wood.
“That son of a bitch,” Dad mutters, his jaw clenching.
“Who?” I parrot Dad’s question. “What does a pebble stand for?”
Uncle Dixon turns abruptly, ripping off his coat to hang in the entry. “It’s Cade. He had this ‘monster rock’ thing from when we were kids. He used to get nightmares and our dad told him some chunk of quartz he had found was special and kept away the bad dreams. Cade always carried one, it turned into his lucky charm.”
