“He”—Seb points at Gabe—“tried to pick up another woman at the bar last night. And then she”—the accusatory finger moves to me—“let him fuck her anyway.”
Everybody in the room explodes at that, but by far the loudest is Gabe.
“Do not talk about her like that,” he roars.
His unexpected ferocity shuts up everyone but Sebastian, who moves around the table and gets right in Gabe’s face. “You shouldn’t be talking to her at all! We both know what youreallywant from Darby, and it’s not her personality.”
Gabe’s jaw works back and forth for a moment, and then he says, “You and me. Outside.”
His voice is deadly calm, but his eyes are burning. And that’s when I realize I need to put a stop to all of this.
“Grinch! Grinch, Gabe!” I step in between the two men, turning my back on Sebastian and putting my hands on Gabe’s chest. His heart thunders under my palms. “You promised me you wouldn’t fight my brother, remember?”
He glares over my head. “That’s before I knew what he was like.” But his breathing starts to even out, and once I’m satisfied these two idiots aren’t about to pummel each other, I drop my hands.
That’s when my dad wades into the whole mess. “Darby, do you mind telling us what’s going on here?”
I slump into the nearest dining room chair, suddenly exhausted. The candles have burned down low, and wax is hardening on Mom’s favorite tablecloth. I pick at a spot with my nail while I figure out how to begin.
“You were all supposed to hate him,” I say quietly. “I brought him home with me to be the worst possible boyfriend.”
One by one, my family sinks into the chairs nearest them, looks of shock and confusion on their faces. The only person left standing is Gabe, who’s got his arms crossed over his chest, every muscle and tendon in his body tense.
“Why, sweetie?” Mom asks.
I blow out a steady stream of air before speaking. Even though I know it needs to be said, I don’t want to do it. Middle child. Peacemaker. The one who doesn’t make waves. But where has that gotten me? Parents whose love language is smothering concern, a brother who thinks I can’t be trusted to make responsible decisions about my sex life, and a hot guy who’s been wearing the logo of a baseball team he hates to mess with my family. Hell, I even work in a building where people are scared to speak at a normal volume.
It’s time for me to quit shutting up about what I need.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Darby
Every eye in the room is fixed on me. These are the people I grew up with, whose faces I know as well as my own.
I want to bolt and never look back.
Then I look at Gabe, who gives me a nod and a tiny smile. His faith makes me strong. I can do this.
“I love you all so much,” I finally say, looking from one family member to the next. “But sometimes you say things that hurt me. Like comments about being single at my age or being shocked when I bring a man home. Or”—I turn to my sister—“calling my boyfriend a hot dummy.”
“What?” Gabe straightens in surprise, but I wave him off with a quick, “Later.”
My dad’s been listening with a hand pressed to his cheek. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
I lift one corner of my mouth in a sad smile. “I always get over it, so why make you all feel bad? I know you’re not trying to be mean.” I only hesitate a little before this next part, but I might as well tell them all of it. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want what you all seem to want for me? That I’m fine being single, and that I don’t even know if I want kids? But you all push and tease and assume that you’re being funny or helpful when you’re really not.”
It feels incredible to finally be saying it out loud, but the horrified disbelief blooming on my mom’s face tears at my heart.
“Oh honey, I didn’t know.” She looks at my dad, then back at me. “You’ve always been so independent, but we hoped one day…”
“That I’d have your life?” I ask, and she nods. “I love your life, Mom. But I love it foryou, just like I love Celeste’s for her. I wish you’d trust that I’m happy with the life I’ve made.”
“We know you’re happy,” my dad says, sounding a little confused and a little sad. “We just think you could be… happier.”
My mom nods emphatically, but I shake my head in return. “That’s not up to you. Please trust that I’m happy and”—deep breath—“please respect my boundaries when I say that the comments and advice and suggestions aren’t funny or helpful. They hurt me.”
She’s immediately up and out of her chair, pulling me out of mine for a hug.
