I raise my brows. “Are youeverpositive?”
“I’m positive that Weston needs to hurry up,” he says, checking his phone. Then, more casually, “Have you told Dad yet about your new place?”
I nod. “I texted him this morning—gave him a brief synopsis of everything that’s happened. He texted me back and said that we’d have to get lunch sometime.”
Parker stills. Just barely, but I catch it.
“Okay,” he says flatly. Which is exactly how he always sounds when it comes to our dad. “Well,” he adds after a beat, rocking back on his heels, “that’s … something.”
I frown. I don’t know why it still surprises me how complicated he is about our dad—about both our parents, really. I mean, I get it. Growing up in a house where money was always tight, voices were always raised, and doors were always slamming, does things to you. Their divorce wasn’t quiet, or civil. Or anything close. It was years of fighting, custody schedules, bitterness, and us stuck in the middle, trying to pretend it was normal.
Then Mom started dating. A lot. New men, new apartments, new promises that never lasted. Dad stayed angry. Tired. Working himself into the ground and carrying a chip on his shoulder about what he couldn’t give us.
It wasn’t exactly a recipe for emotional stability.
But he showed up. In his own imperfect way, he did.
“He’s trying,” I say carefully.
Parker drags a hand over his mouth, then gestures toward the windows. “It’s a long way.”
The comment catches me off guard. “What is?”
“From here,” he says. “You’re moving a long way from here.”
Oh.
I tilt my head. “You know I’m not moving to another country, right?”
He gives a short huff. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
I soften. “I’ll still come visit you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried,” he says immediately.
Which, of course, means he is.
I smile. “You hate change almost as much as Dad hates spending money.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “I hate change more.”
I laugh, and he rolls his eyes, but there’s something quieter underneath it. Something familiar. The same thing he’s always carried—the need to hold things steady, because nothing ever was.
The doorbell rings before either of us can say anything else.
Parker moves for it a little too quickly.
I know he’s dodging the conversation. He always does.
But my annoyance fades the second the door opens and Weston steps inside. He’s wearing a hoodie, jeans, and Converse, and I have to admit the look is quite different from his norm.
But I like it.
“Well, are we ready to get this show on the road?” Weston rubs his hands together, his eyes bouncing between the two of us. “Neither one of you looks all that happy.”
“You know my brother.” I snort. “I don’t think he’severbeen happy.”
“Not true,” Weston counters, shooting Parker a mischievous grin. “I think there’s this lady who makes him pretty happy. He’s just still in denial.”
