The type of summer morning I’d write about in a diary.
For that time, wrapped up in Owen’s arms with the sunlight streaming through the cottage windows, that boulder in my stomach goes away. Disappears into the void. There’s just us. I can do it for one day. Be like Owen and hold onto his optimism, pretend I believe what he said earlier.
“It’s going to be a good day. I feel it.”
Chapter 2
Knox
Today is going to be fucked, but at least I get to see her. That counts for something. Even if she hates my guts, I’ll take her scowls and scorn over nothing at all. That side of her is mine. She doesn’t give it to Owen—with him it’s all sunshine and smiles, all pretend. I know the real Sawyer. Better than anyone. And I love watching her drop the act.
I close the book on black holes I’ve been reading and put it on my nightstand for later. I’ve hidden away enough this morning. It’s time to show face downstairs. I hear them talking, smell the coffee brewing, and Ella wasn’t next to me when I woke up which means she’s down there too.
My parents are at the breakfast nook when I come down, and Ella’s smiling beside them. Always smiling, especially around my parents. She wants them to like her. She wants this thing between us to work. And the effort she puts in to make it happen exhausts the shit out of me. Every word carefully chosen, body language practiced, even her laughter is too well-timed. Eight months in and she still tries this hard. She’s like an understudy memorizing the main characters in case she gets called in for their role.
The thing is, they already like her. My father likes her family name and the connections that come with it and my mother thinks she’s a nice girl with respectable upbringing. Their approval was never going to be the problem. Hell, my father’s the reason I’m dating her to begin with.
I wish she wouldn’t try so fucking hard.
She’s wearing a white designer sundress, hair done, already perfect by 8 AM. Fucking white dress—not a smart idea. She looks good, though. Like she woke up this way. Maybe she did. I didn’t pay attention. But I know Ella Moretti has never looked like she’s trying even when she’s trying her hardest.
The lake house felt different when I was a kid. Fuller, louder, alive. My mother used to fill the place with people every summer, friends and neighbors spilling out onto the back porch, cases of wine going faster than anyone could count. Now it’s just the four of us rattling around in it, and sometimes I catch my mother wandering around touching the surfaces, looking like she’s mentally preparing for guests who aren’t coming.
I’m a few steps away when they notice my arrival.
“There he is.” My father raises his mug in my direction. “Thought you’d sleep all morning.”
“It’s eight.”
“You’ve got yourself an early bird.” He nods toward Ella. “This one’s been up since six.”
Ella turns and gives me a careful smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“You should’ve woken me up. We’re running late.”
She glances down into her mug of coffee. “You needed the rest.”
She’s right. I tossed and turned all night, thinking about seeing Sawyer today. Not going to let her know that.
I move past her to the cabinet and grab a glass, filling it with water from the tap because the coffee smells burned, or maybe it’s just the store brand shit my parents buy now. Eitherway, I don’t have the patience for it this morning. I lean against the counter and check my phone. 8:02. Owen said nine, which means we need to leave soon. We don’t have time to diddle ourselves all damn morning.
“Knox.” My mother’s voice carries that particular note of warning she’s perfected over thirty years of managing the men in this family. “Come sit.”
“I’m fine here.”
My father’s eyes cut to me over the rim of his mug. That look. It doesn’t need words. It’s in the severeness of his expression. I hold it for a second then look back at my phone.
We’re going to be late if they don’t wrap up whatever this is—this Disney Channel family morning breakfast bullshit my father just fucking loves. Ella perched on a stool, my mother in her robe, everyone exactly where he wants them.
Except me.
“Beautiful morning.” My father sets his mug down and leans back, looking out toward the lake. “Weather’s supposed to hold all day. Good day for everyone to be together.”
He’s been saying some version of this my entire life. Family together, just like it should be, and I’ve learned to translate it accurately. There are people who belong inside that sentence and people who don’t, and my father has been drawing that line for years without ever having to say it out loud.
He doesn’t have to say Sawyer’s name. He never does. He just looks at me like that, eyes slightly narrowed, lips in a straight line, and the message lands exactly where he intends it to.
I take a long sip of water.
