Page 77 of Final Proposal

It’s her that’s making me batty. My want to be with her all the time. When she’s dealing with contractors so I can admire how easily she finesses them. When she’s sitting in the dark at the kitchen table eating an ice cream bar where calories don’t count. When her butt is planted in the sand, a glass of wine in one hand, and her face lifted toward the sun. When I sink into her and she makes that noise in the back of her throat that sounds like enviable pleasure.

“It can,” I say, “but I’m managing just fine.”

“I heard you scared the shit out of Diego. I walked in on some of the guys laughing about it, but then they shut up when they noticed me. Care to explain why and what happened?”

I chuckle. “Nah. I handled it. That’s all you need to know.”

“Why do I get the feeling I should ask more on this?” she asks.

“Do you not trust me to handle the crew?” I tease.

“Now, I know I need to ask more.”

“He was being disrespectful. I put him in his place with a little incentive for why he shouldn’t do it again.”

“You know I can handle myself, right? That women being treated like shit in construction is normal?”

“Yes to both, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow it on our site. Or for it to be said about you. Call me old-fashioned. Call me a dick. I know you can handle yourself, and I believe I’ve let you every chance that arises, but . . . if I didn’t say anything, then I’d be just as guilty as he was.”

She nods slowly as she presses her fingertips to my opposite hand and stares at the connection. There’s something on her mind. She’s a closed book most days. There are times I feel like I talk about everything and anything, but when it comes to her, she conveniently steers the topic to something else.

“What do you want, Ellery?” I murmur, my lips near her ear.

“What do you mean?”

“After this is over.” She tenses, and I chuckle. “Relax. I’m talking about business, goals, that kind of thing.”

She takes her time thinking of her response, which seems so different than the Chatty Cathy I first met months ago. So, what’s changed?

Her sigh comes before her answer. “I want to finish this and . . . I don’t know. Will I get the satisfaction, vindication, whatever you want to call it when the project is completed? And if I do, will it be enough to sustain me? Will Garland still think I need to be seen and not heard? Will my brothers respect my opinions as an equal partner?”

“But you said he called and praised some of your work. Maybe the tide is already turning some in that aspect.”

She purses her lips and nods. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

I can all but feel her conflict.

“Okay, say all of that were true. Finishing the project and it being a success. Spoiler alert—it will. But say it is and Garland truly realizes your worth and the dickheads start respecting your opinions. If all of that were true, would you consider yourself successful?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“My mom used to tell me that at the end of the day, the only thing that matters in life is what your family says about and thinks of you. I used to believe that wholeheartedly, but to be honest, I’ve struggled with that as of late. And then we talk, and I watch you battle against the shit your brothers and your dad say. I see you. I know you. I know your worth, and I’m amazed they can’t see it.”

And isn’t that the truth? She’s making me realize there is an exception to the rule my mother told me it was important to live my life by.

The question is, how does that newfound knowledge apply to me?

Because I’m starting to realize that part of the reason the biography has produced a sore spot for me is that I always craved those words from him. His praise. His approval. All three of us did. And like with any siblings, when a parent gives one something and not the other, it makes the one who was left out feel less than.

And his lack of discussion about me in the biography did just that—made me feel as if I weren’t as important. And my brothers’ dismissal of my feelings over it only served to tear open the wound a little more.

But then there’s Ellery, a walking example of being an exception to the rule.

To not needing anybody’s words to prove her worth.

And I wonder how I can apply that to my life. I wonder if it’s possible to step back and overlook what feels like a slight, because if what my family says and thinks about me is to be my foundation for how I see myself, then clearly, I’m lacking.

“Your mom’s notion is good in theory, but maybe it only applies to functional families.” She laughs. “And God knows mine is dysfunctional in the most normal of ways.” She begins tracing my palm with her finger. Seconds pass as we stare at what she’s doing. “Why have you struggled with it so much?”