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I shut up, inhaling. He waits while I blow my nose.

“Okay. So you’re with Coen Taylor?” he says.

“We’re something, but not together.”

“Is he playing you? Is that what’s hurting you?”

I shrug, then shake my head. “No, he’s never done anything to make me think that. He’s…perfect. He treats me the way you treat Mom. But he’s also like…one of the biggest names in country music. It’s not like he’s going to want to be with me long term. I’m not from his world.”

Hugh thinks, forehead creased deep.

“Your dad is angry,” he says finally. “He thinks Coen is playing you.”

Hugh has always been incredibly perceptive. Weary, I nod and sink back, the burger untouched in my lap. We’re out of the city, in the countryside with the million dollar houses with clean cut lawns and white sidewalks. I stay quiet until we’re almost to the house. When we stop at the gate so Hugh can tap in the keycode, I clear my throat.

“Sorry to just dump all this on you,” I whisper.

He drives through the gate. “Let’s get you settled, and we’ll order in for dinner later and talk about it. You don’t have any bags? No clothes?”

I shake my head. “I left everything at Coen’s house in Nashville.”

“Alright, your mom has some of your things clean and folded in your room.”

“Thanks.” My voice cracks.

We pull up outside the door, and I grab my purse. He gathers up the trash and leans across to push my door open.

“Go see your mom. I’ll park the car.”

I nod, getting out and pausing to watch him drive to the multi-car garage. It really is like a whole different world out here. Turning, I climb the stairs and pull the door open, stepping into the spacious front hall. Mom loves lots of white, but Hugh is more of a classic vintage guy, so they compromised and managed to somehow mesh their two styles. The effect is classy and clean. My shoulders sink, and the familiar scent of my mom’s favorite vanilla candles hits my nose.

“Brina? Is that you?”

I pad down the hall barefoot. I guess I left my slides in the car. Mom appears around the corner and throws her arms around me, pulling me in briefly. She steps back, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Boy drama.”

“Really?”

“Complicated boy drama.”

Mom flips her bleached blonde hair back and folds her arms over her chest. I have distant memories of her before the divorce. She was quiet and wore pretty plain clothes most of the time. Post divorce, she blossomed. Now, she’s a green juice consuming Pilates and workaholic machine with a body fat percentage to make a body builder jealous. Do I want to be my mom eventually? No, but I love how she glows with Hugh.

“How complicated—oh no,” she whispers, eyes widening.

Hugh appears behind me, holding my slides. Mom puts her hand on her forehead.

“Oh my God, she’s pregnant,” she whispers.

“Mom! I am not pregnant,” I yelp.

“She’s not. She’s got big time boy problems,” says Hugh, laughing as he goes by to put my shoes away.

“God, thank goodness. I don’t want some loser knocking up my daughter. You want some wine then?”

We all go to the huge kitchen, and Mom takes out a bottle of white wine, lining up glasses on the granite counter. Derry, the goldendoodle, skirts around the corner and nuzzles my hand. The house is warm, and I feel safe. My shoulders start to relax.