Page 75 of The Unexpected

When she finally speaks, her voice is different—lower, more centered. “You’ve always done things your own way, Stella. I guess it’s genetic, seeing that your father has always been that way too.”

She takes a breath. “I’ll be there. Even if I have to ride a Greyhound all the way. You’re my girl.”

I hang up, and the tears come, fast and hot, but they don’t last. By the time I get back to the kitchen, I feel like a human again.

The last call is to myself. I look in the mirrored backsplash behind the stovetop, at my hair, my makeup, my exhausted eyes, and say: “You’re not broken, star girl. You’re not bad. You’re just in love.”

Hunter appears behind me, looping his arms around my waist. His hands are warm, callused, fingers laced over my belly. He kisses the spot behind my ear, and I shiver.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

Lachlan enters, holding a mug of coffee, and sets it down in front of me. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” he says, then grins, “unless you’re worried about my cooking for the party.”

I laugh, loud and real. “God help us all if you’re in charge of the menu.”

The two of them stand behind me, a wall of muscle and promise. I look at the rings on the bar and slide two onto my fingers, feeling the rightness of each band as it finds its place.

“Do you want us to help you insert the last one?” Hunter whispers in my ear.

“We’re more than happy to do the honors,” Lachlan murmurs on my other side.

Immediately, my heart begins to race from the promise in their voices, and I think about my dad’s words, about what it means to change everything.

I think about the party to come, the faces that will watch us, the mouths that will whisper.

But mostly, I think about the two of them—my men, my anchors, the only thing in the world that makes sense anymore.

The three of us together, in a kitchen filled with sunlight and the smell of fresh coffee.

If this is what a happy family looks like, I want it forever.

Let the world burn.

Let them talk.

Let them see.

26

FOREVER THREE

Stella

Dusk comes on like a held breath, the kind that starts in the soles of your feet and rises, hot and helium-light, until you’re afraid the next exhale will tear you open. The garden behind Hunter’s mansion is strung with a million fairy lights, each one a tiny witness, glinting through the late-blooming wisteria and the night-burst of jasmine. The scent is thick and narcotic, almost soapy, but there’s a citrus tang from somewhere—the peel of a cocktail, maybe, or just the sharpness of new-cut grass beneath the rented chairs. I stand at the edge of it and watch the guests gathering in their rows, a war council dressed for a party.

I see them all. I see everything.

Kayleigh sits in the front row, blonde hair swept up with a crystal comb, a dress the color of green grapes clinging to her curves. She has the look of someone holding a secret—chin lifted, mouth held tight so it won’t break into a grin or a tremble. Next to her, Mary Kate is practically vibrating out of her seat. Her hair is a golden curtain, her lips glossed and perfect, but she keeps tugging at the hem of her skirt like it might transform her into someone less obviously herself. Chloe is next to MK, a silvery slip of a girl with big eyes and a black velvet choker, and she keeps glancing up at the altar like she expects the whole thing to vanish if she blinks.

And then there’s Andie. She glows—actually glows, as if the baby inside her is a lantern lit just for this afternoon. Her dress is lavender, and there’s an actual silk ribbon under her breasts, tied in a bow, the kind you see on cupcakes or the ankles of newborns. She keeps one hand on her round belly, fingers splayed and absent-minded, and the other hand is buried in the curve of my dad’s arm. Thomas wears a suit in conservative navy, but his tie is a shocking, bloody red; he sits with the posture of a man who cannot, will not, be moved. His hand is on Andie’s thigh, not possessive, but anchoring, like if he let go she might drift up into the trees. I watch him murmur something to her, the words lost in the night air, but I can see the muscle in his jaw flicker, the way his eyes are already glassy and unreadable.

My mom is in the second row, a white handkerchief clutched in her palm. I don’t know how long she’s been crying, but her mascara’s gone a little punk, and every few seconds she smiles at me with so much rawness that I have to look away. Her dress is gold and semi-flashy, but she’s thrown a denim jacket over her shoulders, and she keeps twisting the sleeve, knotting and unknotting it, like a nervous habit from childhood.

The rest of the seats are filled by a scattering of faces from my life: a few other friends from Century College, a pair of Hunter’s corporate lieutenants, a smattering of the unflappable aunties and cousins who always materialize at these things, even when there’s a threat of scandal. A couple of them are whispering, their mouths hidden behind their hands. The sight makes me smile. It means they’re talking about me, and I love it.

Above everything, there’s the single note of a cello, slow and syrupy, weaving between the conversations. Somewhere out of sight, a musician draws a bow across the strings with the patience of a surgeon, and the music shudders across the lawn, every note a benediction.

I’m not wearing white, because it’s too traditional. Instead, my gown is silver-blue, almost liquid in the way it slides down my body, the metallic threads catching the fairy lights and sending them spinning across the grass. The back is cut low but not immodest, and the front is draped just enough to highlight my bust without looking trampy. My hair is down—Hunter insisted on it—and falls in a thick, gold sheet to the small of my back. Every step I take across the stone path is a lesson in muscle memory and prayer.