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“Sure you weren’t,” he says, that condescending tone making me want to slap the smirk off his face.

I straighten my spine. “For the record,” I snap, spinning on my heel, “I wouldn’t touch you again if you were the last man on earth.”

I start marching back toward the house, chin high, cheeks burning.

“I don’t know about three girls,” he calls after me. “If they inherit your attitude, I’ll be completely gray before they hit kindergarten.”

I glace back. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing the most infuriatingly satisfied smirk I’ve ever seen.

7

GRACE

I’m sitting at dinner with Dad on Wednesday night. It’s a rare occurrence these days.

When Mom was still here, family dinners happened almost every evening. The table was loud with stories, teasing, and sometimes even laughter. Now the dining room feels cavernous and far too quiet with just the two of us.

Dad sits at the head of the table, scrolling through emails on his phone. He’s been working later and later since Mom left, like the silence is something he can’t stand to sit with.

“What did you get up to today?” he asks finally, without looking up from the screen.

“Nothing,” I say, pushing a single pea around my plate with the tip of my fork. “Nothing at all.”

He glances at me briefly. “Your friends?”

I give a small shrug. “It’s not really a good look to be seen with me right now.”

Dad frowns. “But Jasmine? You two have been friends since school.”

I look down at my plate. I don’t have the energy to explain how friendship works in our circle. We smile for photos, trade compliments on each other’s outfits, and call it connection, but we never talk about anything real. We learned young: in this world, you don’t tell anyone anything you don’t want the entire city to know by morning. And since she got engaged to Wren, Jasmine has been even more distant. He’s never liked me—not since I called him out for flirting with a waitress right in front of her early in their relationship.

Truthfully, Wren Huntington III was a lucky find for her: rich, handsome, and our age. But Dad would never approve of someone like him. Wren is only inheriting money, and in my father’s eyes that’s almost as bad as having none at all. He wants me with someone who makes money. Most men my age don’t. They party, they experiment with drugs, they get into trouble.

“Jasmine’s busy with wedding planning,” I say, already wishing I hadn’t mentioned the word wedding.

Dad’s gaze lifts. “Maybe you will be too, soon.”

He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. His skin is cold.

I know he loves me. I know he’s trying to help in the only way he knows how. Still, the way he says it makes me feel like a prize horse being led back into the ring.

I force a sweet smile. “Sounds good.”

When I’m back in my bedroom, I check my phone. It’s been silent all day except for one person who refuses to leave me alone. Drew mostly complains about how boring the guest house is and keeps suggesting we go out. I have no intention of going anywhere with him. I don’t even want to see him.

No surprise, there’s a new message waiting.

BEST COCK EVER: I’ve been working on my own little scrapbook of our future. What do you think?

There’s an attached image—a collage.

A white minivan. Nine boys in mismatched jerseys. One mid-shove. A separate photo shows a mountain of laundry the size of a small car. In another shot, a woman smiles serenely while she bakes in a pristine kitchen. And right in the center, a perfect white house with a picket fence ties the whole ridiculous thing together.

BEST COCK EVER: What color van do you want?

I stare at the screen, equal parts horrified and unwillingly amused. He must really be bored to go to all this trouble.

I open GirlTalk Unfiltered and click “new post.”