Page 249

The problem with getting everything you've ever wanted is realizing how much you have to lose.

I read it twice.

It's a little dramatic.

Even for me.

But I don't cross it out.

Because downstairs, Hayes Bishop is probably trying to figure out how to tell my brother what happened last night.

And I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to tell myself that whatever happens next, I'll be okay.

I close the notebook.

Darcy stretches across my pillow, completely unconcerned with the complicated lives of humans.

I stand and head toward the bathroom.

Last night, Bishop made me feel like there wasn't a single thing in the world he wanted more than me.

This morning, I'm beginning to understand that wanting someone and knowing how to keep them are two very different things.

And I have no idea which one of us is going to figure that out first.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

DELANEY

The kitchen smells like cinnamon, brown sugar, and the last of Mom's pumpkin pies.

It's a smell I've associated with Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. That, and the faint trace of turkey that seems to linger long after the leftovers have been packed away.

I stand at the sink, rinsing the good China while Mom wraps another plate of food in aluminum foil.

Outside, the late-November sky is already beginning to darken. A thin layer of frost has settled along the edges of the kitchen window, and beyond it, the backyard is scattered with leaves Dad never got around to raking.

Some things never change. The kitchen is one of them.

White cabinets. Green countertops. Hardwood floors that creak near the refrigerator.

Mom and Dad have talked about remodeling it for years, but every time Declan or Bishop offers to help them do something more substantial, they refuse.

Between the two of them, they've already paid off the mortgage and replaced enough appliances that Dad jokes they own the most expensive old house in Evergreen.

Mom says she doesn't need a bigger kitchen. She just needs people to stop leaving their dishes in the sink, which is probably why I'm standing here washing them.

“You can put those in the dishwasher, honey.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you washing them by hand?”

“Because you always complain when the good plates get chipped.”

Mom glances over her shoulder.

“That's because your father loads the dishwasher like he's playing frisbee.”