Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“S-s-sorry, son,” Dad slurs, “I should’ve had lunch. Get Maria to make you a plate.” His voice fades as they go upstairs, heading toward not his office but my parents’ bedroom. I suspect he’ll be passed out, snoring obnoxiously, within moments.
“How long has he been like that?” I demand from Leo as soon as they’re out of sight, my eyes still locked on the now-empty stairs.
Leo hums thoughtfully, but he’s not counting days or weeks or months. He’s counting something that doesn’t apply to a lot of people any longer . . . loyalty. “Not my place to say.”
I turn to look at him, realizing he doesn’t look exactly the same. The grooves on the corners of his mouth are deeper than I remember, as though he’s frowned more than he used to, and there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. But this is one that I can’t let slide. “Leo?”
He licks his lips and replies in almost a sigh. “You should talk to your brother. Things haven’t been the same since you’ve been gone.”
The statement shouldn’t surprise me. I knew leaving would have consequences, but I mostly thought of them in terms of what I’d be gaining—freedom, a fresh start, control of my own destiny.
It’s a heavy feeling to be reminded of what my leaving might have cost back here at home. And that a lot of those costs were going to be paid by the people I love.
“Where is Winston?”
“In your father’s office. Getting Bill around Winston is usually helpful in these situations. That’s why I told him there was a phone call,” Leo explains.
I nod, and walk quickly down the hallway to Dad’s office. I stop short, though, when I see Winston propped up in Dad’s chair with his feet on the desk, phone pressed to his ear. His hair is longer than I’ve seen it before, with flips of length falling over his ears and into his eyes. His nose crinkles as he says, “I don’t care about champagne brands or colors, Cara. Cristal, Dom, Moët . . . don’t care. Ivory, pink, or neon orange like Cheetos . . . I don’t. Give. A fuck.” He’s silent for a second, listening. “Whatever Uncle Jed said is fine unless Avery wants something different.”
I clear my throat and he looks up, half in shock, half in worry he just got caught out doing something wrong. When he sees me in the doorway, he shouts, “Wyatt? Holy shit, bro! You came.”
That sounds like my brother, eloquent as always. Where Wren got the skills to verbally slice and dice at will, Winston is more of a smash-and-trash sort. I’m somewhere in the middle, I guess.
Winston hangs up the phone without another word and rushes at me, grabbing me in a fierce bear hug and slapping me on the back. “You came.”
“Of course I did,” I say when he lets me go. “Not every day my little brother gets married.”
There’s more question there than there should be, but this is Winston we’re talking about. He once proclaimed that he was never going to get married when there were so many women to sample. Of course, he was a mouthy fourteen-year-old virgin who’d just been shot down by his crush at the time, but I thought he’d held on to the sentiment.
“Nope. I’m a fucking goner of the one-and-done variety. Avery owns me—dick, heart, and soul.”
“Romantic,” I summarize with a raised brow. “I want to hear all about this Avery who’s managing to get you down the aisle, but first, what the hell is up with Dad? He came sloshing through the living room like a squirrel who’d been noshing on old grapes off the vine.”
Winston groans, and takes a step back to rub at his forehead. “Again?”
Before I can question that, Wren barrels into the room, her eyes tight and her jaw clenched. “Incoming—Mom’s looking for you both. I’ll hold her off as best as possible. Get out while you can.”
Winston and I look at her in surprise, our brains still computing what she just spit out in one rapid-fire sentence.
“Go!” she hisses.
That’s enough to get us moving, and we hustle through the foyer and out the front door like so many times before. We never had to “sneak out,” exactly. That was part of being a Ford: if you wanted to leave, you did, walking out with your head held high and your shoulders back. Anything less was weakness, and Fords do not show that to anyone, especially family.
You just have to make sure you walk your ass out the door at the proper time. Thankfully, my keys are in the cup holder, right where Leo left them when he grabbed my suitcase from the back seat. I start the truck and pull out at a reasonable speed—to punch it and spin out would only call attention to our departure.