I’ve been doing that a lot tonight. There’s so much chatter going on around me, it’s hard to know which conversation to follow. At dinner they were all talking over one another, laughing and changing topics with a speed that was hard to keep up with. Satch sat beside me, quietly smiling at the frenzy of voices.
It’s funny, at school she seems like the last person who’d want to be at a loud, chaotic dinner party, but she’s comfortable here.
This home is her safe place, and I love seeing her smile appear so easily. Everybody in this room adores her, and I think she knows it, which is why she can relax and laugh and throw a few jokes across the table.
“What girls?” My stomach twists at the thought of anyone trying to make my woman feel bad. That viper still riles me whenever I stop to remember that day andher scathing taunts. Has this been happening to Satch for a while now?
The thought slays me.
I can’t fucking deal with the idea of her spending middle school hiding away in the back corners of the library to avoid the bitchy girls. Judging by the pictures on the top of the piano, Satch has been a cutie from the day she was born. And her middle school photo is no exception, her round face all cute and pink, her camera smile forced yet adorable. The thought of her getting teased at that age sits ugly in my chest.
Shit. Is that what happened?
Clenching my jaw, I grit out as softly as I can, “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Her aunt looks flustered when I shake my head, glancing across the room at her niece before patting down her hair. “Well, maybe it’s not my place to say.”
“Please.” I touch the woman’s arm. “What girls?”
She sighs and tuts, watching Satch carefully while she rushes out a whispered explanation. “She had a bit of a hard time in middle school.” Her expression crumples. “Even worse in high school. Became the target of a few bullies who were determined to verbally torture her. Some of their pranks were just… awful.”
“What?” I practically growl.
The woman pats my hand. “Don’t you worry. High school is over now.”
Yeah, but she’s facing the same thing in college. What the fuck gives?
If anyone tries to prank her, I’ll?—
“She got through.” Her aunt keeps talking, unaware ofthe internal thunderstorm raging in my belly. “It really kicked her confidence, though, which is why we’re all so pleased she has a handsome, strong man like yourself to look after her now.” She beams at me. “She deserves you, you know?”
I let out a soft snicker and gaze across the room, desperately trying to hide my angst and focus on the fact that right here, right now, she’s completely safe. Secure. No one’s gonna say shit to her in this place.
Satch laughs, pulling the little girl in for a hug and glancing my way. Her expression softens with affection, and she winks at me before kissing the top of her second-cousin’s head and saying something that makes the girl smile.
“I’m the lucky one,” I murmur to her aunt, then turn and look her right in the eye. “And I’ll never let anyone hurt her.”
“I know.” She smiles, patting my hand again.
“Right, present time!” Tommy walks into the living room with a carefully wrapped box, and my insides skitter as I jump up and reach into my bag for the two presents I had to scramble to find. If Satch had given me warning, I would have done a better job, but knowing my girlfriend, I could be handing her a potato and she’d still be grateful for it.
This family doesn’t have much compared to mine. Their three-bedroom, retro-style home with its one living area and single bathroom could probably fit into our rec room and garage. Maybe even just the garage. It’s poky at best and looks to be at least seventy or eighty years old. Seriously, walking through the door was like stepping back in time. And it definitely explains a lot.
Her parents are obviously obsessed with the ’50s and ’60s, because their house is like a movie set from those old musicals Satch loves so much. Even the carpet has a swirling pattern that screams midcentury. I have no idea if it’s ever been changed, and although they keep the place clean and tidy, you can tell it’s tired.
My mother would not cope walking in here. It’s cluttered, every surface covered in trinkets, knickknacks, and photographs that probably all have a story to go with them. It’s a dusting nightmare, which is why I can spot layers of dust from the top of the old piano to the vinyl collection stacked on the floor. The old bookshelf under the window is crammed in a haphazard way—the exact opposite to Satch’s immaculate collection that she’s been curating as if it were a priceless art collection.
My lips twitch as I find a place beside her, resting my gifts on my lap while Satch grins at her family and opens the first one.
“Oh, I love it.” She holds up the homemade pottery bowl, beaming at her aunt and going on about how talented the woman is.
I smile at her. Seriously. She’s sweeter than that caramel fudge, my gramma used to make.
She has the same reaction to the homemade card her cousin’s daughters give her and the box of brownies they baked from scratch.
“I hope you like them.”
“I’m going to love them.”
