Lily: See you then. Good night.
Ethan: Good night, Lily.
She exited the app and pressed the phone to her chest, closing her eyes. Then she popped them open again, and said, “No. You are not doing this to yourself again, Lily.”
It happened every time. Whenever Ethan was home, he made her feel as if he must adore her. And every single time, he left again without so much as a kiss.
And yet, here she was, convinced he felt the same thrill in her presence that she felt in his. You couldn’t fake something like that, and why would he even want to?
A little voice crept into her head. How can he feel anything for me when he doesn’t even know me? And how can he know me when I don’t even know me?
She looked at the photo of her mom. It hung in a black frame on the wall opposite the window. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected the future. Her mother’s face, her palest blond hair, her big blue eyes, her tender smile, they were all older versions of Lily’s own. Even their names were the same.
Her mother was a saint. And a nurse.
All her life, Lily had tried to model herself after her beautiful, kind, perfect mother. And when the first Lily had died, those efforts had tripled.
Now she felt as if she was buckling under the weight of trying to fill the empty space in her family that her mother had left behind.
The following night, Lily tried three different outfits, and each time, got halfway to the front door, where her father was waiting, then changed her mind and went back to her room.
The third time she came out in jeans and boots and a navy-blue tank with a long, lighter blue cardigan over it. The only special part of the outfit was that the blue tank was made of a sleek satiny fabric that shimmered if the light hit it just right.
Her dad, who’d been waiting near the front door the last two times she’d come down, had taken a seat in a kitchen chair and had a novel open in front of him, but he looked up. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, set his book aside, got up, and put on the Stetson hat Harry and Maria had given him for Christmas. He never left home without the thing. She noticed he’d dressed up, too. Wore a pair of spanking new Levis and a light-blue dress shirt, all tucked in and buttoned up. Garrett and Chelsea had invited him to have dinner at the ranch with them. Said they were having a friend over anyway and could use a fourth.
She sniffed. He was wearing cologne. Who was this friend, having dinner at the Brands’ tonight? Mom had only been gone for…two years. Two years.
She sighed.
He said, “I’m driving. I’ll drop you at the bunkhouse and head down to the ranch house,” he said. “That way I can head home after dinner. You’re staying over, right?”
“That’s generally what happens at the bunkhouse bonfires,” she said. “Hence the bunkhouse part.”
“Slumber party for grown-ups.”
“Who you callin’ grown up?” She elbowed him and handed over the keys. She’d objected to the pickup truck, but her dad couldn’t be talked out of it. She was still driving her little crossover. She’d flown home to pack up all their things and close down their lives in New York. She’d hired movers for what she’d kept. She’d cried her heart out at everything she’d let go. But she’d felt lighter after. Once everything was donated, sold, or packed into moving trucks and on its way, and the house stood empty, Lily had cleaned it, wall to wall and floor to ceiling.
There had been a few things she hadn’t trusted to the movers. Her mom’s good china, her teapot collection, and all the family photos, along with her own clothes and belongings. She left the bucket and cleaning supplies on the curb and wrote FREE on the pavement in chalk. Then she’d dropped the chalk into the trash can.
Lily blinked out of the past when her father said, “We’re here. You sleeping, sweetheart?”
“Daydreaming,” she said. “Thanks for the ride, Dad. Have a good time tonight.”
“You too, sweetheart.” He eyed her and said, “You look great. You looked great all three times.”
“You’re biased.” She leaned across the seat to kiss his cheek. He was truly thriving in Texas. But only physically. She wondered if he was depressed. She grabbed the huge container of dip in a one-armed bear hug and got out of the truck. As her dad drove away, Lily sent a rapid fire, one-handed text to Ethan’s adopted mom, Chelsea, who was a psychologist.
Lily: Dad on way. Seems depressed.
Chelsea: I’ll keep an eye on him.
Chelsea always texted in complete sentences, she’d noticed. Most of the elder Brands did that. Her father didn’t text at all, unless absolutely necessary.
She said thanks, then closed out and returned the phone to her sweater’s deep pocket. When she looked up, Ethan’s chest was right there in front of her face. She tipped her head up further, and he tipped his down. “Hey,” he said.
