I don’t need to look at the calendar to know what today is. It’s Smoke’s big day, Erede al Trono. Different day—same old heartbreak. Centuries of D’Angelos have handed down their heritage, one heir to the next. Like a Yeti sighting or Halley’s comet, the passing of the D’Angelo torch happens only once a generation, and I am missing it.
“Come to family dinner night.” Aunt Grace is upbeat and chipper as she wraps me in a hug. Before I moved to Chicago, I never missed an Everly family dinner. Not one. But now, I’ve missed four. It’s because dinner means sharing your day over a hot meal, laughing over pie, and slowly working our way from the kitchen to the living room for a game of Jenga.
All of a sudden, I hate Jenga.
Considering that I have no job and my day consists of yoga and moping, there’s not a whole lot to share. I shake my head.
“Please,” she begs, hands clasped.
No. Dinner is too risky. The weight of my broken heart is far too heavy not to drag down the entire Everly clan with it, and I won’t let that happen. “I’m still in flannel pajama pants, and my hair hasn’t been brushed,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “You go on. Have fun.”
“Brooke is bringing a guest.” Aunt Grace’s tone is 100 percent pure honey.
I point a finger at her sweet sadistic face. “That’s evil. Baiting me with Brooke and a new boyfriend?”
Aunt Grace rubs a shoulder against mine and spills a little tea. “She says they’re just friends.”
Just friends? Right. Brooke has been dating since she was in pink rubber band braces, and in all that time, the only guys she’s ever brought home are the serious ones, all of them the quote-unquote just friends.
With two fingertips, she lifts my chin until my eyes meet her light green ones. “I could tell everyone it’s a pajama party. One call and the Everlys are all in.”
My sad face lifts to a smile. “You just want an excuse to wear that bunny onesie.”
“It’s a unicorn, just like the one that singer wore. Come with me, and we will kick everyone’s butt in a twerking contest.”
Aunt Grace knows every trick to lift my spirits, but the truth is, I don’t want to be cheered up. I want to be my unshowered and stinky self, wallowing in a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and heartbreak, licking my wounds in peace. “I love you for trying to make me feel better. And for owning a unicorn onesie, but rain check on the twerk off.”
She pulls me in for a tight squeeze. “Next weekend, I’m holding you to it.” Her kiss is tender on my cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“I’ll be here.” Just me and my misery.
I follow her out and wave as she drives off. Early evening is alive with cricket chirps and rustling eucalyptus leaves. The scents of wild honeysuckle and earthy citronella wrap around me, inviting me to take a seat on the porch to soak them in.
Half an hour flies by, and when the low hum of a truck makes its way up the drive, I already know who it is.
His boots crunch hard on the pebble driveway and spur a flurry of butterflies in my chest. “Hey,” he says, his thick southern accent as welcoming as the large dinner plate he hands me.
A cool breeze kicks up, and I shiver. His leather jacket blankets my shoulders in an instant. I snuggle into it and smile up at him.
He looks down sternly. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding out.”
I peel the tinfoil from the plate and avoid his eyes. “I’m not hiding out.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying my big, fat lie. “Mind if I have a seat?”
“I’d like that,” I say, smiling. I scooch over, giving him room to sit.