Far From Home (Seddledowne Two: Finding Home #2)

Prologue

JULIETTE, FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

Ifell for Griffin Dupree back in the eighth grade.

Well, I fell for his voice anyway.

But it wasn’t until ninth grade that I declared to the world that I would marry him one day.

Fine. I declared it to one other person. But I also wrote it down, which everyone knows is the first step in goal-setting.

I was over at my friend Laney’s—my best friend for the past six months. Elaine Lannister, if we’re being technical. But call her Elaine—the name she inherited from her grandmother—and she’d demote you to acquaintance on the spot. So. Laney’s.

The next morning, I would move for the seventh time in four years. You’d think I’d be used to it by then, but I wasn’t. Goodbye had become my least favorite word. So, I decided not to say it this time. I’d let my absence do it for me.

Except for Laney. I couldn’t do that to her. Not after the way she’d claimed me on the very first day of school, and never let go.

As I braced for the impending heartbreak, I sat on the floor, atop a sleeping bag, doodling. Laney had already finished her list and set the notebook and pen on her nightstand. Now, she lounged in bed, absorbed by something on Instagram or TikTok.

She lowered her phone and looked down at me. “All right, Julie-Bean. Are you done yet?”

Truthfully, I’d finished my list fifteen minutes ago. The rest of the time, I’d spent doodling a border around the torn notebook paper. Tongue poking out, I filled in the last star and declared, “Done.”

“Oh-kay.” She picked up her notebook, knees bouncing. “Who should go first?”

“You.” It was an unspoken agreement that Laney always went first because she was two months older.

She grinned conspiratorially, squeezed her eyes shut, and held up her list.

I grabbed the paper from her. “Holy crap.” Her list had twenty-six items, including Get Invited to the Met Gala, Be Stalked by the Paparazzi, Get a Boob Job, and… “Make out with Harry Styles?” I frowned. “I thought you wanted to marry Elias—” her crush from homeroom, “—or Cash Dupree?”

“I do. Both of them. Elias will be my first marriage, and Cash will be my second.” She flipped the paper over. There were seven more dreams. Marry Elias Robertson was number twenty-nine, Divorce Elias Robertson was number thirty, and Marry Cash Dupree was number thirty-one. “These are in order.”

“You want to get divorced?”

“Duh.” She threw her hands up like that should be obvious, and didn’t everyone want that? “Then I get to have two weddings and wear two wedding dresses.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” I pointed a finger-gun at her.

“Smart thinking.” Honestly, it sounded awful.

But whatever. “Well. Mine’s probably going to underwhelm you then.

” I squared my shoulders anyway. We hadn’t agreed to write the flashiest dreams. Just the ones we actually wanted.

I flipped it around with a dramatic “Ta-dah!”

Her smile flatlined. “Two dreams? That’s it?

” She squinted, trying to read. She’d already taken out her contacts for the evening.

“Become a model, marry Griffin Dupree, and have all his babies.” Her eyes lit up, and she snapped her fingers.

“Oh, that reminds me. Liam posted a reel last night you’re going to want to see. ”

That was code for: Griffin’s voice is on the reel.

“Seriously?” I squealed, bouncing on my knees.

She picked up her cell. As Laney tapped the screen, I watched her fingers move like it was nothing, like a phone was just a thing people had. I’d give one of my molars for a phone. Even an old flip phone. Didn’t matter, so long as I could text my friends.

At first, the video was wobbly, the camera swinging low like someone forgot how to hold it. A cement floor whipped by, then a set of lockers.

“That’s right,” a male teenage voice boasted. “Seddledowne Stallions are still undefeated.” It wasn’t in focus yet, but I already knew it was Griffin’s cousin Liam. I held my breath, hoping this might be the reel where Griffin actually showed his face.

Finally, Liam came into view. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, Greek-god-level gorgeous, he grinned from a locker room bench, sweat-soaked bangs plastered to his forehead. And he was shirtless.

“Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus.” Laney cackled.

I snickered, though I thought it was weird she was ogling Liam when her main obsession was Cash. But that was just Laney. She appreciated the male sex in general. Often and openly.

And the Duprees had so much to appreciate.

The whole country—maybe the whole world—had a crush on the Dupree men. Older women always crushed on Ford, or Liam’s dad, Holden. Girls my age shamelessly stanned the younger generation.

Cash walked behind Liam, his brown curly hair tousled like he’d just come from the shower, also shirtless.

Laney let out a low growl of satisfaction. She tapped the reel to pause it and raised her hands to the ceiling. “Double hallelujah.”

I fell against her, laughing.

She pressed play again.

Liam pulled a T-shirt over his head. Laney looked at me mournfully and groaned. I groaned too, for moral support.

Once Liam’s head popped through the top of the shirt, he tossed his chin up at the camera. “Tell ‘em how many points you scored tonight, Griff.”

Finally.

“Six,” Griffin said, voice deep. I didn’t know if they had some kind of agreement, but Griffin was always the cameraman, ‘interviewing’ his cousins and, frustratingly, never showing his face.

One word. That’s all he’d said, but my stomach went… effervescent. Like I’d chugged something ultra-carbonated.

Liam shoved his bangs back and pursed his lips, like come on now. “Stop being so humble.” He talked directly to the viewer, “Griffin’s our kicker.” He reached for the phone as if he were going to take it and start filming Griffin. “Hand it over.”

“Yes,” I urged. “Do it.”

Laney shook with laughter.

“Get. Back,” Griffin commanded. His hand flashed into frame and slapped Liam’s away.

“We have a hand!” I screamed.

“Meh,” Laney said. “I give that hand a solid 7.5.”

A 7.5? It hadn’t been in the frame long enough to really judge, but it looked pretty perfect to me.

“Fine.” Liam folded his arms over his chest, making his biceps bulge. “Six might not sound like a lot, but Griff’s the reason we won tonight. Clinched it for us in the last two minutes with a sick field goal.”

I had an overwhelming need to see him in his football uniform. Or jeans. A potato sack. I wasn’t picky. I just needed visual confirmation that my gut wasn’t lying and he was, in fact, hot.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Griffin said with an easy laugh. His laugh was even better than his voice, which was really saying something.

Now wearing a T-shirt, Cash pushed his face into frame, right next to Liam’s. “That’s right.”

“Boo!” Laney yelled. “Take the shirt back off!”

“You don’t mess with the House of Dupree!” Cash hooted, pounding his chest. “Highland left with their tails tucked between their legs, all because my man, Griff, got the job done.” Then he was gone again.

“Come back.” Laney shook with fake sobs.

“Don’t have to be a Dupree to do big things,” Griffin said, unfortunately still off camera.

“All right. All right. We need to wrap it up. Liam, do you have anything you want to say? You know, for posterity’s sake.

Maybe an inspirational quote for when you’re inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame, and they play this video at the award ceremony? ”

Could they make an app of just his voice? I didn’t care what he read—Jane Austen, the Constitution, a cereal box. I’d be the first subscriber.

Liam looked right at the camera again. “Remember what Ben Franklin said: if you fail to plan, you plan to fail.”

“Actually,” Griffin amended with a chuckle. “I believe it’s ‘If you fail to plan, you’re planning to fail.’”

Liam threw his hands up. “Well, we can’t use it for the Hall of Fame now!” He whipped a towel at Griffin. “Just… have a plan, p-people!” he sputtered.

Griffin’s laugh was the last thing we heard before the reel ended.

“Gah.” I couldn’t stop smiling, and I didn’t even try. “Everything he says is so good. Why won’t he show his face? That just makes me want to see it more.”

Laney picked up her phone like the answer was obvious. “Because he’s not as cute as the others. I’ve heard he’s painfully skinny and has red hair.”

It felt like a backhand.

Because I had red hair. Bright red hair.

She heard it a second after she said it. “I mean, I love red hair on you,” she backpedaled. “But not everyone can pull it off.” She waved her hand lazily. “You know what I mean.” Then she went back to scrolling.

Laney did that sometimes—said things that sliced and then quickly took them back.

Almost like a lawyer tossing out a pointed comment, then asking to strike it from the record.

But the damage was done. Laney blamed it on her ADHD, which I wasn’t sure she even had.

I was pretty sure she used it as an excuse to say whatever she wanted.

But I told myself it was our last sleepover. I should drop it and just have fun.

“Look at this.” She pointed to another reel. “Elias keeps posting brainrot.” There was an edge of insecurity in her voice that told me I’d better be ready to pad her ego.

She restarted the video for me. It began with a black background and the caption: She says we’re just friends. Then the subway surfer guy burst onto the screen, running 200 miles an hour. Another comment popped up at the top of the video: So why am I locked in?

Laney glanced at me, mouth hanging open. That was my cue.

“He’s so talking about you!”

She batted her lashes. “You think?”

I grinned. “Totally.”

But then she studied my face, and her forehead furrowed slightly. “I don’t know, maybe.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Laney thought she needed a nose job. Talked about it incessantly. “I wish I were as pretty as you.”

I groaned inwardly.

“You’re prettier than me.” I swallowed. “I love your warm brown eyes and your cheekbones.” I made the chef’s kiss gesture. But my stomach curdled.