Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Violet
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house is a weekly ritual, set in stone, and as unbreakable as a commandment. Show up by six, take your shoes off at the door, and brace for small talk with a side of sweet tea.
The porch light is on when I pull up, just like always. Home. Sweet, slightly suffocating home.
I didn’t have a bad upbringing by any means.
Mom was always there, warm and steady, reminding me to slow down when I raced through life.
Dad—proud, demanding, relentless—taught me to work hard, aim high, and never settle, even when I was drowning under the weight of his expectations.
Love wasn’t absent in our house. It was just woven tightly into every meal, every chore, every conversation, and every lecture about ambition.
But sometimes I think that’s the catch. I was loved fiercely, yes, but I was also trained to measure up and anticipate disappointment before it arrived.
Whitley’s sitting in the passenger seat beside me, tapping her fingers on her knee.
She only half jokes about being my human shield, but she knows how much I appreciate the hell out of it.
My dad’s less likely to dig into me with her around.
He’s got a polished version of himself—charming, collected, and perfectly restrained.
When it’s just the two of us, he can’t help but turn the disapproval dial up a little.
My mom always tries to smooth things over. Most of the time, it’s a losing battle.
“You’re quiet,” Whitley says, looping her arm through mine as we walk toward the porch.
“I’m fine,” I lie, even though my insides are still tangled up from last night. “Just…distracted.”
“You’re thinking about him.”
“Nope,” I say, too fast.
She doesn’t press, just gives my arm a quick squeeze as we climb the steps. The screen door creaks open before we even get the chance to knock, and there’s my mom, apron tied around her waist, hair perfectly curled like she’s about to be photographed for a Southern Living cover.
“There y’all are! I was about to send your father out to find you.”
I step inside, and that familiar mix of lemon cleaner and something roasting in the oven wraps around me.
In the living room, sprawled across the leather recliner, is my older brother, Ethan.
His legs are stretched out, ankles crossed on the ottoman, looking both impossibly relaxed and somehow completely out of place in his designer jeans and button-down shirt that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he drawls, lifting his glass in mock salute.
I arch an eyebrow, taking in his smug grin. “I’m surprised to see you. No important meetings or client dinners to prep for?”
Ethan lives two hours away and rarely makes an appearance for Sunday dinner. There’s always some important work thing Dad never questions, because unlike my job, Ethan’s career actually gets his approval.
“Looking very Wall Street,” Whitley comments. “How’s life in the ivory tower?”
He turns his attention to Whitley with a smirk. “The tower’s not that ivory. Just a little beige concrete and a lot of glass.”
That earns him an eye roll. From the moment Whitley and Ethan met, they fell into this sibling-like rhythm, throwing jabs and insults like they’d known each other their whole lives.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, setting my purse down on the side table.
As if summoned by his name, my father appears in the doorway, still in his Sunday church shirt but with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes scan over me, then Whitley, then settle on Ethan with that look of approval he never seems to have for me.
“There you are,” he says, nodding at me before turning to my mom. “Marie, is dinner ready? I’m starving.”
“Yes, yes. Everyone come sit.”
We fall into our usual seats. Dad at the head of the table, Mom to his right, Ethan to his left. Whitley takes the seat beside Ethan, and I settle in beside Mom. Already, I can feel the familiar tension settling in.
“How’s business, son?” Dad asks Ethan.
“Busy, but good. We just landed the Henderson account.”
Dad’s eyes light up. “Bob Henderson?”
“He was impressed with our proposal. Said nobody else came close.”
I reach for my water glass, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
Judging by Dad’s reaction, you’d think Ethan had just solved world hunger.
And maybe, in Dad’s eyes, he kind of has.
Ethan runs a consulting firm that lands high-stakes corporate accounts, and Dad treats it like the pinnacle of achievement, proof that his eldest isn’t just talented but a real-world success story.
“Pass the potatoes, please,” Whitley says, cutting through the love fest like the pro she is.
Mom hands them over with a relieved smile. “How’s the art program going, Whitley? Any exciting events coming up?”
“We’ve got the spring fundraiser next month. Should be our biggest yet.” Whitley serves herself a mountain of potatoes. “Actually, we’re looking for corporate sponsors if Ethan’s interested in some good PR.”
Ethan doesn’t miss a beat. He leans forward and flashes that grin of his that could sell ice to an Eskimo. “Well, if there’s one thing I love more than a tax write-off, it’s my face on a banner.”
Whitley snorts into her napkin, the sound muffled but loud enough to make me crack a smile. “Perfect. I’ll add ‘inflated egos’ to the sponsorship perks.”
Dad clears his throat. “How’s the clinic, Violet?” he asks. “Still thinking you don’t want to go to vet school?”
I freeze for just a beat, my fork hovering midair, just long enough for the silence to thicken.
“I like where I’m at,” I say, the words coming out rehearsed, like they’ve been said a thousand times before…because they have.
Dad hums. “Sure. But you’re smart. You could do more.”
Right on cue. The unspoken you could be more.
Across from me, Whitley offers a soft smile and nudges my ankle under the table, a silent hang in there. Ethan doesn’t say a word, but I recognize his knowing gaze. His version of solidarity. He’s never had to justify a thing in his life, but still, he gets it.
“I am doing more,” I say finally, a little firmer this time. “It just doesn’t come with a white coat or student loans.”
Dad doesn’t argue. Not out loud anyway. But I can see his brain rifling through its mental filing cabinet in real time, already prepping for round two. Constructive concern locked and loaded.
Just as I think we’ve rounded the corner back into safer territory, he sets his fork down with a little too much care. He gives me that casual, measured look he always pulls right before he tosses a grenade into the room.
“Someone mentioned they saw you out at the diner the other night.”
My entire body stills. Whitley pauses mid-chew, eyes wide, and Ethan’s brows creep toward his hairline.
“Yeah,” I say carefully, reaching for my glass. “I grabbed a late bite with someone from high school.”
Dad’s brow lifts. “Rowan Wolfe?”
Boom. There it is.
I don’t say anything right away. There’s no good way to cushion his name in this house, and definitely not coming from me. Mom starts fussing with the napkins, suddenly very interested in folding them into tight little triangles.
“I didn’t realize you two kept in touch,” Dad says, his voice clipped.
“We hadn’t,” I say quietly.
His jaw ticks. “Mm.”
That’s all. One syllable that lands heavier than a slammed door.
The thing is, Dad never knew Rowan. He knew the street he grew up on.
The father who drank away his paychecks and the porch that sagged.
That was enough. In Dad’s eyes, guilt by association came prepackaged with the Wolfe name.
No second chances. Just inherited failure, and I was a disappointment for going anywhere near him.
I shift in my seat. “It was just dinner.”
Rowan never deserved the blame people tried to pin on him. Not when he was just a boy with too much weight on his shoulders, standing tall anyway. A boy who never once asked for pity, only space to breathe.
Yet here we are. Mom’s pretending she didn’t hear a word, Whitley’s reaching for the wine like her life depends on it, and Ethan’s gone strangely, eerily quiet.
So I smile. “Can we not do this tonight?”
Dad picks up his fork again, the sharp scrape of metal against his plate the only response. Subject’s closed. For now.
I shouldn’t let his tone get to me. I’m not fifteen anymore, sneaking out the back door to sit on Rowan’s tailgate, heartsick and stupidly hopeful for just a few more minutes of his company.
I’m twenty-four now. I pay my own bills, fix my own leaky faucets, and I’m building something I’m proud of with my own two hands.
But he says Wolfe like it’s a slur. Like Rowan is just that boy from the trailer park. God, I could scream, but I know how that ends. With silence and tight smiles and Mom asking if I want to take home leftovers as if that’ll fix anything.
So, instead, I swallow a too-big bite, chase it with my wine, and act like I’m not swallowing down a decade of resentment and heartbreak.
“So,” Ethan announces loudly, setting his glass down with a dramatic clink, “I have news.”
Dad looks up, grateful for the change of subject. “Another account?”
“No, Dad. I’m gay.” Ethan says it with such casualness that I almost choke. “Been meaning to tell you all. Again.”
I smirk. I know what Ethan is doing, and I love him to death for it. No, this isn’t news to any of us, but he’s doing it to pull the negative attention away from me.
“Super gay,” Ethan continues, leaning back in his chair with a mischievous grin. “Just thought Sunday dinner needed that reminder.”
Whitley snorts. “Breaking news—water is wet.”
Dad sighs, clearly not taking the bait. Mom’s lips twitch into a smile she’s trying to hide behind her napkin. “Ethan, you know we love you just as you are. You can’t keep using that as a conversation starter every time things get tense.”
“Watch me,” he says, stabbing a piece of roast beef with flair. “It’s very effective.”
“Speaking of effective,” Whitley jumps in, clearly sensing an opportunity to keep steering us away from dangerous waters, “I need to know if you’re bringing anyone to the fundraiser, Ethan. For seating charts.”
“Maybe. There’s this guy—”
“Name?” Mom asks, perking up the way she always does when there’s potential romance in the air.
“Marcus. He’s a lawyer.”
The word “lawyer” is a magic spell, temporarily dispelling the tension. I can practically see Dad’s mental calculations—gay son with a respectable lawyer boyfriend outranks the vet tech daughter who associates with the wrong side of town.
I catch Ethan’s eye and mouth a silent thank you across the table. He winks back.
The conversation shifts to safer topics. Mom’s garden club drama, Dad’s golf game, Ethan’s latest business trip.
I let the words wash over me, nodding and smiling at all the right moments while my mind drifts back to him.