CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
GRANT
A fter another private jet ride to Martha’s Vineyard and a quiet ride with my family’s driver, Lina and I have made it to The Atlantis.
Over my lifetime, I’ve become immune to these kinds of luxuries. It’s only Lina’s second time arriving with me, so she looks just as awestruck as the first time.
Except this time around, the house is decorated to the nines for Abby’s baby shower.
There are pastel streamers woven through the porch railings, little wooden storks staked into the front lawn, and a welcome sign that says ‘ She’s Almost Here!’ in glittery gold script. Claire definitely had a hand in that.
Lina stands next to me in silence, taking it all in. Her fingers curl around the strap of her overnight bag. “This is a bit over the top. Don’t you think?” she asks with a smile.
“Oh, just wait until you see inside.” I don’t even have to be in the house to know what kind of extravagance Claire has been planning.
Now, Lina looks even more eager to get in the house, already jogging down the cobblestone path and up the stairs of the wrap- around porch. She waits for me by the front door, and right as I meet her there, I hear the voices in the entryway.
It’s been so long since my sisters and I have all been together at The Atlantis for something other than the anniversary of Mom’s death. And while this is still in part for that occasion, it’s become something more.
Four years ago tomorrow was the worst day of my life. And somehow, it feels almost poetic in a way—like light pouring into a crack instead of widening the break.
We’re commemorating the day of losing our mom’s life with the arrival of a new one. Somehow, we’ve folded the cards we were dealt into something sweeter. Something survivable. Bringing a new life into the family is a monumentally happy moment. One I know Mom would be ecstatic about.
It also goes to prove that Abby didn’t just survive the loss. She made something worth living for.
“They’re here!” Claire’s voice breaks through the noise of my mind as she flings open one side of the wooden double door.
If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed Claire and Abby were Lina’s sisters instead of mine. They rip her inside the house and into one big hug between them. Truly, it’s straight out of a movie.
And despite the surprised yelp Lina lets out at first, the smile that lights up her face makes me feel as if something is being revived in her—like it’s always been there, just buried beneath the surface for some time.
“Guess I’m chopped liver,” I mutter from behind while my sisters drag Lina further into the house.
It’s only once we’re all in the same room that I realize something is different.
Abby—her hair. It’s brown now. Rich, glossy, and natural. It shouldn’t feel significant, except she and Claire have been dyeing their hair the exact same shade of champagne blonde since middle school. It was like some pact they made—always matching, always a team.
But now, she’s let the color go since she got pregnant. Seeing her like this throws me. It’s such a small thing, and yet it makes her feel older. Like she’s already halfway to becoming someone’s mom.
‘That’s because she is,’ I have to continually remind myself.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Abby asks, still guiding her by the shoulders in a very maternal way.
“Yeah. We came here for Christmas.”
“Perfect, so you already know your way around!”
In the kitchen there’s a huge pink, white, and gold balloon garland, and a lot more over-the-top decorations of the same colors that I don’t take much notice of in the same way Abby and Claire would.
Still, I can admit it looks beautiful and very Abby.
Claire disappears into the pantry, yelling something about frosting colors. At the same time, I notice Abby move a hand to her back, which makes me pull out one of the dining room tables.
“Why don’t you sit, Abs?” I suggest, and she almost immediately smacks my hand away. Still, she takes the seat.
“Don’t start treating me like an ice sculpture, or else I’ll revoke your baby shower invite,” she warns with a pointed finger. “Pregnancy is only a sympathy card when I want it to be.”
I hold up both hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Noted. No touching the sculpture.”
Lina laughs softly, and when I glance at her, she’s watching me with that look she only ever gives when we’re around other people—there’s something impossibly gentle about it. Like it’s just for me.
Abby turns her attention back to the gift baskets Claire left on the table, and I cross the kitchen to Lina. She’s running her fingers over the garland, clearly amused, probably wondering if it was purchased or handmade. It’s definitely the latter—Claire is psychotic about details.
I step in close, dropping my hand to her lower back, my hand grazing where her sweatshirt meets her sweatpants. “So,” I murmur, “are you ready to spend an entire weekend pretending you’re not the favorite?”
She snorts. “They hugged me before you. That has to sting.”
“Cut me deep,” I say, mock-pained, and she gives me a sly smile that tells me she knows she has the upper hand. She always does.
“Evangelina,” Abby calls before pausing.
“Can I call you that?” When Lina nods, she continues, “Good. Because I’m actually sort of offended that it’s your name.
Evangelina Vandenberg? Are you kidding? It’s perfect.
But now I can’t use it because you exist and you’re perfect and charming and would totally outshine my daughter. ”
“Evangelina Vandenberg is good. You should use it,” Lina tells her, sounding honest. “Having a baby named after me would be awesome. ”
It makes me cringe. Evangelina Everhart is the only Evangelina I want in my life. When there is an Evangelina Vanderberg, it will be her .
“I can’t! That’s your name.”
“No, it’s not. Vandenberg’s not my last name.”
“Maybe not now …” Claire muses suggestively as she emerges from the pantry.
A wary look passes Lina’s face. She doesn’t look necessarily uncomfortable—she rarely does—just a bit caught off guard. It’s to be expected when your boyfriend of a month’s sisters begin suggesting marriage.
“Woah,” I say, before Lina can say anything, giving her side a light squeeze. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, ladies .”
“I’m not saying I’m scared,” she murmurs under her breath, just for me. “But I might need a drink before this baby shower even starts.”
“You and me both.”
Lina’s fingers sneak into the hem of my sweatshirt, her nails grazing just enough to send a chill up my spine. I glance down at her, but she’s pretending not to notice the effect she has on me.
I lean down close to her ear, whispering gravely, “Stop trying to get my cock hard when people are around.”
All she does is giggle under her breath because she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Showing Lina how good sex could actually be has turned her into a menace. She loves riling me when there’s nothing I can do about it, except recount as many documentary facts as I can in my head to stop myself from getting a raging hard-on.
But even then, my chest warms—and despite how she drives me crazy—it fills me with pride knowing she’s finding confidence in the one thing that made her feel small.
Out the dining room’s picture window, the sun is starting to set. It’s the only indicator I’ve had of what time it is since we got on the plane. I’ve been too distracted to check.
“There will be a mimosa bar tomorrow!” Abby says cheerfully.
Lina and I both give her the same skeptical look before I say, “You sound far too happy about that for someone who can’t even enjoy said mimosa bar.”
She stands from her chair, walking to grab a glass water bottle from the fridge. “That’s because I’m going to enjoy you being disgustingly hungover.”
“Well, then I should probably make it an early night in preparation,” I say with a hint of sarcasm, already heading for the staircase. Lina says a quick goodnight to the girls before following behind me.
“You owe us back scratches! Don’t forget!” Claire calls after us.
“I know you won’t let me.” That’s the other reason I’m trying to get upstairs earlier than usual. I’m hoping Lina will already be drifting asleep by the time my sisters come barreling in, demanding my attention.
“Same room as last time?” Lina asks once we make it to the landing at the top of the stairs.
“You know where it is.” I let her go ahead of me, watching her hand graze the railing, almost like she’s committing every inch of this house to memory.
With her brain, I’m sure she already has.
It makes my chest tighten with a certain type of admiration, seeing how Lina loves this house in nearly the same way I remember my mom loving it.
The hallway is quiet and smells like Abby’s favorite linen spray. It’s the smell that coats nearly every memory of my childhood home. The door swings open to the room that looks the same as it had in December. Except this time, Lina’s not starting in a guest bedroom and creeping in later on.
She must know it too because she kicks off her shoes, quickly strips out of her sweats, and flops down on the center of the bed.
“I brought my new melatonin gummies,” she tells me, her voice muffled against the comforter.
They’re something new she’s been trying. From what she’s alluded to, I think she’s starting to fear the idea of becoming entirely dependent on me, wanting to try something else that could help her sleep.
I don’t mind. I’ve never wanted Lina attached to me purely out of dependency. We’re our own people, and if she needs to do this for her own peace of mind and security, I’m going to encourage it.
“Did you take one yet?” I ask, peeling my hoodie over my head and throwing it on the armchair in the corner of the room.
She shakes her head. “Could you grab one for me? The bottle’s in the side pocket of my duffel.”
I find it quickly, doling two onto my hand before kneeling on the bed in front of her. She sits up to take them, chewing them up as I plant kisses along her jaw and down her neck, feeling her throat bob when she swallows.
“You want music?” Sometimes I toss on some instrumental songs to give her brain something else to focus on, rather than the daunting idea of falling asleep.
Tonight, though, sleep is already swimming lightly behind her eyes.
“No. Just talk to me.”
It’s easy for me to comply. We both fall back against the bed, and while she lies looking up at the ceiling, I’m on my side, splaying a hand over her bare stomach while I watch the way her chest rises and falls with each of my words.
I talk about stupid stuff—off-season football training, different meals Braxton has been trying to learn to cook, how Abby has been swearing by prenatal yoga but hasn’t gone in weeks. I talk until her hand falls to her stomach, resting on top of mine.
She lifts my hand for a second, examining the tattoos scattered across my hand and wrist. One of her fingers traces the blue wren—the one I got for my mom and told her about the first time I brought her here.
A few minutes after she lays our hands back down, it goes completely quiet. Her breaths slow, each one a warm gust across my skin. I lie there for a long time, tracing the line of her spine when she rolls onto her stomach.
When she’s fully asleep, I press my mouth to her hairline, closing my eyes and hoping sleep comes easily—because the longer I stay awake, the more I don’t want to go to sleep because of how big this moment feels.
Big enough that it makes me think I want to do this forever with her, in the same way my sisters were suggesting in the kitchen earlier.