Chapter 4
SAM
Becca slams the door shut, and it hits like a gunshot to my chest.
I stand there for a moment, stunned. Then I start pacing her friend’s porch like a damn idiot, hands clenched at my sides, trying not to lose it. She wouldn’t come home with me. Said my house, not our house. Like I’d already lost her.
I don’t know what the hell I expected. Angry, sure. But this? Never.
Eventually, I head back to my truck. I reach under the passenger seat and grab the small black backpack. Becca always thinks ahead, just in case.
“Can you just keep this in your truck?” she says, tossing me a backpack. “It’s got a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and protein bars. You never know when you’ll need something.”
“What would we need this for?” I ask, laughing as I shove it under the seat.
“Food emergencies. Breath emergencies. Maybe a spontaneous road trip where I don’t want to smell like old fries.” She wraps her arms around my neck then, playful and close, eyes dancing.
“You didn’t pack extra panties in there, did you?” I tease.
“Why would I—” she starts, but her voice has already hitched.
“Because I plan on making a mess of the pair you're wearing,” I whisper, lifting her into the backseat.
She gasps. And laughs. And kisses me like she always does, like I’m hers, like we are forever.
Now that memory feels like a punch to the gut.
I set the backpack on Mack’s front step, under the camera.
She’ll see it. She’ll give it to her. I don’t knock.
I can’t stomach the idea of Becca looking at me like I’m someone she doesn’t recognize anymore.
And then I leave, driving away from my wife for the first time in four years.
God, I don’t want this to become a habit.
I grip the steering wheel harder than necessary and start replaying the party on a loop in my head, my knuckles turning white. The stupid things I said. The worse things I didn’t say.
I should’ve told her about the money before tonight. I meant to. But every time I tried, I pictured the look she’s wearing now and sharp, disappointed silence. I knew she’d say no. I knew she’d ask detailed business questions Holly couldn’t answer. And I didn’t want to put my sister through that.
Becca’s focused. Relentless. She builds five-year plans for fun and schedules sex around loan payoff dates. And I love that about her. But Holly? Holly’s different.
I watched her learn to walk again at fifteen. I watched her cry when she couldn’t hold a spoon right. People in town wrote her off, but she clawed her way back. And yeah, maybe she’s never had to push herself like Becca has. But dammit, she still tries.
She should have never even gotten in that accident. If she hadn't been out late with Mandy after my football game, she wouldn't have lost a year of high school.
After the accident, we all babied her. It wasn’t fair, but it became the default. And when she looked at me and said, “Please, I believe in this.” I just … I wanted to believe in her too.
Is that such a crime?
But I keep coming back to what Becca said: Teams make decisions together.
I wake up with a punishment-like hangover and a couch-induced crick in my neck. The discounted leftover gin from Becca's Zentrology drink seemed like a good idea last night. This morning, I’m just adding it to a list of recent bad decisions.
I make it halfway through a cup of strong coffee before my phone buzzes with a text from Rick.
Rick
Good seeing you last night. Let’s catch up about the reno deal. Swing by if you’ve got time this morning.
I almost ignore it, but I don’t. Instead, I find myself pulling into his driveway less than an hour later.
Rick Saunder’s place looks like a magazine cover.
It features steel, glass, and concrete. There’s a Tesla in the driveway and a cigar ashtray by the door that costs more than my first truck.
I knock once and let myself in, because that’s how Rick likes to operate with his partners: boundaries optional.
“Sammy!” He grins, slapping me on the back and handing me a black coffee from his Jura machine like we’re frat brothers.
He launches into chatter about the buildout for the salon, how he knows a guy who can do luxury marble tile for cheap, and another guy for Instagram ads.
“This thing’s going to print money, I’m telling you. ”
I nod along. The unease in my gut that started last night is still there. But hearing Rick's confidence in the plan strengthens my resolve.
Sure, I may be biased when it comes to Holly, but Rick is a successful property developer.
He has been extremely successful in Portland.
I have looked up some of his past projects, and it’s clear this guy has a knack for finding gold.
If he sees potential with Holly's salon, I know it’s the right move.
Rick leans against the counter and narrows his eyes. “You didn’t tell Becca about the investment, did you?”
I tense. “No. She found out last night.”
He smirks. “And let me guess, she’s pissed?”
“She left.”
Rick shrugs. “That’s the price of leadership, man. You can’t build empires if you’re stopping to get permission at every step.”
I flinch. Rick says it like I won something. Meanwhile, my wife just walked out the door.
“She sounds like a smart girl,” he continues. “But sometimes women like that … they don’t get it until the money’s in the bank. They're too cautious. That isn't a bad thing. But you, you’ve got vision. You’ve got hustle. And you’re backing your family; there’s no shame in that.”
The words land the way they always do with Rick: smooth and convincing.
I want to believe him. I want to think I’m doing the right thing. But somewhere under the buzz of his voice, I hear Becca’s laugh, low, knowing, and unamused.
Back at home, I hear a car pull in. Mack’s dropping Becca off. She enters the code and walks in, dropping her backpack by the door. She's in the emergency clothes she had packed, a sensible long-sleeve and leggings.
“Thanks for leaving the bag,” she says quietly.
“You’re welcome,” I grunt. “Ready to talk some more?”
She hesitates. “Sure. Give me a minute to shower.”
Twenty minutes later, she walks out with a duffel and a carry-on suitcase she bought on discount but never got to use. My blood runs cold. The memory of her buying that hits me like a truck.
"Sam, look at this carry-on I got for our trip to Palm Springs next month, sixty-five percent off!" Becca beams excitedly at the new deep green bag.
I smile at her and feel some instant guilt about ruining it. "About the trip …"
Her face falls.
"I was at Mom and Dad's last weekend during your catering shift, and Mandy was there for dinner too. She pulled me aside and reminded me that the weekend we are going to Palm Springs is the fifteen-year anniversary of Holly's accident."
Becca nods, urging me to continue.
"Mandy said that Holly's been off all week. She usually doesn't make a big deal out of it, Bec, but when I asked her later how she was feeling about it she shrugged and said ‘It's weird, fifteen years since the accident, since I was fifteen, really. I thought I would be somewhere by now, but instead I feel like that same girl sometimes … I don’t know. It’s stupid.’’
"You see, Becs, she needs me."
Becca eyes me softly. "Sounds like she feels stuck."
"Exactly," I say, relieved that she gets it. "Besides, we are getting closer to our goal, money we don't need to spend on fancy places to eat and hotels."
Becca pauses, her smile a little forced. "Good thing I got the trip insurance, just in case this happened."
That was a year ago, and she never did get to use that carry-on luggage, until now, leaving our home. The guilt at the thought makes my tone come out harsher than I mean.
“What the hell is this? I thought we were going to talk?”
“Sure. But our problem is bigger than one conversation. I’m not ready to be here. In your house,” she says matter-of-factly.
“It’s our house. You picked the paint colors. You keep the garden alive. This place has your fingerprints all over it,” I point out.
She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe physically. But financially? It’s yours. Isn’t that what you said to Rick? Because you own it, I have nowhere else to go?”
I wince. “I … I meant we’d be okay. You didn’t let me explain.”
“You didn’t try, Sam. You planned the betrayal and hoped I wouldn’t notice.”
“I wasn’t betraying you.”
“You weren’t including me either. In decisions about our hard earned money. Sure, you may have technically put more in there than I did, but I thought it was ours. I would have put it in my own account if I thought you might steal it for your favorite girls."
“I said two of my favorite girls.” But even to myself that excuse sounds pathetic.
She crosses her arms, waiting for me to talk.
I reach for logic, for the thing that will make this make sense, something Becca will understand. “It was an investment. Once Holly pays it back, I’ll be a silent partner. Ten percent of profits going forward. That’s passive income. It helps us get back on track.”
“Did you just mansplain passive income to me? Me, the woman who manages passive income for actual clients?” Her eyes flash.
I boil over. “Well, considering your family’s financial genius, forgive me for assuming—”
She recoils like I struck her. “So my background is fair game now?”
I try to walk it back. “Becca, I didn’t mean—”
“No. You did. It’s only money, right? It’s not like I built our budget spreadsheet from scratch. Or read every damn book on that shelf. Or figured out how to get us from twenty-five bucks in savings to seventy-five thousand in four years.”
“I thought those were all romance novels. With perfect heroines and unrealistic heroes,” I hedge, reaching for humor.
“Oh, believe me,” she spits, “I know those men are fictional.”
I throw my hands up. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“No, Sam. I’m seeing it clearly for the first time. You think I’m being dramatic. You think I’m controlling. You think I don’t know anything because I don’t swing a hammer for a living.”
“That’s not true.”
“But Holly, with no plan, no projections, no clue—she gets your belief. She gets our money.”
My expression hardens. “Don’t talk about my sister like that.”
“I didn’t. I talked about her business.”
“Mandy’s more the business mind behind this,” I say, realizing how weak it sounds.
Becca raises her eyebrows, crossing her arms. “Mandy?
The same Mandy who has never owned a business or managed a team?
The one whose longest job was being a beer cart girl at the country club before one year answering phones at a salon?
" She lets that sink in before driving the knife in deeper.
“This is who you handed our dreams over to?”
I grit my teeth. “Look, Rick thinks it’s a good idea. He is an incredible self-made man in this area and everything he touches turns to gold. He told me himself he thinks Holly and Mandy have potential. That the location’s prime, the setup makes sense, and their vision is strong.”
Becca tilts her head. “An idea? Sure. But with no plan, it’s only a dream, Sam.
Until you gave it wings with dollar signs.
And how exactly is Rick involved? How much money did he put down?
What did Holly invest? What about Mandy?
” She doesn’t even pause for me to answer.
“The answer’s none. They’ve invested zero dollars.
You’re fronting the entire thing, with our savings, and walking away with a generous ten percent?
” She scoffs, “God, it’s like you’re proud to be taken advantage of. ”
I feel my temper flare. “You don’t get it. You’ve always been good with numbers, but you don’t understand what it means to actually believe in someone.”
“I used to.”
She turns to leave, but I call out, desperate. “You need me to build those cabins.”
She pauses with her hand on the door. Looking over her shoulder, she replies, “I did. When I thought I had a partner. Turns out, I had a thief.”
She opens the door, but before she closes it—
“You remember our motto, Sam?” she says, pausing. “Stick to the plan. We always said this when we skipped dinners, turned down vacations, and lived simply to dream big." She swallows hard. “I stuck to the plan. You didn’t.”
Becca slams the door shut, and then I hear her start her engine. I rush outside, reaching for something to say but coming up empty. Before she reverses, she rolls down her window.
“Oh, and about that ten percent equity deal, did you get it in writing?”
I blink.
“If not, great. If you did, you now may be liable if the salon tanks. Perhaps crack open one of those books you like to mock and read up on default clauses.”
Then she’s gone. Again.
And I’m left with a cup of cold coffee and a heart full of regrets. I grab the first book off the shelf. It’s got Post-its and notes in Becca’s handwriting, and I start reading.