Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Soren
“Are you screening my calls again, Soren Grey Thorn?”
My mother doesn’t wait for a greeting. Not even a passive-aggressive hello. She just launches straight into interrogation mode like I’m on trial and forgot my alibi.
Just like earlier today, I respond with the I-am-too-fucking-busy-for-your-nonsense tone I inherited from my late father—dry, clipped, and barely caffeinated. “Mom, I can’t answer right now.”
“You’re not at the office,” she fires back, already intercepting the first excuse before it even leaves my mouth. “I already spoke to Gretchen. You don’t have a business dinner. No client lunch in another country. Not even your monthly poker game.”
Of course, she called Gretchen. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had my assistant on retainer. I should call HR and try to figure out how to ensure that Gretchen stops infiltrating my personal information to my mother.
“Mom, there are things I don’t tell my assistant,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose like I’m holding back a migraine—or a scream. I can practically hear her flipping open my calendar. “I really have to—”
“The engagement party is this weekend, and you better be here, Soren Gregory Thorn.”
Full name. Middle name. Guilt level: Advanced Placement. Every syllable dipped in disappointment and polished with decades of maternal weaponry.
“Daisy deserves better than a half-assed brother who ignores his family half the time.”
Ouch. Direct hit to the sternum.
“I’m not ignoring anyone,” I lie as smoothly as possible. “I’ve just got . . . plans.”
And I do. Plans to avoid all Thorn family events where I’ll be expected to drink overpriced wine while dodging intrusive questions like, ‘Have you finally worked through your intimacy issues?’ and ‘When will you settle down with a nice girl?’
Spoiler: I’m not. And I won’t. But thanks for the emotional audit.
There’s also the bonus round: “Can I borrow money for a new car?”
Which, again—no. My wallet isn’t a nonprofit organization for the Thorns, and if you want new wheels, maybe consider a job that doesn’t involve ‘manifesting abundance.’
Look, I adore Daisy. Truly. If I could attend just for her and not the full Thorn experience, I’d be there with a gift and a toast and maybe even a monogrammed napkin.
But the rest of my family?
Let’s just say I’d rather get a root canal in front of a live studio audience.
Simply said, I’d take a bullet for Daisy, but I will not endure an entire evening of matching outfits, catered finger foods, and the smell of maple-scented tension just to prove I’m still part of the Thorn family.
Seven years next to a wildly creative, chaos-brained neighbor have taught me something valuable: when you can’t get out of something . . . bend the truth like overworked sourdough.
“Mom, my girlfriend and I already have plans for this weekend,” I say, tone casual. Breezy. So breezy, I should be wearing linen. “We’re going to Napa.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
Then her sigh comes down the line, drenched in vintage disappointment and rosary beads. “Soren. The Lord gives us free will, but he also gives us family. One we don’t get to skip because of wine tastings and casual sex.”
“Mom.” I close my eyes, already regretting this. “I—”
“Your sister is getting married. Do you know how rare that is these days? Real commitment? A church ceremony? A man who prays with her, Soren.”
Here it comes.
“Meanwhile, you’re out gallivanting with some mystery woman and sipping Chardonnay while your soul dries out like California raisins.” She sniffs. “I knew the West would take away the values I painstakingly instilled in you since you were born.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not gallivanting, and it’s not casual sex. I’m very committed . . .” to the lie, I don’t say.
She gasps like I just said mass doesn’t count if you watch it online.
“Your poor grandmother would be weeping if she could hear this.”
She passed away two decades ago, but sure, let’s get Nana involved.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You’ll call me tonight with your arrival details so I can tell the family what to expect,” she finishes.
I hang up before she can loop the Vatican into this call. I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this one . . . or if I can even find a plus one.
Then I look down at my phone and mutter, “Winnifred, you better help me come up with a good lie or something to get me out of my predicament.”
I mean, she owes me, right? After all these years of listening to her, she has to owe me something. At least good advice to fix my problems.
When I come out again, I hear Chad say, “So . . . about that. I’ve been thinking, and I feel like we’re not really . . . compatible long-term.”
He’s been thinking? I went away for like two minutes, and he went from “be my wench, and we’re an epic story” to “we’re not compatible?”
“Is this because I don’t own a sword?” Winnifred asks, her voice feather-light but with just enough crack to make a person feel it.
Chad shakes his head. “No. I mean . . . not just that.”
Not just that. Wow, that’s probably . . . what the fuck is happening?
“I just think you want different things,” he says, shifting in his boots. “I’m more into, like, cosplay and community. You are—” He gestures vaguely, as if she’s an abstract painting he’s only halfway looked at—you’re something else.”
He shrugs like that’s a complete sentence.
Like that explains everything.
I don’t move. Just watch, because I could tell him who she is.
She’s Sunday morning waffles with extra whipped cream and a side of existential crisis.
She’s long walks that turn into detours because she has to stop and take a picture of a tree.
She’s voice notes filled with book recommendations and emotional spoilers.
She’s awkward dancing in her kitchen and crying at Pixar movies she’s already seen a hundred times.
She’s late-night vision boards and big dreams she’s half-convinced herself she doesn’t deserve. She bakes like she’s trying to heal the world—one cupcake at a time. Every batch is a good vibe sent to the world wrapped in buttercream and her signature chaos.
She wants something tangible. Something hers. A little corner of the universe that smells like vanilla and ambition and hope.
And he has no fucking idea.
He can’t see her past the corset he wants her to wear.
Winnifred shifts slightly, the smile on her face clearly held together by nerves and secondhand embarrassment. “So . . . this is a breakup?”
Chad tilts his head like she asked if the sky was blue. “I mean, yeah. Kinda feels like it, right?”
She nods slowly, then says, “Right. Because I won’t wear a corset and sleep in a reenactment tent while birds of prey scream overhead.”
His face softens like he thinks he’s doing her kindness. “You’re great, Freddy. You’re just . . . not really LARP girlfriend material.”
I flinch on her behalf. I don’t think she’s heartbroken, more like she’s invested so much into this fantasy, and now she’s going to have to break it to her family that . . . well, it didn’t work out, and Chelsea will have the best social media posts among the two of them.
She blinks up at him. “Well, you’re not vineyard material.”
I almost gawk at her comeback. It’s so weak. What happened to her fiery wit? She’s probably trying to figure out where to get the lumberjack special so she can convince her mom that she’s better than Chelsea and Ken.
“Totally fair,” Chad says like she just handed him a gold star.
There’s a pause. Long enough to feel the gap between them widen.
Then she clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. “Well. May your goblet always be full or whatever.”
Chad beams like that was a blessing. “Thank you. That’s actually really sweet.”
He turns and walks off—chainmail clinking, cape flapping, no sense of irony in sight.
She stands still on the deck, phone limp in her hand, watching him go. Her shoulders fall just a little like the air’s gone out of her.
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t yell. Just closes her eyes for a second longer than necessary, like she’s rebooting her entire nervous system.
And then she lifts her phone again and mutters, “Guess I need to return the fake robe.”
I stay quiet. Hidden in plain sight.
Because if I say something now, I might tell her the truth. That he wasn’t even in the same league. That she deserves better. That her chaos isn’t the mess—he was.
I just grip the railing, exhale through my nose, and let her have her moment. But then I wonder, what if . . . what if I bring Freddy to Winterberry Cove? Isn’t that what she wanted all along? A ranch, a family—and a vineyard.
What will she say if I propose a little lie?