by Ember Leigh
“Let’s just stay where it’s easiest,” I finally say.
“My parents,” she says, and then winces. “But they said some of the family will be arriving as of Wednesday. They might not have space.”
“We can go to my mom and dad’s.”
Kinsley nibbles on her bottom lip, nodding at me. “Okay. Let’s just do that.”
“Great.” I kick the van into reverse, backing out of our lakefront parking spot. If it was so great, why did I have a knot in my stomach? “That’ll work out perfectly.”
“Just make sure we get the room we always get,” Kinsley says with a meaningful look. I know what she’s getting at—the bedroom where it all began, connected bathroom with stand-up shower and all.
“Of course. Like I’d let my fiancée suffer with a sub-standard room assignment,” I scoff, holding her hand as I navigate us toward my parents’ house. When we reach the tree-lined subdivision boasting tightly packed homes in various stages of summer repose—some with kayaks propped against the garage door, others with fishing boats stowed in parked trailers—a whoosh of contentment flows through me. I’m home.
There’s nothing more comforting than coming back to the streets where I grew up. We both love Bayshore for so many reasons, but for me, there’s no topping this: the relaxed, lake vibe that can put you in summer mode, no matter how stressed life gets, no matter what’s on the to-do list. And specifically for us, right now, it’s helping me forget the maroon monstrosity I’m driving. The fact that our house rental might be currently filling with sewage. The endless array of possible failures our business might be headed for while we’re unavailable.
I can forget it all while I’m in lake mode.
Mom is halfway out the door by the time I pull into the driveway. I swear she’s got a radar that alerts her whenever one of her sons is within fifty feet of the front door. Kinsley is out of the van first, and Mom sends her a small smile, squeezing the sides of Kinsley’s arms before sweeping toward me. It’s a stark improvement over that first frosty greeting three years ago, when Mom could barely hide her distaste for Kinsley during that trip for Grammy Ethel’s funeral. And though Kinsley has a point that our families might have been secretly hopeful we’d end things in the ensuing years, I’d like to think my mom has come to accept—maybe even like—our pairing.
“There’s my boy,” Mom says as she smashes my cheeks between her hands and inspects my face. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a low bun, and she looks like she’s been baking, based on the flour across the front of her shirt. Then she pulls me into a tight hug, letting out a long sigh.
“How was the trip?” she asked, ushering us both toward the house. “How is the rental house? Are you hungry?”
I lace my fingers through Kinsley’s as we follow her down the stone path leading to the front door. “I could go for a snack,” I admit.
“Always down for snacks,” Kinsley echoes.
“But actually, we had a little snafu with the rental.” Inside, the wooden floorboards and lakeside accoutrements further restore my calm. How can things go wrong when wrapped up in the warm embrace of your childhood home? “There was a sewer issue, so we can’t get in there until Thursday.”
“Oh no.” Mom tuts, rummaging in the fridge as Kinsley and I sit on the stools at the kitchen island. “So what’s the plan? Do you need to stay here?”
“That’s what we were hoping,” I say, reaching for Kinsley’s hand.
“Of course, honey. You know you can stay here whenever you want. As long as you want.” My mom sends us a reassuring smile as she brings over a few blocks of cheese. She grabs a box of crackers before she dives into cutting out bite-size chunks of Monterey jack, aged cheddar, and Port Salut. “No questions asked.”
Kinsley smiles as she reaches for a cheese and cracker combo. “We really appreciate that. I was worried you might have promised the extra rooms to family members coming in from out of town or something.”
“Is that what happened?” Mom’s brows lift, as though the realization is creeping into her. “Honey, our children come first. I would kick Uncle Pat out of the spare room if my Connor needed it. Especially for his wedding week.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to say that—”
“We didn’t even—” I begin at the same time.
“It’s okay. No questions asked.” My mom looks oddly satisfied, and I realize we’ve inadvertently played into the Cabana-Daly rift, even though we were prepared and aware and actively avoiding this. My mom has used this detail as quiet confirmation of the Daly family superiority. We’ve taken one step back.
I steer the conversation to other topics—the state of wedding plans, how the business has been doing, what our honeymoon reservations entail—and by the time we’ve finished the cheese and cracker platter, my mom urges us to go pick a room upstairs and settle in.
We do as we’re told, carting our luggage upstairs to our middle room paradise with the connected bathroom. Kinsley flops back on the bed with a contented sigh. “Home sweet home, for now.”
“First home of about six,” I say with a snort as I compulsively check my email. Just in case something needs my attention.
“Put that phone down, mister,” she warns me. “I can tell you’re checking work email.”
I smirk at her as I pocket it. “How can you tell?”
“You get this very specific look on your face, like you’re waiting to get punched.”
“Fine. You’re right. It’s a hard habit to break, though.”
Kinsley starts to respond but gets interrupted by her own phone ringing. She picks it up swiftly, setting it to speaker phone so she can continue splaying out as she speaks. “Hello, Mother.”
“Hi, honey. Are you in yet? How’s the house?”
“Oh, we had a change of plans already,” she says. I busy myself with opening my suitcase while she talks, though I’m listening to every word. “The house had an emergency so we can’t get in there until Thursday, so we’re at Connor’s parents’ house until then.”
An odd silence fills the room.
“Mom? Are you there?” Kinsley asks.
“Yes, I’m here.” There’s some rustling on the other end of the phone. “Why didn’t you come here? We’d have loved to have you.”
“I know, I just figured that since Aunt Bethany is planning to visit as of Wednesday, that—”
“But we have other rooms,” her mom interjects.
“Yes, but Kestrel said she’s planning on coming home early, too,” Kinsley says. “You guys are gonna have a full house, and we don’t want to get in the way.”
“You’d never be in the way,” her mom says. “And I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“Mom,” Kinsley begins with a sigh.
“You’re the bride,” Lisa goes on. “You should be at your mother’s house.”
Kinsley runs her tongue over her top teeth, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t see why it matters. I wasn’t going to be staying with you anyway.”
“But you’d rather stay over there?”
Kinsley covers her eyes with a hand. “No, Mom. It’s not that. Listen, we made the decision on the fly. It just seemed easiest. Can we leave it at that?”
Lisa lets out a terse sigh. “Fine. When will you be stopping by?”
The two chat a little bit more about logistics that don’t involve sleeping arrangements, and by the time they hang up, Kinsley pushes onto her elbows to pin me with an unamused look.
“Is it too soon to start drinking?”
“Babe, it’s way past five o’clock in Bayshore, which means no. We’re right on time.”
She claps her hands together. “Good. Let’s go to Hi-5’s for a pre-dealing-with-any-parents-again drink.”
And she’s right. We’re thirty minutes into Bayshore and our parents are already proving they don’t plan on making this easy.
Which means that we need to get extra crafty in the coming week.
Chapter 3
&n
bsp; KINSLEY
It’s Tuesday, which marks the very first day of our bona fide wedding week celebration. I should be bubbling over with excitement and good-natured party vibes, but I’m not.
Because really, I’m dreading the moment that the Cabana and Daly heads of household finally convene under one roof.
Connor and I did a good job of divvying up our first day in Bayshore between both families and plenty of recreational lake-gazing. We even took the boat out once for a sunset trip and performed a mock ceremony for only us with the perch as our witnesses. I would have been happy to leave that as the formal wedding ceremony, but I don’t think it’ll hold up in court…though really, I don’t know unless I try.
We’re the first to the party, because we’re technically Annette and Damon’s housemates now. I glide down the staircase in a maroon wraparound dress paired with matching wedge heels and some funky earrings I picked up at a thrift store in San Diego. They’re lightning bolts, which I’m hoping will turn into my secret superpower should the need arise.
Connor is in the hallway when I come downstairs, and his eyes light up when he sees me. “Aww, you match the van,” he tells me, pulling me into a hug.
“Wh—th—” That comment hardly qualifies as a sweet nothing. “Thank you?”
His grin is ear-to-ear as he looks me over. “We should go back upstairs.”
“Family-sized vehicles really turn you on, huh?”
“I’m ready to need a family-sized vehicle with the way your ass looks in this dress,” he says, turning me to the side to get a better look.
I swat his arm. “Guests are going to be arriving soon, so our passenger van roleplay will have to wait until later.” Still, I push up onto my toes and give him a big kiss on the lips. Because how could I not kiss this man at every possible chance? “I love you.”
“Love you too, Sunny-kins,” he says, reaching down to squeeze an ass cheek. He follows me into the kitchen, where I left things in a state of half-preparation earlier. A knock on the front door sounds, which Connor goes to answer while I get back to party preparations. A moment later, I hear the sonorous tones of Hazel’s voice as she greets Connor, followed by Grayson’s spirited tenor. A moment later, we’re all hugging and greeting each other in the kitchen, and Hazel leaps into action.
“I can’t tell you how excited I’ve been for this cocktail party,” she confesses as she slides next to me, immediately getting busy with arranging a half-finished charcuterie board.
“I’m pumped to try these new recipes Grayson claims to be a pro at,” I tell her, dumping olives into a serving bowl for our guest bartender to use.
“Don’t get your hopes too high on that one,” Hazel says in a hushed voice. Her ruby red lips are curved into a mischievous smile. “He’s been practicing, I’ll give him that much.”
“Hey, as long as it contains alcohol, right?”
She peers around the kitchen. “Where are Annette and Damon?”
“I think upstairs getting ready still,” I say, my stomach twisting into the familiar sailor’s knot. And then, my biggest worry rolls off my tongue: “I didn’t tell my parents the party would be at Connor’s parents’ house. I just sent them the address without telling them what it was.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, though, right? They already planned on coming when it was going to be at the rental.”
“Right.” Still, though, it feels like a problem. But maybe it’s just me being paranoid. Anxious. Unnecessarily negative.
“But you’re worried,” Hazel finishes for me.
“Yeah.” I muster a weak laugh. “I know I signed on to this, and I’m committed to seeing it through. I just wonder—”
“Oh, Gray!” Annette’s voice lights up the kitchen, and Hazel snaps on a bright smile. Our conversation is officially dead in the water. I’m not going to utter another word while Annette is in the same room, much less when I’m trying to usher in relaxed cocktail party vibes.
“Hazel! You look beautiful,” Annette coos as she gives Hazel a side hug. Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “And I love that dress Kinsley.”
See, Kins? She’s trying. There’s my voice of reason. The voice eager to reassure me that having arch-nemeses on the same private property after thirty years of hostile avoidance will absolutely end in a positive manner. If she’s trying with you, she’ll try with your parents.
But honestly, it’s not Annette I’m worried about.
It’s good ol’ Mom & Dad Cabana that have me tense and arranging pepperonis on the charcuterie board as if a panel of judges will be involved.
“Thanks, Annette,” I say brightly, trying to remind her how much she’s come to not-hate me over the past three years, as if my smile alone might be enough to anchor me in the upcoming stormy sea that is sure to unmoor her from whatever rosy feelings she might hold for me.
Annette joins the ranks as we get things ready. London and Dom show up, and after a round of hugs, we collectively take a ten-minute break to coo at London’s enormous belly. They just got back from their own honeymoon; their wedding was only last month.
“When are you due?” I ask London, rubbing my palm over the big curve of her belly after she told me I could touch.
“Three more weeks,” she says with a sigh. She’s as sparklingly beautiful as ever, but I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it. I swear this baby weighs twenty pounds already.”
“Five pounds eight ounces,” Dominic corrects quietly at her side. “As of the last OB visit, at least.”
“Didn’t they teach you in medical school not to correct a pregnant lady?” she asks with a wry grin for her husband, and then pushes onto her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.
The rest of the guest list includes Daly family friends, my own parents, and a smattering of old high school friends who are still in the area. Time ticks on. More and more friendly faces enter the house, and Annette and Damon are tucked into the backyard holding cocktails while they chat with guests. And then, the entire guest list has arrived—minus Maverick for work reasons, and Weston and Nova for international reasons…and my parents. I keep watching the front door and checking my phone. When will Mom and Dad get here?
I’ve finished an entire martini by the time my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Mom. I nearly choke on the olive I was biting into and hurry to answer it.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Kinsley.”
“Mom. What’s up? Where are you?”
There’s an unnerving silence, but I can’t tell if it’s because I’m caught in the middle of a conversation between Grayson and Connor about renovation projects, or if there really is an iciness coming through the line.
“Mom?”
“We’re outside,” Mom says, but she doesn’t sound happy. “Can you come out here please?”
“Sure. Of course.” I swipe my phone off and tell Connor where I’m going, then I hurry out the front door. The world outside is starkly different from the happy, buzzing bubble in the Daly house. Out here, I remember there’s an entire world of people not celebrating my upcoming marriage.
And maybe my parents don’t plan to join the bubble.
Mom and Dad are standing on the sidewalk—not technically Daly property. Mom’s got her arms crossed, and Dad’s got his hands stuffed in his pockets, jingling keys.
“What’s wrong? You can come in, you know…” I begin, trying to act as though there’s not been a dark cloud between these families for thirty years.
“You did not tell us this mixer was going to be at Annette’s house,” my mom hisses, as if she’s trying to stay quiet lest the clapboard siding of the Daly house itself can hear her.
“We had to switch it here because of the issues with the rental,” I explain, looking between my parents. They look as grim and stern as if I’d just told them we’d be parachuting to the cocktail party after choosing one finger to cut off with a knife. “I told you, the sewer was backed up or something, an
d we can’t get in until Thursday.”
“We know,” my dad explains, sounding like he’s far past exasperated. “But a little forewarning would have been nice.”
“We knew we’d be seeing them here; we didn’t know we’d be frolicking in their backyard,” Mom adds.
I’m taken aback. “I don’t think frolicking is on the agenda—”
“Hey, guys!” Hazel’s voice cuts through the tense sidewalk discussion. I turn, more grateful than ever to see the brunette bombshell. She glides over to us, practically floating despite the stilettos, a bright smile on her ruby red lips. “You ready to party?”
My mom offers a genuine smile to Hazel, and my dad gives a gruff “Hello.” They’re technically each other’s competition—the two biggest names in realty in Bayshore are Hazel and Cabana—but they each have their faithful clientele and have even helped each other out in the past.
“We’re a little surprised by the venue choice,” my mom says in a way that betrays approximately zero of the tension from ten seconds ago. “But yes, we’re ready.”
There we go. They just needed to get it out of their system.
“It’s a gorgeous party so far,” Hazel enthuses. I could kiss her for being the mediator here. Maybe she knew, and that’s why she came out. “My husband Grayson is mixing the drinks, and he’s getting pretty creative, so you won’t be disappointed.”
My dad grunts as the four of us begin a slow trek toward the front door. Still, I can feel their hesitation as the front door of the Daly house looms closer. Hazel sweeps inside after sending one last encouraging smile our way, and I pause at the screen door with my hand on knob.
“You guys can do this for me, right?”
Mom still looks strained, but she nods. I take a deep breath and open the door, leading the way. Note to self: pretending the resentful stalemate between our families does not exist is not the best way to handle party planning. But it’s too late now. Because Here we are, Dalys…and there’s still five more days of this pre-planned torture ahead of us.