“More open to manipulate you,” I counter. “Let me be your buffer.”

“I don’t need a buffer. I can handle her. Trust me, please.”

“Marina, it’s not that I don’t trust you. This is fucked up. I’m worried about you.”

“I know,” she smiles weakly. “Me, too. I’m overrun with big feelings and don’t know where to land. Should I be angry at her? Sad that I’ve missed seven years with my sister? Judgy and pissed that she keeps having kids when she couldn’t even finish her job with me? Tell me, Grady. How am I supposed to be?”

“I don’t know. Cautious, for one thing. Not nice.” My hands run up and down her arms—none of those options sound like her. “What do you want to be, Marina? How do you want to feel?”

“Happy.” She chokes on a sigh. “I’m in love. I’m strong and free; nothing she can do will break me, even if she tries. I might have a chance at a family again.” She falls into my arms, landing exactly where she belongs. “I’m just having a moment, Grady.”

“Just? This feels like more than a moment. But take as many as you need.”

Still latched on, she peers up at me, her bright blues even brighter somehow. “I love you. But I’m asking you, politely, to back the hell off. You said I could do that, remember?”

“Marina,” I breathe, ready to argue.

But she presses her head to my chest. “I refused her once. I can’t do it again.” Her words muffle against my shirt. “She’s my mom. I have a sister. Please, Grady.”

I fucking hate this. I don’t trust Leonie not to bulldoze through Marina’s life and break her heart again. I also know Marina’s too good-hearted to stop her. Her pushing me out feels even worse.

But she wants me to go, and I can’t refuse her anything.

“Fine, but here’s what’s going to happen. Come to my place for dinner tonight. All of you. I promise to behave, make it nice. It’ll help us get to know each other.”

Her soft smile makes me feel slightly better. “Okay, that’s a good idea.”

I leave after a lingering kiss that I don’t want to end.

42. Marnie

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Marnie

Mom cuts my hair. An hour into our visit, she says, “You have wicked dead ends, sweetie. Let me take care of that for you,” and, perhaps needing her attention, I can’t resist. She gets her kit from the car. We scoot a chair out from the kitchen table, and she makes the sunlight flicker when she flips out her signature leopard-print cape. It’s just like the old days.

She fingers Grady’s braid loose, fanning my locks and scrutinizing them. “So, what happened to the Sullivan you were supposed to marry?”