Not that I thought the moment could be postponed indefinitely. I always knew it was coming. Rachel is a woman with a plan, and I’m her vacation from reality.

“So you can book tickets home now,” I say. “You must be psyched to get the plan back on track.”

“Uh,” she says. “Yeah.”

“So you go back, you move in with, what’s your friend’s name? Louisa? You go back to your library job? And then, onwards to the awesome boyfriend, right?”

Please, I think. Please don’t.

“Brody,” she repeats.

But just then, a familiar voice says, “Well, well, well,” and I look up to find a gaggle of Wilders and assorted relatives. Gabe, Easton, Lucy, Hanna, Amanda, Heath, the kids, and my mom.

The voice in question, of course, belongs to Amanda.

Rachel blushes wildly. Justin kicks, elated to be surrounded by a pack of his favorite people.

“Look at this picture of domestic bliss,” Amanda teases me. I’m not sure if I want to punch her or hug her.

We exchange a round of warm Wilder greetings and hugs.

Rachel works open the carrier so she can pass Justin around, and various Wilders take him, one by one, and coo in his face.

The world must seem like a really fucking weird place to babies.

But I’ve got bigger worries on my mind. Because hustling up behind my family, hands full of cotton candy, is Connor.

He looks from me to Rachel and back again.

“What the—?”

“Connor,” Rachel and I say, at exactly the same time.

He puts up both hands. “Don’t. Just—save it, okay?” He gives me a look made of laser beams and loathing. “You asshole.” It’s soft and dangerous. His hands are clenched into fists, and for a second, I think he’s going to bury one in my face, phalanx of Wilder backup be damned.

But he doesn’t.

He shoves the cotton candy bouquet into Amanda’s hands, turns, and stalks off.

I shoot an agonized look at Rachel.

“Go,” she says. “I’ve got Justin.”

I go.

33

Brody

“Connor.”

He ignores me.

“Connor!”

He breaks into a run.

I chase him all the way to the parking lot and manage to grab his arm right before he reaches his truck. “Connor. It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?” he demands. “You tell me what I think. You fucking explain to me what I think.”

I take a step back, let his arm drop. “She and I—we—”

He raises both eyebrows. “Oh, Jesus, Brody, what kind of fucking mess have you made?”

It’s a blade between the ribs.

We’re both out of breath from the run, and he’s glaring at me so fiercely that it hurts. In all the years I’ve known Connor, he’s never gotten mad at me like this.

He really, really fucking doesn’t want me with his sister.