"Can I ring the doorbell now?"

"Wait—no." I reach out, grabbing August's arm just before he can press it, clutching the pie box tighter in my other hand, my eyes still fixed on the brass lion-shaped knocker on my father's front door. "Just a few more seconds."

His house sits at the edge of New Haven in a picturesque neighborhood—a sprawling colonial with a gabled roof, perfectly aligned windows, and crisp white shutters. A sunroom juts out from the left, offering a view of the cove, while the deck in the back overlooks the Long Island Sound.

After flying in early yesterday morning, straight off a long night in the studio and then right into rehearsal, August and I had a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Connecticut the next day, during which I could focus on nothing but his hand on my thigh, fingers tracing patterns across my skin. By the time he pulled up to the house, I hadn't even noticed we'd arrived. I made him wait in the car for fifteen minutes while I nervously fidgeted with the strap of my heels, the stubborn curl of hair that kept sticking out on the right, and the clasp of my clutch that wouldn't close, feeling more anxious than usual about going inside.

Maybe it's because August is here, seeing this part of my life I usually keep locked away, the side of me I never let anyone close enough to see. Or maybe it's the fact that I haven't spoken to my father in two years now, and the memory of him not showing up last year lingers like a heavy cloud overhead. I'm not sure which it is—I just know I'm a little nauseous.

"Mace, we've been standing here for, like, five minutes already. Don't you think it's going to look a little weird if they see us just standing on their porch?" August asks beside me. I peek over at him from the corner of my eye—he's rubbing that crease between his brows, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and a bouquet of flowers clutched in the other. "Also, the last person that walked by was definitely staring at you."

I glance behind me just as a runner slows to a jog on the sidewalk, staring directly at me. The moment we make eye contact, her eyes widen, and she picks up speed, sprinting off.

"Okay, fine, ring the doorbell."

August reaches for the door, and I steal a glance through the small window beside it. Evelyn, my stepmother, approaches—poised as ever. She's in her usual perfectly put-together state—a navy-blue wrap dress cinched neatly at the waist, low nude heels clacking against the hardwoods. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a low bun so tight, just looking at it makes my scalp ache.

It's almost exactly as tight they styled mine for the Grammys—I could barely focus on my speech from the pain. I told Andrea, never again.

Although Evelyn has always been nothing but courteous and polite to me, she still looks like a principal coming to drag me to the office to meet my demise, and my stomach twists.

My gaze drops down to my dress as I smooth a hand over the soft, creamy fabric, noting the delicate scalloped trims and the pin-tucked midi skirt that flares out with clusters of bright, colorful flowers blooming at the hem. It has small cutouts at the waist and a lace-up back, and I paired it with strappy heels and a light blue clutch. But suddenly, I feel like I should've chosen something less playful, something more... Evelyn-appropriate.

The door swings open, and my head snaps up to see Evelyn standing there.

"Maisie," she greets me with that same tight smile she gives every year. I still can't tell if that's just her default or if it's because she found out about me one random fall day fifteen years ago. Maybe I'd smile like that, too, if I discovered my husband had an illegitimate child he failed to mention. "You're here."

"Yes, hi," I say, forcing out my best smile. "We've made it."

Her eyes flick over to August. "And you brought a friend?"

"I—yes, my boyfriend, August," I say quickly, watching as her face tilts slightly, confused. "I'm sorry, I thought my manager had let my dad know he'd be joining me."

Another tight smile. "Your father must've forgotten to mention that little detail." But when she turns to August, it softens, brightening into something a little sweeter. I watch as she extends her hand to him. "Evelyn Thomas."

"Hi, nice to meet you, Mrs. Thomas," August replies, shaking her hand with a boyish smile. One I've only ever seen him use for when he's talking to his grandmother or helping an elderly woman reach a can on the top shelf at the grocery store—and apparently now when meeting his fake girlfriend's stepmother for the first time. "Sorry for any confusion. It was last minute on my part. Thank you for having me on such short notice. These are for you."

He hands her the bouquet he insisted on buying on the way over, claiming everyone loves flowers.

I had rolled my eyes, trying to hide behind the eagle-shaped Memorial Day balloon display at Stop & Shop to avoid the group of teenagers I knew would've tried to stop me for pictures, muttering to August, I'm pretty sure she'd prefer a bouquet of scalpels, scissors, and forceps.

He smirked and then proceeded to pick out the most obnoxious bunch of pink carnations and the priciest bottle of red wine he could find.

"How lovely," Evelyn murmurs, her lip pulling into a bashful smile as she buries her nose in the bouquet. I blink, slightly stunned at how easily August has managed to make her smile like that. I didn't think that was possible.

"Please, come in," she says, stepping aside to let us through into the foyer of their house. August gestures for me to go first with a sweeping hand motion, and I mouth kiss ass as I walk past. He smirks.

"August and I also brought a pie. Spiced blackberry with a braided lattice crust." I say it exactly like Lucy coached me to, telling me, If August doesn't win her over, my braided lattice crust definitely will. "His sister made it special from the bakery she works at in Boston."

"Well, isn't that nice," she says, taking the brown pie box from my hands and glancing back up at me with a smile. "I'll just put these flowers in water and check on dinner. Why don't you two head to the sitting room? Your father's not here yet, but Bridget should be arriving any minute."

She gestures to the room just off the foyer, but I hesitate, glancing toward the sitting room before quickly turning back to her. "Oh, um, are you sure you don't need any help? August really knows his way around a kitchen."

"That's alright. The food's just warming on the stove." She's already taking a step back, and I feel the urge to follow her into the kitchen anyway—anything to avoid sitting in that room.

"Okay, but if–"

"There's a bottle opener on the bar cart by the piano if you want to open that wine," she says, nodding toward the bottle in August's hands before slipping out of the room.

When she disappears through the doorway, August smirks down at me. "I know my way around a kitchen, huh?"

I glance up at him, biting the corner of my lip, mumbling, "You make really good breakfast pasta," before reluctantly leading him into the sitting room.

It's beautiful, really—the way the sun reflects off the ocean in the distance, making the whole room shimmer. The old walnut floors, the antique chandelier hanging in the center, the grand piano angled perfectly in front of the picture windows. It looks like Martha Stewart lives here—I hate it.

I head straight for the bar cart at the other end of the room, deliberately avoiding the fireplace mantle and the display of framed family photos on it—none of which include me—hoping maybe that if I ignore them, August will too. I grab the wine opener and pull out two glasses from the bottom rack, but when I turn to hand August the opener, he's already busy looking around.

"Nice piano," he says, walking toward the grand Steinway, its polished surface gleaming, the lid and fallboard closed. It's topped with some artificial arrangement of greenery instead. "Have you played it?"

"No."

"Looks old."

"It is," I say, a little tightly. I know it's old because I googled it the first time I came here for dinner. It's worth at least a hundred grand. "It belonged to some great-great-grandparent or something. An old family heirloom passed down."

"And you've never played it?"

I shake my head and hold out the wine opener. "Can you open the wine, please?"

He walks over, taking the wine opener from me to open the bottle. His forearms flex and release, flex and release as he twists the corkscrew in and looks around the room. When the cork pops free with a soft thwup, he pours the wine into two glasses, and as I settle on the couch, he starts ambling around, glass in hand.

I don't want him wandering around, looking at everything so closely. I want him to sit here with me, keep his eyes shut tight until we leave. Just being in this house already sets me on edge, but what really twists the knot in my chest is the thought of August standing in front of that row of family photos.

Those pictures on the mantle—the ones of my father's family. He and Evelyn, smiling proudly next to eighteen-year-old Bridget at her high school graduation. The two of them dressed as doctors for Halloween one year, stethoscopes draped around their necks. Evelyn and my dad holding up gingerbread houses they made one Christmas, a tree twinkling behind them in this very living room. Photos with grandparents I've never met but must be mine, judging by how much we all look alike. A whole life I was never part of. A life I was never invited into.

"August, sit with me," I say, trying to pull him away from the fireplace, but he ignores me, leaning closer to examine one.

"Is this your dad?" he asks. It's not really a question—anyone could tell. We have the same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same tilt of our full lips. The resemblance is obvious.

"August," I urge, watching as he picks up the ornate wooden picture frame. It's the one from Bridget's eleventh birthday—her grinning in front of her cake, my father and Evelyn beaming right next to her. The same photo I had found when I was sixteen.

I had picked it up, and it felt like the ground gave way beneath me, like everything I thought I knew had been a lie, and I was staring into some alternate universe—one where my father had chosen me and Mom. A life that should've been mine but had somehow slipped through my fingers.

That was the day I realized it wasn't that my dad didn't want to be a father like I'd convinced myself for so long—he just didn't want to be mine.

I remember staring at that picture for what felt like a really long time, fighting the urge to fall apart. Instead, I sat there with his family, plastering on the best smile I could manage before crying the moment I got into my car. When I walked through the door late that night, Mom was waiting, her face full of hope despite how sick she looked from the chemo. The last thing I wanted was for her to worry about me, so I lied. I said it was great, that we had a wonderful time.

I buried everything deep inside, tucked right next to where my feelings for August now stay hidden, so no one would ever know what really happened. I never told her the truth. I've never told anyone.

August turns toward me, holding the picture out, tilting it slightly for me to see as if asking a silent question. I quickly look away, not wanting to see the frown tilting at the corners of his lips, the sympathetic look I know is in his eyes. I don't need him to feel sorry for me, to pity me.

"Maisie—" he rasps out, but whatever he is about to say is cut off by the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.

I stand abruptly, snatching the frame from his hand and setting it back on the mantel. When I turn, he's studying me with those eyes—the ones that are silently asking, why didn't you tell me? Just as I open my mouth, a voice from behind cuts through the room.

"Maisie."

I twist to see my stepsister, Bridget, beaming at me before she clears her throat and rolls her lips together like she's trying to reel in her excitement. She's like a younger version of her mother, minus all the intimidation—the same light brown hair, those hazel eyes.

"Hi. Sorry, I'm late." She sounds a little out of breath, her black dress slightly askew, like she rushed over as fast as she could. "The hospital was just, uh... It's good to see you—wow, I, um, love your dress."

"Oh, thank you," I say, glancing down at it just as Bridget takes a small step forward like she might go for a hug but then hesitates and turns her attention to August instead.

"August," she says, her smile widening. "I didn't realize you'd be here too. It's been a while, hasn't it? Since, what, that year I ran into you two at Grendel's?"

There was that one year I visited August during his last semester at Boston College. We went out to some bar in Cambridge, Bridget happened to be there, celebrating a friend's birthday. She had been studying at Harvard Medical School, just down the street, and I'd introduced them before spending the rest of the night trying to convince August to leave.

"A long time, yeah." August smiles, reaching for the bottle of wine. "It's good to see you too. Wine?"

"Please. And now you two are dating," Bridget continues. She tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, glancing between us. "That's incredible. You were always so close, right? I kind of suspected maybe something was going on."

"Suspected something?" August echoes, a wry smile playing on his lips.

"Well, I don't know... the way you guys looked at each other that one time at that bar."

August hums as if thinking about it, and I huff, sinking back into the couch as my face flushes. I try to think back to that night. Sure, maybe I'd looked at him like an idiot a few times, but I can't recall him ever looking at me long enough for anyone to notice something like that.

I take a long sip of my wine as August pours Bridget a glass and hands it to her.

"Thank you," she says to August before settling onto the opposite end of the couch, turning toward me. "Is my mom in the kitchen?"

I nod. "Yeah, she was checking on dinner, I think."

"And Dad?" she asks. It's always strange hearing Bridget call him that—Dad. I know her father passed away when she was very young, and mine stepped in to fill the void, but I don't even call him that. Richard is the name I call him. Richard was the name he told me I could call him. "Is he here yet?"

I stare down into my wine glass, swirling it around. "Uh, no. Not yet."

Her eyebrows pull together in slight confusion as she glances at the time on her phone, but she brushes it off just as the front door swings open again.

I think we all expected to see my father when we turned toward the doorway. But instead, a blonde man is standing there with messy, combed-back hair. He's wearing slacks and a button-up shirt, his tie slightly crooked at the neck, and round glasses perched on his nose. He somehow looks even more disheveled than Bridget when she came in.

Bridget shoots up from her seat. "Daniel."

"Hi, sorry I'm late," he murmurs, pushing his glasses up his nose and adjusting the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Bridget hurries over, and I can just make out their hushed exchange as she straightens out his tie—something about I thought you couldn't make it and It was important to you, so I came.

I'm trying to piece together who this guy is when I feel August's finger lightly trace the strap of my dress where it meets my shoulder. His voice is low, almost a whisper, "You okay?"

I glance up, whispering back, "I'm fine."

But the seriousness in his face—the hard set of his jaw, the way his eyes are still boring into mine—tells me he doesn't believe it for a second, and I have to look away.

"I, um, I'd like to introduce you guys to my boyfriend, Daniel," Bridget says, pulling all of our attention as she steps into the middle of the room, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. Her eyes flick from me to Daniel, who's moving from the doorway toward the bar cart across the room. I watch as he plops his messenger bag to the floor, grabs one of the glass decanters filled with amber liquid, and pours himself a whiskey.

And all I can think is, this guy is more comfortable here than I've ever been inside this house. Walking in without knocking, helping himself to whiskey without anyone offering. I don't think I've even used the bathroom here without asking where it was first.

"Daniel, this is August, um, my sister—well, my stepsister's boyfriend." Daniel shakes August's hand before turning toward me. I stand as Bridget hesitates for a second and then continues, "And this is my stepsister, um, Ma—"

"Sorry I'm so late," Daniel cuts in, pushing up his glasses again. "Depositions ran over—some issue with court filings. When do they not have that problem, though?" He lets out a snorty laugh, and I smile back, pretending like I have the slightest idea what a deposition is.

God, am I going to have to start watching Suits now, too, on top of Grey's Anatomy, just to keep up with all these terms? Aren't I?

"Nice to meet you, Daniel," I say, reaching out as he takes my hand. He gives it two firm shakes, then pauses, tilting his head, his eyes narrowing like he's trying to place me.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look just like that one singer?"

I huff out a laugh, thinking he must be joking. Because surely, Bridget's told him that Maisie Rhodes is her distant, overlooked stepsister. But the way he takes a slow sip of his whiskey, waiting for an actual answer, makes it clear he's not.

"Daniel," Bridget says through a forced smile, whose face has now turned a deep shade of red.

"You know," he continues when I don't answer, "that overrated one everyone's so obsessed with these days."

"Oh my god," Bridget mutters under her breath as August snorts, quickly pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to stop the wine from spilling out. I press my lips together against a smile as I nudge him with my elbow. He chokes out a quick, "Sorry."

"Maisie, I'm so—" Bridget starts.

"Yes! That's the one," Daniel cuts in, snapping his fingers like he's finally figured it out. "Maisie Rhodes. You look just like her. The blonde hair and everything."

"She really does, doesn't she?" August adds, grinning behind the rim of his wine glass, clearly enjoying this. Meanwhile, Bridget looks like she wants to crawl into a hole.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Daniel pauses to take another sip, nodding, "she's got a great voice, but every time one of her songs comes on, god, they're all so repetitive. I have never understood the hyp—"

"Oh my god, Daniel, shut up." Bridget presses her hands to her forehead, trying to hide her mortification.

"What?" He blinks down at her, his face falling.

I clear my throat, drawing his attention back to me. "I don't think Bridget properly introduced us. I'm Maisie."

He huffs out a laugh, then falls silent, studying my face. I give him a second, watching as the gears turn in his head. Finally, he says, "You're Maisie..."

"Maisie Rhodes, yes," I say with a smile, his face turning beet red. Then I add, "I'll keep in mind that comment about my songs being too repetitive next time I'm recording."

He nods awkwardly, tugging at his collar, eyes flicking to Bridget as if silently pleading for help.

"Oh good, Daniel, you've made it," Evelyn interrupts, clasping her hands together as she steps into the doorway. "I think we can head to the dining room now."

tysm for reading, commenting, and voting ❤️