Robin.

The whole drive home, I’m buzzing.

Like the hands-tapping-on-the-steering-wheel, replaying-every-smile-she-gave-me kind of buzzing.

I feel like I just won the lottery—except instead of money, it’s Heather, sprawled across the bed, sheets tangled around her legs, smirking at me like she knows exactly how much space she’s about to take up in my head.

Spoiler: all of it.

By the time I get to my apartment, my cheeks hurt from grinning. I’m halfway through kicking off my sneakers when my phone starts buzzing like my chest.

Mom. Of course it's her.

I groan, grabbing it and swiping to answer. “Hi, Mom—”

“You’re late,” she snaps, skipping any greetings. “Do you even know how late you are? The dinner started an hour ago, Robin. An hour! And you haven’t even called.”

“Good to hear from you, too,” I mutter, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t you dare start with that tone. You’re coming, and you’d better wear something nice. Not that… garbage you like.”

“Garbage?” I scoff, gesturing to my very respectable t-shirt and jeans ensemble like she can see me through the phone. “You wound me, mother, truly.”

“Robin, I’m serious! This isn’t one of your band meet-ups. It’s family. Important family.”

“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Not the important Family.”

“Robin!”

“Fine, fine! I’m coming.”

“Wear something appropriate!” she yells before hanging up.

I stare at my phone, shaking my head. If there’s a medal for unnecessarily dramatic mothers, mine’s already on the podium.

I throw on the first clean shirt I can find and stick with my jeans, out of spite. If I’m going to suffer through this dinner, I might as well be comfortable.

By the time I get there, I’m already regretting every choice I’ve ever made. The house is too bright, too loud, and filled with people I’d really rather not see.

Mom spots me immediately, her eyes narrowing like a vulture ready to attack.

“What are you wearing?” she hisses, waving me over. “You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Nice to see you, too,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets because she clearly doesn't want a hug.

“Melanie!” Mom snaps over her shoulder. “Take her to your closet and fix her.”

My baby sister glances up from her phone, already looking like she’s two seconds away from murdering me.

I smirk.

“Why can’t you ever just be normal?” she mutters as she drags me away by the wrist.

“Define ‘normal.’”

Melanie doesn’t answer. Instead, she yanks me into her bedroom and gestures at her oversized walk in closet.

“Pick something, or I’m picking for you.”

“You know, for someone who claims to love me, you sure do talk to me like I’m a stray cat.”

She rolls her eyes and starts digging through her shelves herself, pulling out a blue corset dress that looks like it costs more than my monthly rent.
I mean, yeah, it does.

“No,” I say, backing away. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I’m not wearing that. I’ll look like—”

“Like someone who actually respects this family for once?”

“Wow. Harsh.”

“Put it on, Robin.”

I groan, grabbing the dress from her and disappearing into the other side of the closet.

“You owe me for this,” I call out as I wrestle my way into the thing.

It’s tighter than I expect, and I almost fall over twice before I manage to zip it up.

When I come out, Melanie smirks. “Not bad.”

“I feel like a medieval princess. Where’s my sword?” I tease.

“Just try not to embarrass us, okay?” she says, dragging me back out.

The dining room is worse than I imagined. Packed tables, loud conversations, and people I only vaguely recognize from family reunions that happened a decade ago.

I'm pretty sure they feel the same way about me.

Mom spots me immediately, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips when she sees the dress.

“Much better,” she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward a group of people I definitely don’t want to meet.

I’m already tuning her out, my eyes scanning the room out of sheer boredom.

That’s when I see it—a flash of black, sleek and tied back in a ponytail.

Wait.

My heart stumbles over itself as my gaze follows the ponytail weaving through the crowd.

How's that possible? She wouldn’t be here. She couldn’t be here. She can't be here.

Heather.

I blink, shaking my head. No, it’s just someone who looks like her. Has to be. But then I catch another glimpse of her profile, and my stomach flips.

“Robin!” Mom hisses, yanking me back to reality. “Stop staring and come meet the bride’s family!”

The bride’s family?

My blood runs cold as realization slams into me. No way. No freaking way.

Mom drags me toward the table, and sure enough, there she is—Heather, standing beside someone who has to be her mother, laughing softly at something she says.

She turns, her gaze sweeping the room, and when her eyes land on me, they widen, just for a fraction of a second.

Oh. My. God.

She recovers quickly, her face smoothing into a polite smile as she looks away, but I see the tension in her shoulders.

“What is she doing here?” I mutter under my breath.

Mom doesn’t notice. Luckily.

“This is Mrs. Todd,” she says, gesturing to Heather’s mom. “And this is her lovely daughter, Heather.”

Lovely. That’s one way to put it.

I prefer: hot!

Heather steps forward, her expression unreadable.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” she says, her voice perfectly pleasant. Too fucking pleasant.

I’m still in shock, barely managing to stammer out, “Yeah. Same.”

Mom launches into some conversation about the wedding, but I don’t hear a word of it. My mind is spinning, replaying every moment from earlier today in the hotel room.

She lied to me.

And not just any lie. She lied about having a fiancé.

Because, of course, she’s engaged to someone in my family’s circle. That’s just the kind of ridiculous, sitcom-level irony my life specializes in.

Heather doesn’t look at me again, not directly, but I catch the way her jaw tightens whenever my mom mentions the wedding.

There's definitely a connection there.

By the time dinner rolls around, I’m practically vibrating with pent-up frustration.

I need answers, but there’s no way I’m getting them here. Not with everyone watching.

Heather, on the other hand, seems perfectly fine pretending we’ve never met. It's pissing me off but Fine.

Two can play at that game.

I plaster on my best fake smile and spend the rest of the evening avoiding her as much as she’s avoiding me. But one thing’s for sure: this isn’t over.

Not by a long shot. And I need those fucking answers!

×××

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