Page 127 of The Dixon Rule

Shane’s grandfather pipes up, telling me that’s when he knew “the white boy was a keeper.” According to April’s father, you know a man truly loves a woman when he’s willing to humiliate himself in front of her family.

I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I swear I glimpse sadness on Mr. Lindley’s face while his in-laws tell the story. He reaches for April’s hand, and this time I know I’m not imagining the way she squeezes his hand, almost as if in warning. Yet when their eyes lock during her sister’s toast, there’s no disguising the love they feel for each other.

“You’re lucky,” I whisper to Shane as the staff begins clearing our plates. “I love my stepmom, but sometimes the little kid in me still wishes my parents had stayed together.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t even imagine what I would do if my folks got divorced. My whole life, they’ve set the bar, you know? Showed me what love is actually supposed to look like.” In an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability, Shane’s voice cracks.

My heart softens at that. It’s nice to see the deep love for his parents reflected in Shane’s eyes. I get the feeling he has a lot more depth to him than he’s willing to show. That he’s more than the cocky, obnoxious hockey player who wants to get in my pants.

So of course, he has to ruin the moment by staring at my boobs.

“Stop looking at my cleavage,” I scold.

“I can’t help it. Like, how is there that much of it? Your tits aren’t that big.”

“You’re not supposed to comment on a woman’s breast size. It’s uncouth.”

“I didn’t say I don’t like them.” He drags his tongue over his lips. “I don’t discriminate. All shapes and sizes are welcome in Lindley Land.”

“Ew. Shane.”

He just snickers. He’s incorrigible.

With dinner over, the dancing starts. The room transforms from a chill acoustic affair to a lively party, the band now playing a mixture of blues, country, and soul.

The dance floor, always a sight to behold, beckons to me. I think that’s the reason I never feel out of place at parties. Even ones like this, where I hardly know a soul. As long as there’s music in the air and something solid beneath my feet, I will always belong.

I’m about to pull Shane on his feet to dance when his father surprises me by asking me first.

“How about it, Diana?” Ryan offers his hand and a smile.

“Absolutely.”

We join the growing group of people on the dance floor. Shane’s dad curls one palm around my waist and grips my hand with the other, and we start moving to the up-tempo beat. The loud music, combined with sounds of chatter and clinking glasses, makes it difficult to hear each other, so he brings his face closer to my ear.

“You’re an interesting development,” he teases. “Different.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs and spins me around, displaying some pretty decent footwork.

“Hey, you’re a good dancer,” I inform him, pleasantly surprised. “Better than Shane.” Grinning, I cock my head. “Do you want to do the competition with me instead?”

“I certainly do not,” he says cheerfully.

I laugh. “Fair enough. It’s not for everyone.”

“I still can’t believe you dragged my son into it.”

“Yeah, he’s being a very good sport,” I say grudgingly. Curiosity continues to tug at me. “What do you mean I’m different?”

Just saying that word—different—brings a slight clench of insecurity to my chest. Because I know he’s right. I am different. I’ve always felt it and not only because I’m weird and have a temper.

I’m different from my family in Savannah, who view me as this outspoken, confrontational girl corrupted by the north, who doesn’t know when to sit quietly and look pretty.

I’m different from my little brother, who’s so freakishly smart and determined to save the world.

And I’m definitely different from my mom, who doesn’t think I’m intelligent enough to be in the same room as her.

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