Page 52 of Something Like Sunflowers

But they’d hate us when we split up…

It’s all so messy. I sift my hands through my hair. What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Devyn?

I rub my temples and look around downstairs. I see an open concept, farm-style kitchen with a beautiful white marble countertop that wraps around into a bar endcap where three handcrafted, wooden chairs are spaced evenly on the other side for seating. I smile, picturing a gaggle of kids sitting there after school and doing homework, chomping on their little apples and peanut butter snack while they go on about sports tryouts or school plays.

My breath hitches when I realize where I’ve let my mind wander, and a crease forms in my brow that I’ve come to be unfortunately familiar with. I rub it out, reminding myself I cannot be anything other than what and who I’ve been made to be.

Regardless of how that feels.

God. The universe. Whatever you believe in—they’ve got a plan for me.

And even if I wanted him to be, Hunter isn’t it.

I put my hand on my stomach, directly over my womb. Right where she’d be if she were still safe inside me.

Our secret.

Our girl.

Chapter 19

Devyn

Eleven Years Ago

Tugging at the hem of my already-too-small sweater, I use my free hand to reach for the big party bowl above the fridge. I know I’m not supposed to reach above my head. The paper even said it could make something mess up with the umbilical cord, but I can’t very well tell Mom that.

Because then the cat would be clear out of the bag. Hunter and I would have to come clean sooner than we planned. And that’s not happening. Nope, not at all.

He’s going to take me to prom, finish up his senior year, get a job on a farm, and then we’re going to buy that stupidly perfect little run-down farmhouse out by Piper’s Creek and fix it up.

For the three of us.

I twirl around carefully, sufficiently satisfied that the baby is fine from my overhead grabbing since I don’t feel anything funky, and hand the bowl to Dustin. He’s opening a giant bag of chips and setting them out next to a bowl of dip, a tray of chopped veggies, and about eighteen packs of hamburger buns.

Tonight is the graduation party for the Pine Forrest Rodeo team and their families. Technically, graduation isn’t for three more weeks, but with next week being exams and then prom after that, there really isn’t another weekend to make it happen, and this year the party is at our house. I’m still not sure why. I hate how many people are about to be here, when I’m feeling less than stellar today. I groan when I smell the chips Dustin shovels into his mouth in handfuls.

“Ew, those are so gross. How can you even eat them?”

Dustin glares at me suspiciously.

“I thought you liked salt and vinegar. One time you even kicked me in the shin when I ate them all.”

Shit. I’m so queasy today I’m not thinking straight. But I can’t slip up. Dustin cannot know about this yet. He would kill us both.

I run my hand through my hair, casually shrugging like I’m bored with the conversation already. “Whatever. Why are we even having this dumb party at our house, anyway? Robbie’s mansion is way more suited for this.”

Dustin’s face pinches in a sour look. “You know Mom loves any excuse to parade her children around like trained monkeys with no purpose other than to show the world what beautiful and superior spawn she created.”

He rolls his eyes, making a joke of it. But we both know it’s true. It’s what she’s done to me with pageants my whole life.

I often wonder if it isn’t to distract people long enough that they won’t notice the stench of alcohol lacing her words. Won’t notice her glaring failures beneath the glow of our successes.

It has always made me sick. But I think the sickness I’m feeling right now might actually be related to the fact that I’m seven months pregnant and not from how toxic a single dose of my mother’s presence may be.

Dustin shuffles through the hallway with a plate of raw hamburger meat, and my stomach rolls. I shove away from the kitchen counter and race through the hallway to the small half-bath by the mudroom, stabbing my finger at the lock button on the handle and throwing my body into the direction of the toilet just in time to vomit up the entirety of my breakfast.

Whew.

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