Page 107 of Just The Way You Aren't

"You absolutely do." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "It's okay to be disappointed, you know. You were excited about bringing him here."

I sigh, adding more paper napkins to the old wooden holder because it gives me something to do with my hands. "I just wanted you all to meet him. And him to meet you. I thought it would be... I don't know. Significant."

"It would have been," Summer agrees. "But there will beother chances. Unless..." She studies my face. "You don't think there will be?"

"I don't know." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Damien’s world is so different from mine. From this." I gesture around us at the modest gathering.

Our parents' house isn't much—a weathered two-story farmhouse that's seen better days, with aging, mismatched furniture and appliances that are held together more by my dad's determination than anything else. The backyard is large but plain, bordered by wild raspberry bushes and my mother's struggling vegetable garden. It's worlds away from Damien's Park Avenue townhouse with its gleaming surfaces and designer everything.

"Different doesn't necessarily mean incompatible," Summer points out.

Before I can respond, our mother emerges from the back door, balancing a tray of condiments. "Willow, honey, could you go grab the green salad from the fridge? Your father's about to start serving the burgers."

"Sure, Mom." I set down the napkins and head inside, grateful for the task.

The kitchen is warm and smells of fresh-baked cookies. It's the heart of my parents' home, where we've gathered for countless meals and conversations over the years. The painted cabinets are outdated, the gold Formica countertops worn, but there's a comfort here that no luxury condo could match.

I open the ancient refrigerator and retrieve the large bowl of salad. As I turn to head back outside, my gaze falls on a framed photo hanging on the wall—all six of us kids piled onto the living room couch, laughing at something long forgotten. We were poor growing up, and there were plentyof times we struggled, but we shared a lot of happy days too. My parents made sure of that.

I wonder what Damien would make of all this. Would he see the beauty in our chaotic family gatherings, or would he feel out of place among the paper plates and plastic forks?

The sound of a vehicle outside on the gravel driveway drifts in through the open windows, drawing my attention. Probably my youngest brother Cole's new girlfriend, the one he's been texting all morning. I set the salad on the counter and peer out the kitchen window, curious to see what she looks like.

Instead, I see a sleek black town car pulling onto our long driveway.

My heart stops, then restarts at double speed.

It can't be.

But then the vehicle stops, the back door opens, and Damien steps out.

He's wearing a suit, and even from this distance, I can see how out of place he looks against the backdrop of our rural homestead. He says something to the driver, then straightens his shoulders and starts walking toward the house.

I nearly knock over a kitchen chair in my rush to get outside.

By the time I push through the screen door, my family has noticed our visitor too. Conversations halt, heads turn, and everyone watches as handsome, dark-haired Damien Langley approaches. I stand frozen on the back porch, unable to believe he's actually here.

He stops when he sees me, and for a moment, we just stare at each other across the yard.

"Is that him?" my mother whispers loudly from somewhere to my right.

I can't answer. Can't do anything but watch as Damien resumes walking, his pace quickening until he's standing at the foot of the porch steps, looking up at me.

"Willow," he says, my name both a statement and a question.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" I manage to ask. "I thought you had a crisis to handle in Florida."

"I did." He climbs the steps until we're face to face. "And then I realized I was handling the wrong one."

From the corner of my eye, I can see my entire family watching with avid interest. My father has abandoned his grill to stand beside my mother, spatula still in hand. My siblings are all frozen mid-task, and even the children have paused their games to stare.

"But Guardian Productions—" I begin.

"Can wait," he finishes. A small smile quirks the corners of his mouth. "Some things are more important."

The sincerity in his voice makes my heart skip. "Damien?—"

"I've never broken a promise before," he cuts in, his eyes never leaving mine. "Not once in my entire life. My word has always been something I could stand behind. Until today, when I promised to be here with you, and then I let business take precedence."

---