Page 19 of The Love You Fight For
This is the truth. Sable and I did want different things.Verydifferent things. I just didn’t realize it until I was hit upside the head with it.
Tiffany scoffs.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to that uppity brat. You’re better off. People like her...” My sister huffs and shakes her head, turning to point a plastic spatula at me. “People like her don’tdeserve people like you. She puts too much worth on what’s in a person’s bank account and not nearly enough on what’s on the inside. You have more heart in your pinky finger than she has in her whole body. You deserve someone like you. Someone who will appreciate your heart and match it with one of their own. You deserve someone so much better than her.”
I smile softly as I watch her rant. My overprotective, passionate big sister. As much as it hurts to hear, I can’t deny that I love seeing her come to my defense.
Now, anyway. I always shut her down before. I thought I was in love and didn’t want to hear it. I had to learn for myself the hard way.
“I know, Tiffy,” I say. “You were right, and I should have listened.”
Tiffany sighs.
“You want to see the good in everyone, Chris, and that’s a great quality. But sometimes... Well, sometimes you need to recognize the difference between authentic good and manufactured good, especially when you’re the one manufacturing it.”
“Especiallywhen the manufactured good outweighs anything authentic,” Michael adds.
I narrow my eyes in his direction, but he’s conveniently not looking at me. So much forI’m staying out of it.
“I know you both care about me. Thank you. But it’s over now. We can stop talking about it. Sable and I are done, and I’m moving on.”
The subtle glance my sister and brother-in-law share makes all my defenses shoot up, and I immediately shake my head.
“No. You’re not setting me up, Tiff. No.”
“Chris,” she says pointedly. “You’d really like her. She’s a teacher in Suffolk. She’s in my book club. And she’s like us.”
I cock my head to the side and raise an eyebrow.
“Like us?”
“Yeah, you know.” She turns back to whatever it is she’s cookingon the stovetop. “Down to earth. Focused on family and community. Cares about what’s important.”
“You mean in our tax bracket,” I state, and she shrugs nonchalantly.
She’s so full of shit. Tiff has always hated people with money, and she’s not fooling me with thecares about what’s importantline. Tiffany hated that Sable was always wanting to trade out and up. Her biggest gripe about my ex was that Sable thought she was “too good for people like us.” See also: people who don’t make seven figures, drive fancy cars, or summer in the Hamptons.
It’s a valid complaint, I’ll admit, but Tiff has gotten to the point where she snarls at anything that even hints at wealth. I don’t argue with her. I don’t point out that she’s being hypocritical, or that she’s being prejudiced. Instead, I walk up behind her and pull her into a hug.
“I love you. You’re a good big sister.” I sway back and forth a little for levity. “I am fine, I promise, so please, for the love of God, do not try to set me up. I cannot handle it. I will run away.”
She snorts a laugh and elbows me lightly in the stomach. When I was little, anytime Tiffany tried to assert authority over me, which was always because she’s six years older than I am, I would threaten to run away. One time, Tiff tried to make me clean up my bedroom, and I actually did run away.
I didn’t make it any farther than Macon’s house, but I had everyone terrified for hours before my mom found me. I was eight. It’s been a running joke ever since.
“Fine,” she concedes, flipping another burger patty from the frying pan in front of her onto an empty plate by the stove. “Fine, Chris. Wouldn’t want you to run away.”
“Thank you.”
Tiffany shouts “DINNER” into the house, and four tiny feet come running into the kitchen, followed shortly by my father. He pats me on the back as he ambles to the table. Michael shouts up the stairs for Cheyenne and she slides into the chair next to me just as I’m sitting down.
I give her a smile that quickly turns into a curious smirk when I notice the front pocket on her T-shirt is bulged and slightly moving. I raise a brow, and she shushes me, darting her eyes from me to her mother and back.
“You’re breaking the rules again, Punk,” I whisper, and she purses her lips.
“He’s sleeping. He won’t bother anyone,” Cheyenne says as she stares at me. I stare right back until she narrows her eyes. “Don’t tattle,” she commands, and I scoff dramatically.
“I’m no snitch.”
