Page 143 of Really Truly Yours

“Allie,” Marco grumbles.

Tripp snickers and directs a comment my direction. “Yep. Gonz here may look tough and dodge bullets for sport, but he’s deathly afraid of heights. I say the whole thing serves him right, though. I knew he’d get his comeuppance eventually for breaking the bro code and going after my sister.”

Even in jest, the protectiveness toward his sister is nice. Everyone laughs, including Marco, who pairs his laughter with a headshake. My stomach relaxes enough for another bite of the flavorful crabcake. The good-natured ribbing doesn’t appear to be precursor to a fight.

The waiter returns and takes our orders, and the conversation drifts for a minute, eventually meandering back to me. Clearly, I didn’t think this trip through. Here Gray is, taking me around to friends and family, presenting me like I’m someone. They treat me accordingly.

But I’m a fish that’s found its way onto dry land, and that’s not how my gills operate. These people have lives, great lives, and they ask me questions with obvious expectation that I have the same. What university did you attend? What is your degree? Where have you traveled in Europe? Annalise, recently returned from a honeymoon across the pond, is responsible for most of them.

Thanks, Gray. A little prep work would have helped us all avoid the awkwardness. Which is worse? Me floundering for non-cringey explanations of my sad life or Gray rushing in to protect me? It’s either that or he’s as embarrassed as I by my lack of congruence with the elevated norms of this group.

Someone says something that leads to an explanation for my benefit that the Walkers happen to own a pizza empire. Turns out, on the occasions I do treat myself to a takeout pizza, I order it from a place owned by my gracious hosts.

“What do your parents do, Sydnee?” Annalise smiles, utterly clueless.

Gray looks almost as panicked as I feel, and his finger pops up as if he’s trying to speak, but he’s got a mouthful of crabcake he inserted the moment she started talking.

As my brain scrambles for a mostly true response that doesn’t include he died in prison or she abandoned us, I think I catch Gray elbow his brother.

Tripp clears his throat. All eyes redirect. His dark gaze briefly touches mine. “Since we’re all together, I want to share some news with everyone, and I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

I have to scrape my jaw off the table when he picks this moment to tell his family about Donny

Did he just throw himself under the family bus for me?

The tangle in my chest slowly unwinds. Those who didn’t already know are interested yet take it in stride. Marco shakes his head. “So that’s why you were messed up when we were in town recently.”

Tripp cops to the charge and rolls the conversation forward, omitting information about Donny’s importance in my life. Gray joins in, bless them both.

Finally, the arrival of our meal moves the conversation out of the shallows.

On Gray’s suggestion, I ordered some sort of fish filet stuffed with crab. It’s mouthwatering, and, most importantly, savoring each bite removes me from the riptide—that is, flow—of conversation.

Once desserts have been ordered and after-dinner coffee delivered to some, the mood at the table is light and fun. As far as my memories reach, these kinds of gatherings in my family ended with somebody cussing somebody out, usually because one or both parties were drunk, high, or a mix of the two.

“Excuse me.”

I glance up. A woman, young and beautiful, smiles down at Gray. She flips a section of perfectly ironed hair behind her shoulder—which I get a great view of as she inserts herself fully between his chair and mine.

“Could I get your autograph, Grayson? It’s for my son. He’ll be so thrilled.”

Marco coughs into his napkin. Annalise’s perfectly lined and made-up eyes roll.

The woman hands him—my date, that is—a piece of paper and a pen, though I sense this more than see. She’d make a better door than window, and all.

Gray is gracious. He asks the boy’s name, which seems to throw the woman for a second. He scratches something out in that awkward but attractive way lefthanded men have and returns it to her. She lingers, finally taking her sashaying hips back to her own table.

Tripp tosses his napkin beside his plate. “Oh, brother.” Toned-down laughter ripples around the table. “What was the kid’s name again?”

Gray hesitates. “John.”

Marco snorts. “Please.”

Annalise chimes in. “I doubt she’s even my age. I can’t imagine that woman has a kid old enough to care about t-ball, much less your lousy name on a napkin.”

More laughter keeps the mood easy, but Gray’s cheeks look warm. Annalise treats him like a sibling, which, in a weird way, I guess he is.

This group is so lucky to have each other.

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