Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Fourth of July is like Christmas in South Grove, and on Magnolia Lane where Delaney and I grew up, the holiday is in full swing. Tables line the barricaded street with casseroles, every kind of salad, and pans of fried chicken, ribs, and brisket. The smoker in my parent's driveway sends heat shimmering into the air, while the smell of burgers and hot dogs drifts through the crowd. Music blasts from a speaker attached to the Slate's garage – oldies, of course, because God forbid the crankiest couple on the block play anything recorded after 1960.
Kids dart in and out of houses, their laughter echoing through the street. It pulls me straight back to when Delaney and I were their age—sneaking cookies before dinner at eight, sneaking beers from the cooler at seventeen—and getting caught every damn time.
That first Fourth of July after I came home was brutal. People couldn't stop asking questions—why I was back, how long I'd stay, whether I'd ever play again. Every look carried either pity or curiosity, and it took more patience and alcohol than I had to get through the day. It was the first time I realized my life would never be the same. The start of my spiral.
Things have settled since then. The novelty's worn off, but I'll never just be Greyson here anymore. I'll always be the guy who didn't make it. The hometown hero who came home a failure.
The street is crowded, but my eyes find only one thing: my mother, clutching Delaney like she might vanish, Delaney smiling back like she never left at all.
"Well, I'll be damned. Delaney fucking James," my brother says, pulling my gaze away. Cole's got Blaire, my ten-month-old niece, in his arms, her round legs kicking against his stomach. I dig my fingers into her chubby thigh until she squeals with laughter. "Mom told me she was back."
"Of course, she did."
Cole's six years older than me. He was already at Wake Forest when I started high school, then took a job in Raleigh after graduation. He and his wife, Lydia, eventually moved back once their son Stephen was born so my parents would be close by. We've never been close—age gap, different lives—and when I came home from Missouri, my mess only pushed us further apart. Things are better now that I've pulled it together, but we'll never be best friends. He'll never respect me. Not after that night.
"This must really suck for you. Have you talked to her?"
"Briefly," I answer flatly. Cole never cared about me and Delaney before, so I'm not about to confide in him now. "It's been fine."
"She back for good?"
"No." I take Blaire from his arms, lifting her high until her giggles ring out, then pepper her cheeks with kisses before tucking her against me. "She lives in New York. She's not here to stay."
"Sorry, little bro." Cole claps my back. "She's still hot. A little too thin for me, but hot. Mom said she's getting divorced. You should take a shot while she's vulnerable. Might be your only chance."
