We’re both silent for a moment. My throat is thick and sore, the need to give him a big hug fairly strong. But I stay still. “I’m sorry, Macon. I’m sorry the wrong parent left you and the shitty one keeps finding ways to hurt you.”

A car drives by, kicking up dust and swaying my skirts. Macon doesn’t flinch but studies me with solemn eyes. “You’re adopted.”

The ghost of George Saint’s hateful words punches into my heart. “Yes.”

I am not ashamed of the fact. How could I be? Not a single person has control over their birth. And yet there were times when it chafed knowing that Samantha was of Mama’s and Daddy’s blood, and I was not, as if that one little point made me the lesser daughter.

It didn’t help that Sam was beautiful and popular while I was the problem child, always getting into rows with Macon or whoever else gave me trouble. But I was also ashamed for feeling that way because my parents loved me with all they had. They never treated me as anything other than their beloved if not somewhat awkward daughter. So I tried to bury those feelings so far they couldn’t touch me anymore. Their lineage became mine. They were all I had. They were everything. But the worry, the need to please and protect, always pushed right back up to the surface.

“Your father was wrong about one point. I wasn’t a pity case. They adopted me because they wanted a child and couldn’t conceive. But it’s a long process. Mama was pregnant with Sam—a complete surprise—when the paperwork for me came through. She always said she was doubly blessed.” I hung on to those words for years. They shaped me.

There is a pensive air about Macon, and he clenches his hands together where they rest atop the roof of the SUV. “I didn’t know. How did I miss it?”

I understand what he’s saying; I am short, curvy, dark haired, and brown eyed. My skin is light beige in the winter and golden brown in the summer. Mama and Sam are blonde and blue eyed, tall, thin, and milk white in the winter and slightly less milky in the summer. Daddy had the ability to tan deep bronze, but his hair was blond as well, his coloring on the cooler spectrum, whereas I am all warm tones. Which all meant that if you saw us all together as a family, I stood out as different.

“I honestly don’t know—everyone else in town knew—but even back then it occurred to me that you hadn’t noticed.”

Somehow we’ve ended up standing close together, our arms nearly brushing. He tilts his head to meet my gaze, his brows drawing together. “How did you figure?”

“Because you would have said something about it.”

Macon grimaces. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t.”

I can’t help choking on a bittersweet laugh. “Macon, you always went for the jugular. Hell, you got the whole school to call me Tater Tot.” Shaking my head, I stare out over the hazy valley. “I still have nightmares about all those fucking tots falling at my feet. You still call me Tot, for Pete’s sake.”

For a long moment, we stand there, me breathing a bit too hard, my chest rising and falling—and Macon staring at me as though he’s never seen me before.

But then he blinks, a slow sweep of those thick lashes. “Did you ever find out who your birth parents were?”

“No.” I lean my butt against the car. “Mama and Daddy offered to help me connect with my birth parents. But I didn’t want to.”

Shaking my head, I sigh and study my sensible black pumps, now chalky with road dust. “I was afraid to open that particular box. What if my birth parents ended up together and could have kept me? What if they had a kid right after me and didn’t give him away? What if they were horrible people? Or what if the story is just so sad it breaks my heart? My list of fears were—are—endless.”

With a shrug, I face Macon. “It seemed better to leave it be. Besides, I have parents. The fact that they did not conceive me doesn’t make them less my parents.”

“They’re great parents,” he says fondly. “I used to wish they were mine.”

“Not anymore?” I tease.

A strange look enters his eyes. “That would make us siblings, so no.”

“Don’t worry; I find the thought of you being my brother just as distasteful.” Not in the way he probably thinks, but I’m not saying that.

“I should hope so.” He gives me a quick wink.

I’m silent for a second. “Maybe someday, I’ll do one of those DNA kits and see what I’m made of.”

“I can tell you that,” he says easily. “Sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“That mean you’re made of puppy-dog tails?”