Page 116 of For Better or Hearse

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

And it never fucking will be.

“Tell your father what you told us at the spa,” Claire says to her daughter when the waiter’s finished taking their dessert orders.

“Oh, uh…” Delaney twists her napkin, sits up straight, looks at her father. “I got the role in that French slasher film.”

Tate pounds her on the back with so much force her body jolts. “Congrats, dude.”

Don looks at her over his phone. Cocks a brow. “Do you know French?”

Delaney lowers her chin, swallows. “No, but I’m planning—”

“This is what I mean. You jump before you think things through.” A sigh. “Just like this little job of yours.” Don sets his phone down. “Don’t you think you should go back to school and get a degree?” he asks, while Claire stares at him dagger-eyed.

“I don’t know,” Delaney mumbles. “I guess.”

Ash saws her lower lip between her teeth, ready to taste blood. The crestfallen look on DeeDee’s face cuts like a knife. She knows what it’s like. To always be trying. To never feel like enough.

“It’s not a little job. It’s a lead role,” Nathaniel says, speaking up.

Delaney blinks, clearly surprised at her older brother’s support.

“It’s her career.”

Excitement radiates from Delaney. “It could be a breakoutrole.” Her hands form a makeshift camera. She pans the restaurant. “Just like Jennifer Aniston in Lepra—”

“Delaney, please,” Don snaps, holding up his hand.

Augustus smiles fondly at his granddaughter. “Chin up, my dear.”

“I don’t understand my children and these”—air quotes from Don—“careers.”

Ash narrows her eyes at him. This is textbook schoolhouse bullying.

Nathaniel smothers a sigh. “Pretty sure we’re all employed, Dad.”

“You had it all, Nate,” Don blusters.

The way Nathaniel cringes atNatemakes Ash cringe too. “The career. The girl. And you threw it all away.”

“Dad.” Nathaniel’s needling his brow now.

“It’s not too late to get back there. Be a real doctor again. Find a nice girl.” Don cranes his neck and scans the restaurant.

Ash’s stomach sinks. He’s no doubt picking out the perfect woman for his son. She can picture it perfectly. Blond. A fine pedigree. Heels. Pearl earrings. A 401(k) and organic cotton sheets and absolutely no anxiety coursing through her system.

Eyes still on a slim, blond waitress, Don crosses his arms. “Maybe download an app or a—”

“I don’t need an app, Dad,” Nathaniel grits out.

“We’re Whitfords.” Don glances at Ash. Focuses on his son again. “You can’t slum it your entire life.”

Directed at her or not, it fucking stings.

Ash’s face burns. The piña colada, the rum, the coconut milk settle like five hundred pounds of sludge in her stomach.