My father, Gregory Davis, dropped the broken half of the brick onto the grass.

“I warned you,” he said, calm as a man who had just closed a door.

Wyatt looked up at him in pure disbelief. “What did you just do?”

Nobody answered. Then my younger sister, Melanie, came out the front door in an expensive dress, her nails freshly done, looking annoyed—as though my blood had inconvenienced her dinner plans.

“I told you he wasn’t going to change his mind,” she said, crossing her arms.

My mother sighed and smoothed her clothes. “We tried to talk to him nicely.”

Wyatt eased my body against a porch column and stood up to face them. “You people are sick.”

My father smiled and pointed at Melanie. “No. You’re just engaged to the wrong daughter.”

The buzzing in my head was terrible, but those words hurt more than the brick.

“What?”

“Melanie should have always been in your place,” my mother said coldly. “Sadie is selfish. She always has been.”

Melanie looked down at me on the ground with a mean little expression. “And yet you still chose her.”