Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 20660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 103(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 103(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Finn’s eyes flick up to mine. Something heavy sits behind them. "He’s not running from you, Holly. He’s running from the weight of time. The shit he missed. The fact that he’s not sure how to carry it now that it’s in his hands."
I nod. Not because I understand—but because I’m too tired to argue.
After dinner, Grady shows up. No tools. No groceries. Just him and his easy charm, leaning against the porch railing while Josie stacks pebbles beside the steps.
"You holding up?"
I shrug. "Define ‘holding.’"
Grady watches Josie for a minute. Then says, "Jack’s an idiot. But he’s our idiot. And you—"
"Let me guess," I mutter. "I’m the best thing to happen to him since power tools."
He grins. "Exactly. I was gonna say since beer, but that works too."
I laugh. Barely. It cracks halfway out of my throat and never makes it to my chest.
Grady sobers. "He loves you. And that little girl. He’s just trying to figure out how to deserve it."
I nod again. Not because I believe it.
But because I want to.
That night, I sit on the porch swing, Josie asleep inside, a mug of tea cold in my hands. The stars burn above Devil’s Peak like diamonds scattered across velvet.
It’s stupid. How much space he takes up. Even when he’s not here.
Every creak in the floorboards sounds like his boots.
Every scent of pine and woodsmoke feels like his hands.
And still, nothing.
I pull the flannel tighter around me. The one he left on the back of the couch. It smells like sawdust and sweat and everything I miss.
I tell myself I’m not waiting.
But I am.
Chapter Twelve
Jack
The first thing I notice is the moonlight splashed across her hair as she sits on the porch. Swing creaking. Her hair’s messy, eyes tired, bare feet curled up under her in my flannel shirt like it belongs to her.
Because it does.
Because she does.
I stop a few feet from the steps, not sure if she’s going to cry or throw something.
Neither. She just stares. And that hurts more than if she’d screamed.
"You left," she says, voice raw.
"I did."
"You didn’t call."
I nod once. "I should’ve."
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything I never said.
Then I hold out the box.
She doesn’t move at first. But then she sets her mug aside and stands. Walks toward me with that slow, deliberate grace that always unhinges me.
She stops when we’re toe to toe.
"What’s that?"
I pop the lid.
Emerald center. Snowflake diamonds on either side. No frills. Just meaning.
She inhales softly.
"It’s beautiful," she whispers.
"You and that little girl—you’re mine. And I’m done hiding from it."
Her gaze flicks up to mine. Eyes glistening.
"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going," I add. "I needed to get my head straight. Figure out how to carry this without dropping it. Without dropping you."
Her lip trembles. "I didn’t think you’d come back."
I close the box. Slide it into my back pocket.
Then I step up onto the porch. Crowd her against the railing.
"Too late. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere."
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
So I press in.
"Stay with me. No mail-order bride bullshit, I want you. I can’t picture my life without you in it.”
Her breath catches. "You don’t fight fair."
"Never claimed to. Say it, Holly. Say you’ll stay."
Her voice breaks. "Yes. I’ll stay.”
Then I kiss her like I’ve been starving since the day she left—and she kisses me like she’s been drowning without me.
Because maybe we have been.
But we’re home now.
And we’re not going anywhere.
The box is heavier than I remember.
Buried under flannel shirts I haven’t worn in years, pushed to the far back of the closet like I thought ignoring it would erase the weight of what’s inside.
But tonight, I can’t ignore it anymore.
The house is quiet. Holly put Josie to bed an hour ago. There’s a fire going in the main room, low and slow, casting amber light across the floors I laid plank by damn plank. It smells like pine and home and something sweeter—her lotion, maybe. Or maybe just her.
I carry the box to the living room and set it down by the fire.
She looks up from the couch, barefoot in leggings and one of my old thermal shirts that swallows her frame. Her hair’s down, her cheeks still a little pink from the cold outside. She looks soft. Content.
Until she sees the box.
Her smile fades. “What’s that?”
I sit beside her and open it without answering.
She gasps.
Stacks of letters.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Holly’s hand flies to her mouth. "You... you kept them?"
I nod. "Every one. Even the one where you said you hated me for missing your birthday."
She lets out a watery laugh. “That was middle school. I did hate you. For like twelve hours.”
I pick one off the top and hand it to her. The ink’s faded, the paper creased from being opened a hundred times.
She holds it carefully. Like it might fall apart. Then she starts to read.