I hung up and stood there in my father's kitchen, listening to the rain, feeling something crack open in my chest.
I'd loved Matt. Really loved him. The forever kind. The kind that picks out baby names and saysI doand means it. But that didn't mean staying. That didn't mean trying until we both bled out.
Sometimes love wasn't enough. Maybe the soil was wrong, or maybe you had to let the thing die so something else could grow.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
Through the doorway, I could see Caleb standing in the dining room. He was watching me, that steady, patient look on his face. I walked back to him and he opened his arms. I stepped into them, let him hold me while I cried.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." I pulled back to look at him. "I am."
He kissed my forehead and held me tight.
From the living room, I heard Carol's voice, small and worried. "Where's my boy? I need my boy."
"He's coming," Dad said gently. "He'll be here soon."
I took a breath and steadied myself.
"I should sit with her," I said.
Caleb nodded. "I'll be right here."
I went back to the couch and sat beside Carol, taking her hand again.
"Matthew's on his way," I told her.
"Oh good." She smiled, vague and distant. "He's such a good boy."
"He is."
"You know," she said, looking at me like she'd just remembered something important, "you should marry him. If he asks. He's a good boy. But if you're not ready... that’s okay. Just be gentle. His heart breaks easy."
She must have seen something in my face because she squeezed my hand. "It'll mend, though. Hearts do. They always do."
"I'll remember that," I whispered.
She drifted off after that. Head against the couch, eyes closing, still holding my hand. I sat there in the quiet, listening to her breathe, listening to the rain.
Outside, headlights swept across the window.
Matt was here.
CHAPTER 33: MATT
The Whitaker driveway came up fast through the rain.
I took the turn too hard and the truck slid on wet gravel, tires spinning before they caught and held. Two vehicles sat in front of the house—Sam Whitaker's Ford and another I’d seen around town but didn't recognize. Light spilled from every window, warm and yellow against the storm.
My mother was inside, somewhere in that house. I killed the engine and the rain was immediate. Cold and hard, soaking through my shirt before I'd made it three steps. I ran for the porch and Elena opened the door as I reached it.
Her face told me everything before she spoke.
"She's okay."
I nodded, then moved past when she stepped aside, needing to see with my own eyes. Mom was on the couch, wrapped in blankets, hair damp and pressed flat against her skull. Asleep. I crossed the room in what felt like slow motion, crouched beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She was warm, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
