“Huh,” he said, sipping his water. “I’m going to think on that.”
He threw an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her gently before fading off into the vineyard, finding some way to be useful.
Hanna turned back toward the house, ready to face the gauntlet she’d avoided the entire day.
The DeBrunes.
Marcia had greeted her warmly enough, but she hadn’t been able to look her in the eye. Tom was worse. Every look he gave Hanna was filled with the kind of silence that deafened. They had flown into Phoenix for Lisa’s funeral, which Hanna had appreciated, but they hadn’t spoken since.
They’d practically raised her over her decade-long relationship, and now she was standing in their home, pining after another man, trying not to sob.
But Hanna knew she could handle them. She could handle anything, even if it hurt.
“Anything I can help with, Marcia?” Hanna lingered at the edge of the kitchen, holding her breath.
“Oh Hanna, honey, yes! Would you mind helping Tom take those extra pillows and blankets out to the guest house? We’re shoving the boys out there tonight.”
Tom’s head snapped away from his conversation with an uncle, the dread palpable between both of them. Hanna grabbed a stack of pillows and Tom slung the blankets over his shoulder, holding the door for her as they silently made their way across the vineyard and to the guest house. She nudged the door open with her hip and tried not to tally up all the times she’d fooled around with Logan in the shack at the edge of the vines.
“You look healthy, Hanny,” Tom said, dropping the blankets onto the couch. “Happy.”
Her lips twisted, the tears nearly instant. When Logan had called her Hanny in the spring, she’d wanted to kill him. But there, after so many months of building up a tolerance, it was a nice reminder of who she’d been to her mother.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Tom said, blushing a deep shade of red. He’d never been a man of many words, but they’d always gotten along. He pulled her into a hug, the kind she’d rarely gotten in her life, and she held herself together as best she could.
“You know, we were so disappointed in Logan?—”
“No,” Hanna said. “No, it’s okay. Logan made a choice I was too afraid to make, I think. We just… we had some growing up to do.”
“Marcia will never forgive him,” he said. “But we’re proud of you. I hope you know that.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Your mom—” Tom’s voice tightened. “Your mom would be proud of you, too.”
He squeezed her once more and then ran off before she could well and truly unleash, but the tidal wave didn’t come.
She would have been angry a few months before, resentful that someone would have the audacity to presume to know what her mother might think of her.
But in the peaceful dark, she believed him.
She wiped at her eyes, shaking off the strings that bound her chest as she breathed slowly.
“Hanna?” Milo poked his head into the guest house. “You okay?”
“Yeah!” She rolled her eyes, as if she could fool him. “Tom was just being really nice.”
“Bastard,” Milo said, closing the door behind him.
Hanna laughed, the tears still slipping despite the control she finally felt over them.
“Can I?” Milo held his arms out. She folded herself into them, the relief so instant she almost laughed. He held her face in the dim light, a hint of gold on his shirt cuff catching her eye.
“Are those?—”
“I got them before,” Milo explained, turning his wrist so she could see the tiny sunflowers better. “I guess I’d just kind of hoped we’d figured shit out by now.”
“Maybe we have?” She circled the couch, flopping onto the floral cushions, several decades outdated. Milo sat on the coffee table across from her.
