“You should sleep,” he says finally, watching as I struggle to keep my eyes open between bites. “Real sleep, not just dozing in a chair or on the couch.”
“Could I…?” I pause. “Could I stay here? Just for a little while?” The request hangs between us.
His expression does a complicated thing before he smiles. “Come on,” he says, standing up. “My bed’s more comfortable than the couch.”
I remove my clothes until I’m just in my boxer shorts and T-shirt and sit on his bed. “Stay?” I ask as he helps me settle onto a bed that smells like him. “Just until I fall asleep?”
He toes off his boots and removes his clothes, his body radiating warmth as he lies beside me.
“Sleep,” he says quietly, his hand finding mine in the space between us.
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that Taylen’s gone. Sunlight streams through the curtains. My body protests as I push myself into a sitting position. The clock on the bedside table shows early afternoon.
I use the bathroom and then get dressed. I want to check on Miss Maple, Poppy, and the babies before I do anything else.
But it’s the door across the hall that draws my attention as I prepare to leave. Somehow, while I’ve been falling for Taylen, the pain of returning to this house fell into the back of my consciousness. But now, standing at the threshold of my best friend’s bedroom, it’s all coming back. The pain. The regret.
The air feels different inside the room. Posters still cling to the walls, their edges curling slightly with age, but the images are as vibrant as the day Jackson put them up. Books line the shelves in an order only he understood, their spines carrying titles that speak of dreams and plans never realized.
Clothes still hang in his closet, visible through the crooked door.
The photo on the bedside table calls to me. Jackson and me with Taylen smiling wide between us.
My fingers shake slightly as I lift the frame, tracing Jackson’s features with a gentle touch that carries years of accumulated grief and guilt. The glass is cool against my skin as I study the three faces frozen in time, none of us aware of how precious those moments really were.
“I love him so much,” I whisper. “I wish I’d come home more instead of panicking about what you’d think if I told you I liked your little brother. I missed out on precious time with you.”
The silence that follows feels different after my confession.
“I can promise that will not happen with Taylen,” I tell the photo. “I won’t waste time being afraid anymore. Won’t let anything, my career or fear or my own stupidity, keep me from being here for him the way I should have been for you.”
My hands shake slightly as I return the photo to its place of honor, careful to position the frame exactly as I found it.
As the door closes behind me with a gentle click, I feel like I’ve just written the period at the end of a sentence I’ve been trying to write for years.
32
TAYLEN
When Sylvie askedme to deliver a basket of apples to her this afternoon, I thought maybe it was divine intervention. Or maternal intervention, which amounts to the same thing when it comes to Sylvie Hall. A chance to talk to someone who might help me sort through the mess in my head about Bastian and the future I’m too afraid to believe in.
But as the hours crawled by, doubt crept up. Maybe I’m spiraling over nothing. Maybe I’m looking for reasons to run before I can get hurt, sabotaging something good because I’m too scared to trust it’s real.
Sylvie opens the door before I can knock, like she’s been waiting for me. Her smile carries that particular warmth of mothers who’ve spent decades making everyone feel welcome. “There’s my favorite apple supplier,” she says, gesturing me inside.
“These are the last of the winter keepers,” I explain, following her into the kitchen. “Thought you might want extra for baking.”
“You have perfect timing,” she says, taking the basket and starting to move the apples into her own box. “Coffee’s justbrewed. Sit, sit.” She makes a shooing motion toward the table with her hands. “Fresh cinnamon bread too if you’re interested.”
The chair creaks a familiar welcome as I settle into it.
“Sugar?” she asks, even though she’s already reaching for the container she keeps specifically because I like it in my coffee.
The gesture makes something catch in my throat. Sylvie is the reason I don’t miss my parents more. Sure, I miss them, but on a day-to-day level, I still get the warm hugs, the conversations, the knowing looks, and the love only a mother can give.
“Thank you,” I manage, watching as she pours coffee into mismatched cups.
She settles across from me, her own mug cradled between her hands.
