And after Tate?
Well, her spirit couldn’t handle another blow like that. She didn’t believe in casual flings. She didn’t believe in divorce. She believed in a love that was forever—soulmates, happily ever afters, and fairy tales. The problem was that no one seemed to believe along with her. The world, society, didn’t seem to foster those same dreams either… but children believed in magic, mystery, fairytales, and happily ever afters.
So she found her peace in smaller joys that brought happiness to her heart. A blooming flower in her garden. The weight of a novel on her lap. The steady, soothing rhythm of her knitting needles. Coffee with Gina. Dinner with both Gina and Shannon… before Shannon had thrown herself into a bad relationships, before Gina jumped into hockey of all things— and she knew why now.
Because Gina’s brother was back. Suddenly hockey was interesting to her friend. Hockey was now always on her friend’s mind, which was why Nettie was sure that was the reasoning behind Gina’s casually tossed ‘handsome Goalie’ comment.
And Nettie? Nettie was still here. Still alone. Still herself.
Until today.
Because today Tate hadsmiledat her.
Her heart fluttered at the thought, betraying her, even as her brain told her not to hope. She shook her head, tugging at her yarn. A knock shattered the quiet like a hammer through glass. Hard. Loud. Unmistakable.
Nettie jerked upright, her heart lodging somewhere near her throat. Her knitting needles slipped from her fingers, clattering into her lap, tangling themselves hopelessly in the half-formed knit cap. She sat frozen, ears straining. The sound came again—this time not just a knock, but a thud that carried weight. Purpose.
Someone was banging at her front door.
And then a low roar a few moments later. Not a human sound exactly, more like the faint rumble of distant thunder—or a truck muffler—or maybe just her imagination.
Her body tensed.
Slowly, carefully, she unfurled her legs, grimacing at the stiff pull of muscles that had been cross-legged too long. She slid off the couch, toes curling into the worn rug, and crouched low. Her hand reached blindly under the couch cushion until her fingers brushed against cold metal. The small pistol her grandmother had insisted she keep there.
Not her idea.
Never her idea.
She hated guns. It was heavy when she pulled it free, the weight alien and wrong in her palm. Her chest tightened. She’d never fired it, not once. She doubted she could even aim it straight, let alone pull the trigger. If someone broke in, she’d be more likely to drop it and sob pathetically than to play hero. Maybe she’d beg them not to take her yarn stash. Maybe even offer them cookies if they’d just go away.
Her breath came shallow, shaky. She strained her ears. Nothing. The roar was gone, and what followed was silence. Asilence so absolute she could hear the tick of the clock on the far wall.
With trembling fingers, Nettie shoved the gun back under the couch where it belonged. Safe and out of her reach. She wasn’t a gun person. She was… well, a hide-in-the-linen-closet-with-her-teddy-bear type of person.
Creeping toward the front door, she pressed her back to the wall and moved in awkward bursts, like a child playing hide-and-seek, and convinced her enemy couldn’t see her if she moved slow enough. Her heart pounded in her ears. She edged to the window and carefully pulled at the curtain sheers just enough to peer outside.
Her breath snagged.
Nothing.
No masked intruder. No shadowy figure lurking in the hedges.
Just… a bag?
A brown paper bag, sitting square in the middle of her welcome mat. Ordinary— except for the bow tied neatly to one of the handles. A bright pink and cheerful bow that looked so out of place in the fluorescent porch light at nine at night.
Her mouth dropped open.
Startled, she hesitated, wondering if this was some sort of sick and twisted joke. Maybe the bag was on fire and she just couldn’t see it yet? That would be her luck, someone would deposit a flaming bag of dog poo onto her porch after everything… and wait.
Nothing.
She waited – and watched.
No smoke, no sirens, no flames— zilch. No suspicious rustling. The bag just sat there, smug and silent. The street beyond her yard was empty. The occasional lamppost buzzed faintly, but no cars cruised past, no neighbors walked their dogs.The entire block looked asleep, wrapped in shadows as the world faded away for an evening to rest before greeting the dawn.
Her eyes darted to the clock. Too late for solicitors. Too early for drunk pranksters.
