For a moment, neither of us moved.The breeze rippled the grass, birds calling from the treeline.It was almost too much, standing there with him, seeing something in his eyes that went deeper than just land or timing.
He cleared his throat.“I’ll talk to my parents.See what they say.Maybe you can finally come to dinner instead of avoiding us.”
I glanced at him sharply.“I haven’t been avoiding you.”
He raised a brow.“No?”
I folded my arms, heat creeping up my neck.“I’ve been writing.And…” I hesitated.
“And?”he pressed gently.
“It’s been… some of it’s easy.Cathartic even.But some of it…” I exhaled shakily.“It feels like ripping open old wounds.Some moments I get lost in and have to claw my way back out of.I haven’t been avoiding you, Brody.I’ve been trying to heal.To survive the journey.”
He studied me quietly, something unreadable in his eyes.Finally, he said, “As long as you’re not avoiding me, Cass.That’s all I needed to know.”
The rough edge in his voice nearly undid me.
“I’m in no rush,” he added softly.“No pressure.The other night, I just needed you to know.But I’m here.Whatever you need.However long it takes.”
My chest ached, but it was different this time.Not broken, full.
I nodded, unable to speak.
We stood there together, side by side in the clearing that felt like a beginning, the world bending quietly around us.
I walked back slowly, the field still etched in my mind like a dream I wasn’t ready to wake from.My boots crunched over patches of thawing snow, the air cool against my face, sharp with the smell of wet earth and cedar.For once, I didn’t feel like I was running from something.I felt like I was walking toward something, toward myself.
By the time the house came into view, I was lighter, my chest uncoiling with every step.I pushed open the back door, shaking snow from my coat, and heard low voices from the kitchen.
Not just my mom’s.
Another.Deeper.Steadier.
I frowned, set my boots aside, and followed the sound.
Our lawyer, Mr.Novak, sat at the table, coffee in hand, posture professional but too at home in our kitchen.My mom looked up the second I stepped in, her expression tight with worry.
“Cassidy,” she said softly, like she’d been rehearsing it.
The lawyer’s gaze turned to me.“Good.You’re here.”
Something cold rippled through me.I slid into a chair, my fingers curling around the edge of the wood.“What’s going on?”
He folded his hands, his tone measured.“The Crown has decided to proceed.Andrew will face the full charges.There will be a trial.”
The word hit like ice water over the lingering warmth from the meadow.Trial.
He kept speaking, about process, about statements, about how, if he were Andrew’s counsel, he’d be urging him to plead guilty before it ever reached the courtroom.About how the evidence, the testimonies, would crush him under the weight of his own lies.
But all I heard was trial.The echo of it filled my ears until I thought I might be sick.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to, my throat too tight to manage more than one word.“Okay.”
He rose after a while, polite, professional, and left my mom hovering by the door.I stayed at the table, staring at my hands braced against the wood.They trembled, and I pressed my nails into my palms until I felt the sting.
I should have felt relief.Andrew wouldn’t get to walk away with what he did.But the thought of a courtroom, of revealing it all again under those lights, of the whispers sharpening into something louder...
It felt like drowning.
