Dylan stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched, breathing hard.
Dylan was livid and exhausted at the same time. “Go to bed Daisy. We’re done here.”
He felt wrecked all over again.
And the worst part?
Ali still didn’t know the truth.
Not about Daisy.
He didn’t know if he wanted her to. He didn’t want her to feel guilty. He knew how her mind worked.
Begin Again
Ali
Tuesday came fast. Or slow. She wasn’t really sure at this point.
Ashley had half her head buried in Ali’s closet, holding up options with a hum and shake of her head every few seconds.
Ali sat on the edge of her bed in a pair of soft biker shorts, chewing the inside of her cheek and trying not to spiral. Dylan had said comfy clothes.
“What about the book tee with the pink sleeves?” Ashley called out, holding it up like it was gold. “It’s cute, it’s you, and it’s breezy enough if y’all end up outside at the Marsh.”
Ali took it, fingers smoothing over the faded typewriter graphic and tiny stack of illustrated novels. “Okay,” she nodded, voice quiet.
The truth was, oversized tees had always been her comfort zone. Not just because they were easy—but because they made her feel safe. Hidden, but still herself. Being plus-size meant that most days were already laced with too much thinking. Too much adjusting. Too much wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard, or not enough.
“Hair?” Ashley asked, already pulling out a brush.
“French braid?” Ali offered. “It’s so freaking hot today.”
Ashley grinned. “Perfect. Casual picnic princess. Dylan’s gonna die.”
Ali smiled, but her stomach flipped. She wasn’t sure she was princess material. But maybe… maybe with Dylan, she didn’t have to be anything more than herself.
Ali pulled the front door closed behind her, clutching her phone and a cold bottle of diet lemonade like they might somehow anchor her. Dylan’s black Bronco was already in the drive, engine idling, windows down. He leaned his elbow against the sill, one hand on the wheel like a scene straight out of a dream she used to have ten years ago.
His sunglasses were pushed up into his messy brown hair, and when he saw her, he smiled slow and real— like seeing her made his whole day.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too hard back. “Hey.”
“Alison Presley...” His voice wrapped around her like warm flannel. “You ready?”
“Sure,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat and buckling up. Her oversized tee brushed her thighs when she moved, the soft fabric a comfort against the nervous flutter of her belly. She’d always loved this shirt— the pink sleeves, the stack of books. It felt like her. Safe. Easy.
Dylan pulled out of the drive and turned toward the historic district. “Thought we’d start with a little cruise,” he said. “I wanted to see how Mariner’s Lane is holding up.”
The SUV rolled slowly down the shady strip where the water peeked through the trees and the Victorians stood proud with their wraparound porches and hydrangeas. Ali leaned toward the window, eyes soaking up every gable and gingerbread trim.
“This one was always my favorite,” she murmured, pointing to a buttercream yellow house with blue shutters and ivy climbing the banisters. “It looks like a something from a storybook.”
Dylan glanced over. “You said you wanted to write a romance novel set in that house one day.”
“I did?”
He nodded. “You were eighteen. It was after Creative Writing. You rode home with me for the weekend because Daisy had a pledge thing going on. You made me slow down in the rain just to get a picture.”
