My heart stumbles, but I shove it down, forcing myself to stay composed. The last thing I need is to come off unhinged. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of restraint.
Seeing her again after all these years—it’s like being sucker-punched. She’s the same, and yet she’s not. The fiery red hair, the porcelain skin, those piercing eyes—they’re all familiar, but now there’s something heavier in the way she holds herself, a shadow in her gaze that wasn’t there before.
“Sophia,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. Saying her name feels like stepping onto cracked ice, dangerous and unpredictable.
She hesitates, her hand lingering on the edge of the door. “Ray?” she murmurs, her voice soft, almost hesitant, as if she’s testing the name on her tongue.
Being so close to her feels like a breach in the fragile life I’ve built for myself and Pete. Yet I can’t stop looking at her—her vibrant hair cascading over one shoulder, the freckles dusting her pale skin, the faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes. She’s beautiful, but it’s a weary, scarred beauty, the kind that comes with surviving something most people wouldn’t. I’ve heard whispers about a fire and what happened to her and her husband. Now, the sight of the sleek prosthetic replacing her left arm makes me wonder about her story. The sleeve of her olive-green sweater covers it, but it still gleams under the soft light of the kitchen. Its smooth, modern design contrasts sharply with the faint scars on her upper arm. My chest tightens. I don’t know the details, but seeing the evidence of her tragedy up close hits harder than I expected. We have more in common than I thought.
“Soph, are you going to let Ray in?” Betty’s voice cuts through the silence, startling both of us.
Sophia steps back awkwardly, gesturing for me to come in. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Come in.”
I step inside, the warmth of the fireplace wrapping around me like a blanket—a wonderful sensation after the biting cold outside. I’ve missed this kind of warmth—the kind that speaks of family and home—but it feels foreign to me now. My world has been cold for too long.
The scent of gingerbread hits me, sweet and spiced, mingling with the faint, clean smell of pine. The house is the same as I remember—wood-paneled walls and high ceilings. It’s cozy and welcoming, but there’s a layer of tension in the air that’s hard to ignore. Maybe I bring it with me wherever I go.
Betty emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Ray Flanagan,” she says with a wide smile. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” I reply, nodding in her direction. Betty hasn’t changed much—still petite and composed, her short auburn hair neatly styled. There’s a warmth in her eyes, but also something guarded. I bet she knows who I’ve become. I’m sure the town gossip hasn’t been kind.
“What brings you by?” she asks, her tone curious.
“I wanted to see if you needed any help with the wedding,” I say, shifting my weight slightly. My hands stay buried in my coat pockets, a habit I’ve picked up to stop myself from fidgeting. “It’s coming up in a couple of days, and this weather has been brutal.”
“Thanks for offering. But John and Ben are handling most of it,” Betty replies.
“Good to hear,” I reply, shoving my hands into my coat pockets. “Figured I’d check, just in case.”
Betty tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Well, since you’re here, why don’t you have a seat? We’ve just finished up some baking.” Her tone is light, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or suspicion.
I follow them into the kitchen, where the scent of cinnamon and sugar intensifies. The space is warm and inviting. The large windows frame the snowy landscape outside, and a roaring fire burns in the stone fireplace. It’s the kind of place that could make you forget all your troubles if you let it.
On the counter, a partially constructed gingerbread house sits surrounded by bowls of icing and colorful candy. It’s a little crooked, the edges not quite lining up perfectly, and the sight of it makes me think of Sophia trying to put it together, her prosthetic hand working carefully. I hadn’t noticed it right away. But now, watching her lean over the counter, her fingers brushing a piece of candy into place, I can’t look away. The image tugs at something deep inside me I can’t quite name.
Betty busies herself by the sink, giving us the illusion of privacy, though I know she’s listening.
“You’ve got quite the project here,” I say, nodding toward the gingerbread house. It’s a weak attempt at small talk, but I don’t know how else to break the tension.
“It’s more for Mom than for me,” she says softly. Her voice is steady, but I can see the way her shoulders tense and the way her hands move a little too quickly. She’s nervous, though she’s doing a damn good job of hiding it.
“You’ve got talent,” I say, gesturing to the house. “Better than I could do.”
That earns me the faintest twitch of her lips, almost a smile. “You used to be pretty good with your hands,” she says, the words slipping out before she can stop herself. Her cheeks flush immediately, and she turns back to the counter, busying herself with a bowl of icing.
I chuckle softly, more out of surprise than anything else. “I guess some things don’t change.”
The air between us hums with unspoken words, memories pressing in from every direction. I want to ask her about her life, the things she’s been through, but I can’t bring myself to pry. I know what it’s like to carry secrets that feel like lead in your chest.
I lean against the island, watching her closely. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah. It has.” Her gaze flicks to mine. “How’s your son?” she asks, catching me off guard.
“Pete’s good,” I reply, my voice softening at the mention of him. “He’s five now. Keeps me on my toes.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m glad. He’s lucky to have you.”
I want to tell her she has no idea how hard it’s been, how much I’ve had to fight to keep Pete safe, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I say, “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? About me.”
