I want her. That hasn’t changed.
But now, wanting her comes with a question I can’t shake.
Is she driven by desire… or survival?
Joelle’s quiet. Not tense, just thoughtful, like she’s trying to fade into the background even while she’s feeding us.
“Did you make the bread, too?” Caleb asks, wiping stew from his mouth with a napkin.
Her eyes flick over, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. It’s nothing fancy.”
“It’s perfect,” I say before I can stop myself. And it is. Everything she touched tonight tastes like a hug, and I hate how much that affects me.
Caleb clears his throat, pulling out the empty chair beside him. “Sit for a minute, Joelle. Eat. You've been on your feet all day.”
She hesitates, then slides into the chair with a tired exhale she probably didn’t mean to make. Her shoulders slump, and the sight grips me more than I want to admit.
Caleb takes a bite of stew and nods. “You made this back when you lived here the first time.”
Her eyes widen. “You remember that?”
He shrugs. “Hard to forget the one good meal we ate during that whole mess.”
She huffs out a breath that’s half laugh, half sadness. “That was a rough few months.”
Rough doesn’t cover it. I remember her mother tearing through the house like a tornado, picking up things that weren’t hers, looking at us boys like we were in her way. Joelle was younger then, quiet and stone-faced while the world burned around her.
“You used to hide in the mudroom,” I say. The memory drifts back sharp and clear. “Right by the dryer. Said the heat helped your headaches.”
She looks at me, surprised. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“I noticed.”
Her gaze drops to her hands.
Caleb leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “You were always trying to stay out of everyone’s way,” he says. “Even when you didn’t need to.”
Joelle lets out a breath that shakes on the way out. “Old habits.”
We fall into a quiet that’s full of old memories we never talked about. Her thumb rubs the seam of her jeans, slow and nervous, and my throat tightens.
“There’s a spare room upstairs for your boy,” Caleb says. “When he comes, we can decorate it.”
Her breath catches. Not loud, but enough for all three of us to hear it.
“What’s his name?” I ask gently.
For a moment, she stares at her hands, her fingers tightening around themselves. Her chest rises on a shaky inhale.
Then she says, barely above a whisper, “Caleb.”
Silence drops heavy over the table.
My spoon pauses halfway to my mouth. The air thickensin my lungs. She named her son after my brother. A small, stunned sound escapes Caleb. “You… named him after me?”
She nods, eyes shiny. “You were the only safe place in this house back then. You didn’t talk much, but you were kind. You always checked on me. It felt like you were the only person who saw me. And that day we left…”
Caleb swallows hard, the tips of his ears going pink. “Jo…”
