He swallows, his brow tightening. I reach for his hand instinctively, and to my relief, he lets me take it.
“I know that probably sounds petty,” he mutters. “And I know it’s not fair to him. Hewasa good guy. I mean, he’s still a good guy. But this, this version of him? The one who’s with you? I don’t know where that fits yet. I guess I’m still figuring it out.”
“I am too,” I say softly. “I didn’t plan this, Matt. I never in a million years thought I’d feel anything again, let alone for him. I wish it were simpler.”
Matt doesn’t speak for a beat. When he does, his voice is quieter. “I know it’s not my place. You’re allowed to live, Mom. You are. And I want that for you. But part of me still feels like it’s,well, I don’t know. Disrespectful. Like he waited long enough to feel justified. And maybe that’s unfair, but it’s how I feel.”
I nod, throat tight. “It’s not unfair.”
He looks at me then, his eyes softer. “I need to know one thing.”
“What?”
“Do you want it to work out with him?”
I hesitate.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think I did. I think maybe I still do. But tonight, I kept thinking about your Dad. About how happy he would’ve been with all of this. About the damn song. And I felt like I was betraying him by being happy.”
Matt nods like he understands that better than he wants to. “You know what Dad used to say?”
“What?”
“‘Some shots are ugly as hell, but they still count.’”
I blink at him. “What does that even mean?”
He smirks, sitting back on his heels. “It means sometimes you throw something up from the wrong angle, with bad form, and zero finesse, and it still goes in. Not because it was perfect. But because it mattered enough to try. Maybe this thing with Noah. It’s messy. Maybe it always will be. But if it ends up being real, then maybe that’s enough.”
I press my lips together, overwhelmed.
He looks at me, eyes clear now. “I’m not saying I’m okay with it yet. But I’m not gonna stand in your way. You loved Dad. We all did. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to love again. And Noah is a good guy. Even if he’s breaking promises to the dead.”
I pull him into a hug, burying my face in his shoulder.
He hugs me back tightly, his voice muffled in my hair. “Please, Mom… if you’re going to do this, don’t do it halfway. Either give it a real shot, or let it go. No one wants to be someone’s backup plan.”
“I know.” And I mean it.
Because I’m starting to wonder if maybe this whole thing, the grief, the guilt, the what-if of it all, isn’t something I have to figure outbeforeI love someone again.
Maybe it’s part ofhowI learn to love someone again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I inhale deeply as the wind rolls up Queen Anne Hill, sharp with salt from the Sound. The bench is warm beneath me, the fading afternoon sun sinking into the warped wood. This is the view—the one you see on postcards and social media and the back of ferry brochures. But none of them ever quite get it right. Not like this.
The Space Needle stands like a toy in the distance, proud and strange, perfectly framed by the glass-and-steel thicket of downtown. Below, the bay shimmers, dotted with ferries carving slow, patient paths across the water. Mount Rainier stands guard over it all, soft and surreal, like someone painted it with a brush made of clouds.
Tourists murmur and shuffle around me, angling for the perfect photo, but I don’t hear them. Not really. I sit. Let it all soak into me. The city, the salt, the memory of Owen’s hand brushing mine in moments just like this.
We used to come here when life was too loud. When a decision needed clarity or the day had simply swallowed us whole. We’d sit side by side, saying nothing, waiting for the twilight to hush everything into stillness. In those quiet pauses, it felt as though time was folding in on itself.Like we were infinite.
“I should probably come to your grave for this,” I whisper. The breeze tugs at the ends of my braids. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe it’s Owen, tugging like he used to, teasing, gentle, so alive. “But it never feels like you’re there. You’re here. In the wind and the skyline and that mountain. The ground doesn’t suit you. Not even in death.”
I glance at the thermos beside mine. His thermos. Still dented from that camping trip where he tried to fight off a raccoon with it.
“I brought you coffee. I know, I know, you’d prefer something stronger, but I still can’t drink whiskey without crying, so this’ll have to do.”
