Why I ran. What I left behind. Why I kept it from him.
Not the short version I gave him the other night.
He deserves the truth. We deserve a real shot.
It’s not all because of him—okay, maybe a big part of it is—but I know I can’t pin my healing on a man. Not even on one like him.
That part’s mine to fix.
So while he’s out on the mill floor, probably half-covered in sawdust and barking orders at Mack, I pick up my phone. And I call my mother back.
It’s time to stop avoiding the people I left behind.
Time to face whatever comes next.
The phone rings twice. Then three times.
Finally, she picks up.
“Willow? Is that you?” Her voice is high-pitched and panicked. “Oh, thank God! Willow, it-it’s Grandpa.”
The air in the office goes thin.
I sit up straight, grip tightening on the phone.
“What? What happened?” I ask, heart slamming against my ribs.
“He collapsed last week. They rushed him to the hospital. I didn’t know how to reach you, I didn’t know if I should call the police to find you?—”
My throat closes.
Collapsed.
Hospital.
No. No, no, no.
I didn’t know.
God, how could I know?
Aside from my father, Grandpa is the only family member I have who’s shown me any affection. He’s a sweet and kind old man, and I love him dearly.
I’m not blaming my mother. She is who she is, and I’m sure she has her reasons.
But all at once, the ground I’ve just started to build beneath me starts crumbling.
The warmth of Thatcher’s home, the rhythm of the mill, the slow, sweet trust that’s been blooming between us—it all tilts sideways.
My heart pounds. My stomach knots. My fingers are trembling as I scribble down the name of the hospital.
“You need to come home, Willow. You need to say goodbye to Grandpa.”
I hang up.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste salt on my lips.
CHAPTER 39
