“He reached out,” she says carefully. “I wanted to see him. We’re friends, Eden. He’s been good to me.” She twists her hands. “And I didn’t think it would be a problem. We’ve been gone months now, and Kade hasn’t bothered to show up.”
The words hit like a slap—sharp, unexpected. I look away, blinking hard. “Right,” I whisper, “of course.”
Martha’s face crumples instantly. “Shit, Eden, that’s not what I meant.” She kneels beside the bath, grabbing my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“It’s fine,” I lie.
“It’s not. I saw the look on your face.” She squeezes my fingers gently. “I’m an idiot.”
I swallow, forcing a shaky smile. “Just, next time you’re gonna invite our old life here, tell me first. Please.”
“I will. Promise.”
She stays there a moment longer, holding my hand as if to anchor me.
Kade hasn’t bothered to show up.Maybe she didn’t mean it, but the truth in it stings all the same.
As Martha leaves the room, humming softly to cover her guilt, I sink deeper into the bath and close my eyes.
I can’t be mad. She didn’t have to follow me here. In fact, I told her to stay. And she and Rabbit were good friends. It may have been more, but I never really asked. Guilt pangs in my chest. I ripped her away from the only family she ever really knew, so if she wants to see her friends, then I’ll suck it up.
The next morning starts the same as every other, but my chest feels a little tighter than usual. I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, Martha’s words replayed in the dark.“Kade hasn’t bothered to show up.”
I try to shake it off as I walk to the bookshop, scarf pulled tight around my neck, the cold nipping at my cheeks. The village is waking up slowly, with dogs tugging on leads, bakery doors swinging open, and the faint smell of cinnamon drifting across the square.
By the time I push open the bookshop door, the morning feels almost normal again.
The bell jingles overhead. “Morning,” I call.
No answer.
Mrs. Wainwright is nowhere to be seen, which usually means she’s deep inside a book fort or complaining to someone about the council.
I set my bag down, shrug out of my coat, and start stocking yesterday’s deliveries. The calm helps. Books don’t talk back. Books don’t say things that keep you awake all night. Well, unless it’s a good book.
I’m halfway through straightening a stack of crime novels when the bell above the door rings again.
“Morning, Eden.”
I turn, surprised to find Pete standing there, hands in his pockets, hair damp from the mist outside, looking far too handsome for someone who’s been up since before sunrise.
“Oh, hi,” I say, smiling. “Perfect timing. We tried your soup last night.”
His face brightens. “Yeah? How was it?”
“Delicious. You’re definitely getting the hang of this ‘soupmaker extraordinaire’ title.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good. Glad you liked it.”
He steps closer, his tone dipping slightly. “Listen, I was thinkin’ . . . you mentioned you’ve got a scan coming up.”
My eyebrows lift. “I did?”
“You did,” he says gently. “Couple weeks ago, when you were ordering those herbal teas. Said you’d have to take time off.”
Oh, right. I vaguely remember it now, saying the date aloud without thinking.
“Well,” he continues, shifting his weight, “I just wanted to say, if you need someone to go with you, I’m around. I know Martha will be there, but, y’know, if you want another set of hands or . . . just company.”
