"You want me to get the chairs?" Rowan asks, already starting to flip them onto the tables.
"Thanks," I say, watching as she moves through the space with the same efficiency I do. We've always been alike in that way, practical, methodical. Our mother used to joke that we were born with clipboards in our hands.
The thought of our mother doesn't bring the usual pang of grief, sharp and sudden. Instead, there's a gentler ache, a wistfulness that feels almost like healing.
"Penny for your thoughts," Rowan says, catching me staring into space with a rag in my hand.
I smile, resuming my wiping. "Just thinking about Mom. How she'd say we were twins born five years apart."
Rowan's movements pause, her expression softening. "She'd be proud of you, you know. Of how you've handled all this."
"Running away? Hiding?" The words don't have the bitter edge they used to.
"Surviving," Rowan corrects firmly. "Protecting your daughter. Building a life against impossible odds." She flips the last chair, then leans against the table. "Not many people could do what you've done, Sadie."
I duck my head, uncomfortable with the praise but warming to it all the same. "I had help."
"Yes, you did." Her smile turns teasing. "Tall, dark—and brewery-owning help."
I duck my head, smiling. "It's not just that. He…" I struggle to find words that don't sound trite. "He sees me. The real me. Not just the scared parts."
Rowan's eyes soften. "I know. I've seen how he looks at you." She crosses to the counter, taking the rag from my hands. "That's why I'm not worried about leaving."
My head snaps up. "Leaving? What are you talking about?"
She sighs, leaning her hip against the counter. "I got the job in Denver. The one I told you about months ago, before…"
"Before everything went to hell," I finish for her.
"Yeah." She looks guilty, which isn't an expression I'm used to seeing on my confident older sister's face.
"The timing's terrible, I know. But they need an answer by Friday, and it's a really good opportunity."
"You should take it," I interrupt, surprised by how much I mean it.
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I thought you'd be upset."
"I would have been. Before." I gesture vaguely, encompassing Oregon, Elliot, the whole mess we've just emerged from. "But things are different now. I'm different."
"You are," she agrees, studying my face. "I've never seen you like this. Even before Elliot, you were always… careful. Contained."
I laugh softly. "Paranoid, you mean."
"Cautious," she corrects with a smile. "But now you seem…"
"Free," I supply. The word feels right on my tongue, new but fitting.
Rowan nods, her eyes suspiciously bright. "Exactly."
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, me counting the register while she sweeps. Poppy sleeps in her playpen in the corner, exhausted from the trip and the excitement of being back in familiar surroundings.
"So," Rowan says finally, leaning on her broom. "When are you going to admit it?"
I look up from the cash drawer. "Admit what?"
Her expression is knowing, almost smug. "That you're in love with him."
The bills in my hand suddenly feel very interesting. I focus on straightening them, aligning the edges with precise movements. "It's complicated."
