I sat on the edge of the bed and ate the bread pudding slowly, savoring each bite. It was delicious—rich and sweet with a hint of rum and maybe bourbon, caramel notes mixing with vanilla, thekind of thing someone's grandmother made and refused to share the recipe for because it was family and family meant secrets worth keeping.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket, pressing against my thigh like a reminder.
I pulled it out, staring at the screen. I had her number now. We'd exchanged them at the bar, casual and easy like no time had passed at all, like twelve years was nothing more than a pause in a conversation we'd always meant to continue.
Before I could overthink it, before I could talk myself out of it or decide I was being stupid or remember all the reasons this was a bad idea, I typed:Coffee at 9?
I hit send before the doubt could catch up.
The reply came almost immediately, phone buzzing in my hand like her answer had been waiting just as impatiently as I had.
Yes. I'll pick the place.
My heart jumped. Just a little. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make me smile at my phone like an idiot who'd forgotten how to be careful with hope.
I set it down on the nightstand, finished the bread pudding—scraping the bowl clean because it was too good to waste and because I'd been raised better than to leave food behind—and got ready for bed. The shower was hot, the water pressure better than expected for a building this old. I stood under it longer than necessary, letting the day wash off me in steam and heat, watching the water circle the drain and take some of the heaviness with it, carrying away dust and sweat and the weight of everything I'd carried today.
When I finally crawled into bed, exhaustion hit me all at once—bone-deep, the kind that came from emotional weight more than physical exertion, from a day that had asked too much and somehow given back more.
But when I closed my eyes, it wasn't my mother's vacant smile I saw. It wasn't the ranch I couldn't visit or the coyotes I'd killed or the card in my wallet with an address I didn't understand and a meeting I was avoiding because I didn't know what it would cost me.
It was Sophie.
Except the memories were different now. Not just the past—summers at the pool, nights under the stars, the way she used to laugh at my terrible jokes and throw pebbles at my window when she couldn't sleep—but something new. Something present. Something that felt like it belonged to both of us instead of just me carrying it alone.
Present-day Sophie. The woman on the dock with soft copper hair and curves that made me suddenly, acutely aware I had hands and a pulse and desires I'd buried under missions and discipline. Eyes that still looked at me like I mattered, like the years apart hadn't erased whatever connection we'd had, like maybe we could build something new on the foundation of who we used to be.
Present-day me. Standing beside her. Talking. Laughing. Walking through Charleston like we'd never been apart, like the years had folded up and disappeared, like we could just pick up where we left off and pretend the distance had never happened.
The images blurred together—past and present overlapping until I couldn't tell which was which anymore and didn't care because they both felt real. Her laugh sounding the same but richer, layered with experiences I didn't know yet. Her smile familiar but new, shaped by years I hadn't been there to witness. The way she looked at me—like she was seeing both versions at once and deciding they were both worth knowing, both worth keeping.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt something I'd forgotten existed.
Home.
Not a place. Not Valentine or the ranch or anywhere on a map you could point to and say "there."
Just ... home. The feeling. The sense that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, with exactly who I was supposed to be with, like the universe had been working toward this moment for twelve years and had finally gotten it right.
And something else, too. Something fragile and dangerous that I wasn't ready to name yet but could feel growing in my chest like a seed that had been dormant too long.
Hope.
I let myself sink into it as sleep pulled me under, pulling me down into dreams where the past and present danced together and Sophie's laugh echoed through both, familiar and new and mine again.
9
SOPHIE
Beth sat cross-legged on the bed, sipping coffee from the hotel’s tiny paper cup like it was a ceremonial event, while Natasha leaned against the vanity, scrolling through her phone with one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.
“So,” Beth said, drawing the word out. “How are you feeling about your very casual run-in with the childhood best friend who looks like he walked off a movie set?”
I paused mid-mascara swipe and glanced at her in the mirror. “It was … surreal.”
“Surreal is not an answer,” Natasha said. “Surreal is what people say when they don’t want to admit they’re internally combusting.”
Beth nodded solemnly. “She combusted.”
