“There’s a guy who lives down the road from me. Keaton Sutter.” I turned back to the stove, adding the spaghetti to the boiling water. “He got matched up through Mountain Mates a while back. I used to see him around town—quiet, kept to himself, kind of like me. Then his bride showed up, and everything changed.”
“Changed how?”
“He’s happy.” The word felt strange in my mouth, too small for everything I meant. “I’d drive past their place and see them on the porch together, or working in the garden, or just…being. And I realized what I had wasn’t peace. It was emptiness. I’d been so busy avoiding getting hurt that I forgot to actually live.”
The kitchen went quiet except for the bubbling water and the soft sizzle of sauce. When I looked at Sydney again, she was smiling at me in a way that made me feel seen. Understood. It should’ve made me uncomfortable. Instead, it made me want to tell her everything.
“So you called Bobbi,” she said.
“So I called Bobbi.”
“I’m glad you did.”
I drained the pasta, plated it with extra sauce the way I liked it, and set a plate in front of her along with a basket of garlic bread and a simple salad I’d thrown together. She took a bite and made a sound of appreciation that went straight to my gut.
“This is really good.”
“It’s just pasta.”
“It’s perfect pasta.”
We ate together, the conversation flowing easier than I’d expected. She told me about the town she’d grown up in—small, insular, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business and had opinions about all of it. I told her about the jobs I’d worked before landing in Wildwood Valley, the apartments I’d lived in, the restlessness that had followed me everywhere until I found this mountain.
She laughed at my dry observations about small-town politics. I couldn’t stop staring at her smile.
After dinner, I washed the dishes while she dried, then we moved to the couch in front of the fireplace. Close, but not quite touching. The sun had set while we ate, and the cabin had gone dark except for the lamp in the corner and the soft glow from the kitchen.
“Can I tell you something?” Sydney asked, tucking her legs underneath her.
“Anything.”
She was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was softer than before.
“My parents weren’t just strict. They were controlling. Every decision I made had to go through them first—what I wore, who I talked to, what classes I took, what job I worked. They had this whole life planned out for me. Marry someone from our church, have babies, stay close to home, never want anything more than what they decided I deserved.”
I stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“If I pushed back, even a little, they’d make me feel like the worst daughter in the world. Guilt trips, silent treatment, tears. My mother once didn’t speak to me for two weeks because I got a haircut without asking her first.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I spent my whole life trying to be small enoughto fit inside their box. And it was never enough.Iwas never enough.”
“Sydney.”
“Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” She met my eyes, and the pain there was still raw despite her steady voice. “But it was also the best. For the first time in my life, I’m making my own choices. Even if they’re wrong. Even if I fall flat on my face. At least they’re mine.”
I reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her face before I could think better of it. Her breath caught, her eyes widening, and I let my fingers linger against her cheek.
“You’re brave,” I said. “You know that?”
She looked at me like I’d said something impossible. Like no one had ever told her that before.
“I don’t feel brave.”
“Brave people usually don’t.”
She leaned into my touch, just slightly, and the air between us changed—thickened. I was suddenly very aware of how close we were sitting, how soft her skin felt under my fingers, how her lips had parted just enough that I could see the edge of her teeth.
“Kross.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “There’s something I should tell you.”
“Okay.”
