My throat tightens, and I want to tell him it’s him. He’s the one who’s cracked me open. But we’re not the kind of people who say things like that out loud—at least not today. Not with the cleaners due in an hour and his overnight bag ready by the door.
The sun’s starting to dip now, the October chill creeping in around the edges. Reid stands and dusts off his jeans, then reaches for my hands, pulling me gently to my feet. His hands linger at my hips, then at my face. Eyes scanning me like he’s cataloging every inch.
“You sure you’re okay if I go?”
“Yes.”
“Cleaner’s coming at four?”
“Yes.”
“You promise you’ll rest?”
I place my palms against his chest, right over the spot where I know his heart kicks hardest. “I promise.”
His thumbs brush my jaw. “Call me the second you need anything.”
“I always do.”
He kisses me once slowly, then drops to one knee and presses his mouth to my bump.
“Stop kicking your mom in the ribs.”
“She saysmake me.”
“Menace.”
I grin. “Takes after you.”
He lets out a breath and kisses me again—my mouth, my cheek, my forehead—then heads for the truck, his duffel swinging low in one hand, keys in the other.
I watch from the step as he drives away and then move slowly through the house, running one hand along the wood panel in the hallway as I pass. The walls creak a little, and the air smells like lemon and soil.
In the living room, I sink down onto the couch, and one hand slides to my belly. The other cradles a throw pillow that smells like the lavender oil Harry used to keep in his sock drawer.
Outside the window, the garden is bathed in amber light. The treehouse still stands—rooted by memory and love and time.
“We’re okay.” The baby kicks once, and I smile. “He’s just gone for a night.”
Eventually, I get up and drift toward the back door, stepping barefoot out onto the porch again. The light’s faded now, but there’s a hush to it. Like the garden’s holding its breath.
The treehouse is still visible through the light, and I stare at it, hands braced on the porch railing.
I know Reid built that thing with Harry when he was nine. That they spent an entire summer hammering planks andsanding railings and debating what kind of rope ladder was most structurally sound. That it started as just a project, but turned into something else. That he’d share it one day, with someone he loved.
He hadn’t meant me when he was nine, but he means me now. Me and this baby and whatever the hell we’re building together. The weird, stubborn, beautiful fact of it all.
That treehouse was never just wood and nails; it was a promise. And the thought of it staying here, rotting beneath a For Sale sign and a quarterly mowing contract, kills me, so I can only imagine how Reid feels.
The breeze catches a wind chime still hanging from the eaves. I don’t remember seeing it before, but I guess Harry put it up.
I watch the chimes sway and clink against one another, glass twinkling slightly against the dusky light.
And there it is—a rainbow. Pale and sudden and achingly quiet, arching faintly in the sky behind the sight of the chimes.
I swallow, the sting instant in my eyes.
And then I reach for my phone.
