When I finally pull into the driveway, I see the glow of the porch light and Hallie’s car still parked along the curb. I exhale slowly, gripping the steering wheel for a second longer before stepping out.
Inside, the house is quiet but still warm with signs of life. Hallie looks up from the couch as I walk in, a blanket draped across her lap and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn beside her.
“Hey,” she says, giving me a sleepy smile. “You’re back earlier than I thought.”
I force a smile and hang my purse by the door. “Yeah, the date didn’t exactly go as planned.”
Her brows lift. “Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head gently. “Not tonight. Thanks again for watching him.”
She studies me for a second, clearly not picking up on the tension I’m trying to hide, but she doesn’t push. “Cohen’s out cold. We watched half of a movie. He did his homework like a champ, then crashed with a comic on his chest.”
I smile at that. “Sounds exactly like him.”
Hallie stands, grabbing her jacket. “You okay?”
“I will be,” I mumble. “Eventually.”
She nods, giving my arm a quick squeeze before slipping out the door. I lock it behind her, and for a second I just stand there alone in the stillness of the house.
Upstairs, Cohen’s door is slightly ajar. I peek in and find him curled under the covers, one arm flopped over his pillow, hair a mess, the comic book still tucked in beside him.
I walk in and kneel beside the bed, gently brushing back his hair. His face is so peaceful, unaware of the storm inside me. I envy him that.
“Hey, lovebug,” I whisper, kissing his forehead. “Sweet dreams, my sweet boy. I love you to the moon.”
He doesn’t stir. He’s deep in his dreams, and I wonder if they’re full of superheroes and secret lairs and the kinds of battles that always end with the good guys winning.
Back in my room, I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. My dress feels too tight now, like it doesn’t belong to the version of me sitting here. I slip out of it and pull on an old hoodie.
As I move to hang up the dress, my eyes land on it. The art set.
Still pristine. Still untouched. The one Cole sent me just days ago.
I walk over slowly, my fingers barely touching the box. I haven’t found the courage to open it yet. Maybe I was scared of what it could mean, of what picking up a pencil again might stir inside me. But now, after tonight, there’s something gentle pulling at me, a quiet hum, like maybe it’s finally time.
I sit down and lift the lid. Everything inside is neatly arranged. It’s like he knew what I’d need, down to the weight of the sketchpad paper and the brand of charcoal sticks I used to steal from the studio at school.
A small folded note rests on top. I didn’t notice it before. My fingers tremble slightly as I open it.
You used to draw the way some people smile. I hope this helps you find your way back to that.
Yours always, Cole
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Not because I’m sad, but because I’m not sure how to feel at all.
I set the note down and close the lid gently.
I curl into bed and think of Cohen’s soft laughter from earlier echoing in my mind, and I realize something.
I’m standing in the in-between.
Between what was and what could be.
And I don’t know which way to go.
Chapter Seven
