I stopped. I was not going to go down that road. Not now. Not this soon.
"Don't what?" His voice was quiet. Close.
"Don't know you. The real you." I folded the foil over the pie plate with exaggerated precision, not looking at him. "Everyone sees the polite new hand. The good horseman. The guy who says ma'am and helps refill the lemonade." I swallowed. "They don't know about Clearwater. About Sarah. About the screen door." My voice dropped. "About what you said to me in the truck."
He was silent for a long moment.
"They don't have to," he said. "Not yet."
"I know. I just—" I pressed my palms flat on the table, steadying myself. "I'm keeping you in a box. This whole thing—us—it's in a box. And I'm watching my family live their lives out loud, and Wyatt and Ivy are on the swing, and Liam's got his arm around Stephanie, and my parents are being disgustingly in love after forty years, and I'm standing here wrapping pie and pretending I don't have someone too."
The words came out before I could stop them. Before I could edit or manage or perform.
Jack's expression didn't change. But something behind his eyes shifted—a warmth, a recognition, a patience that was starting to feel less like restraint and more like faith.
"You're not ready," he said. Not a question.
I stared down at the pies and forced the quiver out of my chin. “No,” I whispered.
"That's okay."
I shook my head, looking up at him again. “It doesn't feel okay. It feels like I'm lying to everyone I love."
"You're not lying. You're taking your time." He reached over and adjusted the foil on the pie—a small, practical gesture that put his hand close to mine without touching it. "There's no rush, Maggie."
"Everyone keeps saying that. You. Ivy. Like time is this unlimited resource, and I've got all of it."
"You've got more than you think."
I looked at him. He looked at me. The yard was empty now, just the two of us and the string lights and the wedding tree presiding over everything with its ancient, patient branches.
"Later?" I asked.
"Later," he said. And this time, when he walked away, I let myself watch him go.
I stood under the tree for a long time after that.
I wasn't there yet. I knew that.
But standing in the dark, listening to the wind move through the old oak, I could feel something shifting. Not a decision—not yet. More like the ground preparing for one. The soil turning over. The first green thing pushing up through dirt that had been packed hard for a very long time.
I gathered the last of the dishes and walked back to my cabin.
Not empty, exactly. Not tonight.
Tonight it just felt like mine. And for the first time, that felt like enough.
11
Jack
The Blackwood family dinner stayed with me for days.
Not the food—though Louisa's brisket deserved whatever reputation it had—but the shape of it. The noise and chaos and warmth of a family that actually liked each other. The way they argued over the last piece of cornbread and gave each other grief about ancient embarrassments and reached for the same serving spoon and laughed when their hands collided.
It reminded me of home. Of Sunday dinners at Clearwater, before the world caved in.
Mom at the stove. Dad at the head of the table. Sarah stealing food off my plate when she thought I wasn't looking, then denying it with crumbs on her fingers.
