Aunt Rose pulls up to the departure lane, and we just sit there. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks until she decides to break the silence. “Did your mom ever tell you about your dad?”
The question comes out of nowhere. “No, not really.”
She nods like she already knew that answer, her gaze distant and unfocused. She exhales slowly. “Well, given everything… I think it’s time I tell you a little about him.”
I tilt my head, uncertain whether I want to hear what she’s about to say, or if I’m even ready for it.
“Skye was always a dreamer,” she continues. “A romantic. You know that about her.”
Her words bring a flicker of a memory, of my mom with faraway eyes whenever she used to talk about love, like it was something both magical and fleeting.
She pauses for a moment. “She met your dad one summer. Fell for him hard. Just like someone else I know,” she says, her lips curving into a bittersweet smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
I’m not sure I want to hear the rest, but she doesn’t wait for me to stop her. “When she got pregnant with you, everything changed. Your mom was imagining a future with him, but he was more interested in doing things his own way. He left and never looked back.” She looks down for a second, sorrow in her voice when she picks it up again. “Your mom never stopped loving him. When you came along, she made it her mission to make sure you’d never have to feel that kind of hurt.”
I try to process what she says but the ground slips out from under me. My thoughts scatter, struggling to keep up. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because, sweetheart,” she says softly, “Skye let go of what she thought was the greatest love of her life to make room for the real thing, which wasyou. He never fought for either of you. And now, you’ve found someone who is. You’ve got the chance to hold onto something real, and you deserve it, just like your mom did.”
Her words hit harder than I expected. They’re the kind of truth that crashes over everything I’ve been holding onto. I don’t have an answer yet. I’m not sure I ever will. What I do know is I’m not ready to face whatever it is that’s stirring inside me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches over and squeezes my hand gently. “You don’t have to say anything, hun. Just think about it. You still deserve some time to yourself, no matter what. But sometimes the bravest thing we can do is open our hearts again, even when we’re afraid.”
She speaks like she knows something I don’t, but right now, I don’t see him fighting for anything.
Knox hasn’t tried to reach out. Never once made a move to pull me back in. Some small part of me has been clinging to the idea that maybe he would.
I wanted space. I thought Ineededspace. But now that I’ve had it, I’m not so sure. Did I want him to fight for me? Or was I just too scared to face the mess? The real truth is, I don’t know what I want. I’m so tangled up in what I thought I needed that I don’t even know where I end and the hurt begins.
So here I am, waiting for something that might never come. Deep down, I know I need to figure out whatIwant before I can ever hope for him togive me what I need.
I’ve been homefor a week now, but the solitude I’ve been craving isn’t bringing me the peace I thought it would. The house that used to hum with the comforting noise of familiar things now sits unnervingly quiet. The summer air, thick with humidity, sticks to my skin in a way that’s more stifling than soothing. My heart aches for a place that feels more like home than this lonely space. Preferably, a place that holds cool breezes, bright laughter, and, most of all, the man who was a part of it all.
And, just to add insult to injury, my luggage never made it back with me.
I’ve talked to my aunt a few times since I’ve been home, both of us carefully skirting around the topic of Knox. It’s easier that way, even if it doesn’t hurt any less. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy, throwing myself into anything I can find time for.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time with Mrs. Boone. She’s easy to be around, always humming or chatting while she putters around her garden. We’ve spent hours trimming rose bushes and planting herbs. All small tasks that fill the silence I can’t seem to fill on my own. Her stories are a comfort, a welcome distraction from the things I know I should be facing.
This afternoon, while we’re out in her garden, she pauses, leaning on her trowel to wipe the sweat from her forehead. She gives me that sharp, no-nonsense look of hers, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she says. “Something on your mind?”
I shrug, trying to brush it off while adjusting a few flowers. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Tired, huh? Doesn’t quite sound like the whole story. Youcan talk to me, you know. Sometimes sharing the burden makes it a little lighter.”
For a split second, I consider keeping everything locked up tight. But the weight in my chest wins. “Things have…changed. I thought I had it all under control, but now I feel like I’m clinging to something that’s slipping away.”
She sets her gardening tools aside and looks at me with an understanding that only comes with age and wisdom. “Heartbreak’s a sneaky bugger.”
I let out a humorless laugh. I guess I’m not as good at pretending as I thought. “Well, do you have any wise words for someone who fell for a man only to discover he was technicallymarried?”
Her eyes widen just a bit before she lets out a low whistle. “Bless your heart. And welcome to my life.”
I blink at her, utterly thrown by her response. “Wait, what? Care to elaborate?”
She pats the bench beside her, inviting me to sit. She adjusts her sunhat, leaning back with a wistful smile. “I was young. Charlie Boone swept me off my feet with that southern charm of his and those baby blues that could talk you into just about anything. We were head over heels, married in a matter of months.”
