There’s a brief pause before he adds, just as steady:
“Always.”
That one word hits deep. A one word type of commitment that sounds very certain — like everything else about Troy.
“Okay,” I say softly.
He nods once, like that’s enough. Like we don’t need to make it bigger than it already is. And maybe we don’t. But he doesn’t move right away. Neither do I.
He reaches for me then, not in a hurry, just reassuring. He kisses me on top of my head and draws me closer until there’s no space left to question anything. I rest my forehead lightly against his chest, listening to the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. For once, I don’t feel like I’m catching up. I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
His hand moves over my hair in a quiet, absent way, like it’s already a habit. And just like that … everything that felt uncertain yesterday morning doesn’t anymore. To be with him feels like home.
Chapter 20
Troy
Four Months Later
Fall has settled over the ridge. The air carries a crisp edge now, cool enough in the mornings to see your breath, warm enough by afternoon to make you forget winter is coming. The trees have turned, deep gold and rust stretching across the hillside, and for the first time in a long while, everything feels exactly where it should be.
Including her.
I lean against the fence post at the edge of Rainey’s garden, phone in hand, recording. She has no idea.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I call out, keeping my voice even.
She spins around, a tomato in one hand, dirt on her cheek, hair half pulled back and already falling out again.
“I am not doing it wrong,” she fires back. “I’m innovating.”
I angle the camera slightly, catching the row she’s already worked through. It’s not perfect, nothing about her ever is. But it’s full. Red, ripe tomatoes hanging heavy on vines she almost didn’t plant.
“You’re pulling from the wrong side,” I say.
“They’re attached on all sides,” she argues. “That feels like a design flaw.”
I almost smile at her response. She turns back to the plant, squinting at it, then tugs again. The tomato comes free a second too fast, and she stumbles back half a step, catching herself before she loses balance.
“See?” she says, holding it up like a victory. “Controlled harvesting.”
“That wasn’t controlled.”
“It absolutely was.”
I keep recording. Because this right here is the part she doesn’t see. The part where she stayed.
The first time I saw this land, it was overgrown and fighting back. The runoff carved through the yard, the gutters hanging like they’d given up, the roof barely holding on.
Now, the drainage runs clean. The gutters hold. The roof’s solid. And the garden? The garden gives back.
She did that. It wasn't easy or perfect. But she did it anyway with a little advice and help.
Rainey straightens and brushes her hands on her jeans, leaving streaks of dirt behind like she doesn’t even notice anymore. A few months ago, she would have. Now it just means she worked.
“You going to help,” she calls out, “or just stand there documenting my greatness?”
“I’m documenting,” I say. “This is important.”
