Because when it ended, and it would end, I knew I wasn’t walking away the same man. If anything was going to bring me home, it was the memory of her.
? Holly ?
When I kissed Jackson, I hadn’t realized I was signing up to be his. For him to be mine. Or maybe I had and just didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it in the small things. The way his hand always seemed to find the small of my back, guiding without pushing. The way his eyes tracked a room, not just watching me, but watching for me.
Sometimes it was more than I could handle. His hand would land on my knee under the table, warm and steady, and before I even realized it my body jolted—reflex, fear wired into my bones.
He noticed. Every time. His hand would start to retreat, slow and careful, like he was giving me space. Like he’d rather cut off his own arm than scare me.
And every damn time, I caught him, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, dragging his hand right back where it was. My pulse screaming, my throat tight, but needing that contact anyway.
It scared me. Not because I didn’t want it—I wanted it too much. But because the last time someone forced their way into my world, they hadn’t protected anything. Least of all me.
So I kept my guard up, even as part of me leaned into the warmth of him. The voice in my head warned he could break me. The louder voice whispered he already was. Most days, it felt like I was walking a tightrope—balancing between fear and wanting, between the ghosts that still clawed at me and the man who made me feel almost safe. I didn’t always trust myself to stay steady. Which was why I kept busy. Kept moving. If I let myself stop, let myself feel too much, I was afraid I’d fall.
I was constantly working with Hannah and my parents on the business. We’d agreed not to wait until I graduated—people like Maria, people like me, didn’t have time for that. They needed help now. When exams or life knocked me flat, Hannah picked up the slack. She wasn’t about to let this dream stall out. And ever since Hannah begrudgingly served up that burnt pound cake, Mom had inserted herself into every step, insisting she’d have a say. And honestly? I didn’t mind.
Some nights, when the clubhouse quieted down to the clink of bottles and the murmur of voices on the back porch, I’d pass by the window and see Hannah and my mother sitting together at the table with my legal pad between them. At first they circled each other like boxers—tap, tap, test the guard—but slowly the footwork changed. My mother started showing up with folders and tabs. Hannah started teasing her less and trusting her more. My dad just did his best to keep them from burning the whole county down. He and Mr. Mills were getting good at tag-teaming the dynamic duo that their wives made up.
One night I turned the corner and caught the tail end of a private conversation.
“—waiting for her to come to you won’t fix what you broke,” Hannah was saying, not unkindly. “Show up. Do the work. Don’t talk about loving her; prove it.”
“I am trying,” my mother answered, and I heard the crack in her voice before she smoothed it away. “She’s…stubborn.”
“So are you.” Hannah’s mouth twitched. “She gets it honest.”
They saw me a second later. The pad lay open on the table: cost projections, staffing notes, a messy list of grant targets my dad’s office had spit out for her. Forus.
“You’re late honey,” Mom said, brushing a crumb from her dress like she hadn’t been caught caring. “Sit. We’re arguing about names.”
“We’re not arguing,” Hannah said. “We’re just trying to figure out how to tell you your ideas are terrible.”
“My names are not terrible,” I said, instantly defensive. “They’re heartfelt.”
“‘Haven House’ is a bank,” Hannah said. “Or a timeshare. Or a cult.”
“‘Second Dawn’ sounds like a skincare line,” my mom added, crisp.
“It’s my business,” I said, heat rising. “I’ll name it what I want.”
They shared a look—one of those quick, zipper-sealed expressions women had when they agreed on something without a word.
Hannah leaned back. “Good.”
“Good?” I repeated, thrown.
Mom nodded once. “If you can’t claim the name, you won’t be able to claim the rest.” I don’t think she realized how much she just sounded like Hannah. She slid a pen toward me. “So claim it.”
I stood there, suddenly aware that they weren’t trying to take it from me; they were waiting for me to take it for myself. The heat in my cheeks shifted into something steadier.
“Fine,” I said, snatching the pen. “How about…Willow’s Harbor?”Willowwas Hannah’s idea—strong, rooted, bending without breaking.Harborcame from my mom.
The look they traded this time was pride, admiration, a truce drawn in ink and it settled something tight in my chest.
The nights got shorter. The air pressed hotter. The countdown got louder.
On the last week before he left, Jackson and I ended up alone in front of my parents’ guesthouse, the one tucked back by the stand of trees where cicadas screamed like an orchestra. Mom hadn’t exactly been thrilled about Jackson. Pretty sure her dream boyfriend for me wore loafers and carried a briefcase, not boots and camo that he swapped for leather on the weekends. But then she started catching the way he looked at me, like I was oxygen, and even she couldn’t argue with that kind of devotion. Devotion that I had started to accept. The main house lights across the lawn flickered off and we lay across the hood of Sally underneath a hot summer sky full of stars.
