“Always,” I confirm.
I nearly lost my sister twice. Once to my own stubborn absence and once to the disease that tried to steal her. But we’re still here, and we’re stronger for what we’ve gone through together.
I meant what I said about not wanting to be the reason Avah puts her armor back on. But what I didn’t say—what I’m only now letting myself process—is that I want to be the reason she doesn’t need it at all.
I want crossword puzzle mornings and nights on the couch, curled up together. I want to hear her sing god-awfully off-key when she thinks nobody’s listening. Friendship is part of it, but that doesn’t even come close to everything I want from Avah.
Things I’ve spent my entire adult life making sure I’d never be stupid enough to want.
But it’s different with her. I’m different. Less like a man hiding behind dollar signs and spreadsheets and more like someone who could be happy in a town where people leave their garage doors open and wave at strangers.
A year ago, I would have given a swift middle finger to the idea of that kind of future. Now, as I signal for the turn toward downtown and the sun catches the peaks in the rearview mirror, the whisper of possibility makes me want to rise up and hold on with everything I’ve got.
21
AVAH
The coffee shopI’m sitting in is typical for Boulder—reclaimed wood tables, artsy prints on the walls, and overpriced oat milk lattes. Pretty sure I look like I’ve just been hit by a bus, which isn’t far off.
Jon’s chair is probably still warm across from me. Less than a minute ago, he stood up, buttoned his suit jacket with a practiced flick of the wrist, and walked out like a man who just wrapped up a productive quarterly review.
I press my palms against the table to keep myself anchored. No chance of me standing since my legs feel like overcooked linguine. My jaw aches from clenching it for the past twenty minutes.
A chair scrapes, and Piper drops into the seat next to me. She’d been a few spots away, half-hidden behind a laptop she never even glanced at. Despite her growing baby bump, she moves with the grace of a woman who spent a nursing career navigating around hospital equipment.
“Do you need a hug?”
“No.” I swallow hard. “Not if I’m going to hold it together, which I am.”
She nods. “Do you need me to follow that twatwaffle down the street and kick his ass?”
I almost smile at that. “I can’t have you going to jail at the start of Felix’s football season. It would ruin his concentration, and everyone in Colorado would hate me.”
“I’ll kick their asses, too.”
Even though my throat feels like I just swallowed a fistful of gravel, a laugh tries to work its way through. Because Piper would absolutely throw hands for me in the middle of the Pearl Street Mall on a Tuesday afternoon, without a second thought.
“Can we sit here for a minute? I need a sec for my legs to stop feeling like Jello.”
She settles in like she’s in no rush and wraps both hands around her iced latte. “We can stay here until they kick us out,” she assures me.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “And for coming.” We drove forty minutes to Boulder for my meeting with Jon so that whatever happened wouldn’t become Skylark’s next hot topic. It’s the best I can manage these days.
Piper’s hazel eyes narrow. “Tell me what the asshole said.”
I’m shredding a paper napkin into thin strips because my fingers need to be moving to hide the tremor in them. After Winnie told me she wants to sell the bakery, I couldn’t stop thinking about buying it. It’s so far removed from what I’ve been doing with my life—we’re not even talking the same zip code—it truly would be starting over. But I need to do something. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything with what I have now, which is approximately nothing.
So I texted and asked to meet Jon. I figured if I was going to get any of my money back, I needed to face him and make my case.
He responded within minutes, like he’d been waiting for me to crawl back into his orbit. I asked Piper to come with me because the thought of sitting across from him alone made my stomachcramp so hard I had to grip the edge of the bakery’s counter to stay upright.
I hate that with a fury that burns hotter than my anger at Jon. I grew up watching my mother tiptoe around a volatile man, and I swore I’d never be that soft or small or accommodating. I throw my opinions around like ticker tape and dare anyone to rain on my parade. My mother’s voice was a whisper in our house, so I made sure mine was a bullhorn because fear wouldn’t control me the way it did her.
I turned out pathetic anyway.
I flatten what’s left of the napkin with my palm, smoothing the shredded pieces like I can put them back together. There’s definitely a metaphor for my current situation in there, but it’s lost in the shitstorm playback of this latest experience.
“He was charming at first,” I say, working like mad to keep my voice steady. “Told me he understood why I left. Said he’d been doing a lot of reflecting.” I roll my eyes hard enough to strain a muscle. “Reflecting. Like he’s been journaling about his feelings instead of telling every mutual acquaintance we have that I cheated on him.”
