Abilene Kentwood.
Not in a bad way.
Not in a “my kids are devils because of you” way.
More like… Hell, I don’t know.
In a “my kids adore you, and I’m low-key jealous about it” way.
We’re walking back home now, the long dirt path that winds behind the church, past the old oak tree, past Millie McDougal’s bakery that still smells of cinnamon rolls this late in the day, and toward the neighboring houses that sit at the far end of Willow Ranch.
The twins run ahead, chasing each other with a stick that Eliza insists is a “unicorn wand” and Caleb insists is a “sword of destiny.”
I let them decide among themselves which it is.
Beside me, Abilene walks quietly.
Not shy in a shrinking way, just quiet. She’s tuned in to a different frequency. The evening breeze pushes strands of her hair out of her braid, and she tucks them behind her ear with gentle fingers.
There’s a smear of lavender honey on her wrist.
I notice it before she does.
Silly for me to notice these things.
“Sorry about the volume back there,” I say, breaking the silence because talking is kind of what I do. “They get a little wild at potlucks.”
She glances at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “They’re kids, Jesse.”
“They’remykids. Entirely different species.”
That earns a soft laugh. I live for those.
“Seriously,” I continue, “I swear they’ve got a sixth sense for sugar. They could smell one of your honey sticks from a mile away.”
“I don’t mind.” She hesitates, then adds, “I like being around them.”
The warmth that hits my chest is instant.
Dangerous.
“It’s mutual,” I say, keeping my tone light. “If you ever go missing, I’ll know where they hid you.”
She laughs again, and damn, that sound does a lot to me. Not a hit-you-over-the-head kind of thing. More a soft ache. A tug.
We walk in comfortable silence.
It’s strange. I don’t usually do comfortable silence. I fill silence as if it’s my job.
But with her, I don’t have to.
When we reach her house, not far from mine, the twins take off across the yard as fast as two feral goats finally freed from a pen. I wince as Caleb trips, somersaults in the grass, jumps up unharmed, and shouts, “I did it!”
He did not “do it.” Gravity did it.
But I appreciate his confidence.
Abilene smiles softly at them, then turns her gaze toward her front porch. The wind chimes are singing, delicate and tinkly, the kind you’d find in an old-fashioned garden shop.
