There’s no hiding the fact my carefully rebuilt peace begins to crack.
After the fundraising is over, I don’t head back to my apartment. Instead, I let muscle memory guide me to the place my heart needs to be. The radio hums low. I leave it that way because silence feels louder.
Brennan.
At Cedar Market.
Pushing a cart like he’s supposed to be there.
The road to my parents’ place winds the way it always has—two lanes, a stretch of trees, curving around the old coffee mill that smells faintly of dark roast first thing in the morning. Willow Creek never changes; it just transforms.
It adapted when I came home, but now? With Brennan? I’m going to be expected to conform to his presence here when he’s part of the reason I came home with my tail tucked between my legs.
How am I supposed to forget that?
I pull into their driveway and cut the engine. Despite my bravado, my chest still feels like I forgot how to take a full breath somewhere between the bread and produce aisles. I press my forehead to the steering wheel and take deep breaths.
Then my head turns to the side when the front door opens. My mom must have seen my car. Of course she did. Opening the door, I slide out and head right for her.
“Amy? What’s wrong?” she asks.
I barely get a foot over the threshold before she’s pulling me into her, arms warm, familiar and unyielding. I breathe her in—laundry detergent and something baked, the scent of home that never fails to undo me.
My dad is already standing from his chair, concern etched deep into his face. “Are you okay, Boots? What happened?”
My lips curve briefly at my Dad’s childhood nickname for me—derived from a time when I wouldn’t take off my boots, even to go swimming. Helpless, I give them both the answer, “I ran into Brennan.”
The room stills. Saying his name in the house is akin to saying Beetlejuice three times. My parents remember everything involving Brennan—the good and the absolute devastating.
Mom’s arms tighten around me, just a fraction. Dad exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the way he does when he’s angry and refuses to let it show. “Where?”
“You were doing the fundraiser at Cedar Market,” Mom jumps in before I can answer.
“Yes.” I hesitate. “But that wasn’t the first time I saw him since he moved to town.”
My mom guides me to the couch and sits beside me, never letting go. My dad lowers himself back into his chair, hands clasped, jaw set.
“So, it’s true,” Mom says. “He’s really here.”
“Yeah. He moved to town.”
“Where did you see him before?” My dad growls.
“The Honeyed Hearth.” I scrub my hands over my face. “Because why not ruin all my spots?”
My parents exchange a look. A silent conversation passed between them with a single glance, the quiet shorthand they used when I was a kid whenever they wanted to keep something between themselves. Like who was in charge of leaving money as the Tooth Fairy, whether or not “Santa” was going to spring for hockey tickets, or if it’s time to confess that the Elf on the Shelf did not move on his own.
They knew Brennan. Liked him. Loved us together. Granted, they’d only met him when they visited campus, he waspractically family from all our calls home. I used to think the same thing about his parents.
I’ve always hoped they were doing well. It’s not their fault their son is an unmitigated ass.
As for my parents, they appreciated his concern for me, his protectiveness. They’d chat with him when he answered my phone while I was studying. They listened to him talk about his plans, his future, and the certainty of the world waiting for him.
For us.
That there would be an us.
They didn’t grieve the loss of him the way I did. But I know it’s made them cautious with people and promises.
