I stare at it for another long moment, letting my fingers brush along the armrest. The metal shifting under my touch like it remembers being used. When I turn to face him again, his eyes are steady and show no judgment for why I’m staring at a swing with so many questions.
“Thank you,” I say, surprising myself with how much the words matter. “I don’t even remember it, if I’m being honest. It’s been so long since visited this house that not even one memory has come back to me since being back here. But there’s something about this swing…I just…I wish I remembered more.”
“Whether you remember or not, this swing meant something to someone you loved.” I turn to face him, shocked by his words. He shrugs. “That has to count for something. Besides…” He pauses, walking to the other side of the swing, gripping the chains. “Sometimes memories come back in pieces. Sometimes not at all. That doesn’t make them any less yours.”
I swallow, staring down at my hand. I think about how Tucker doesn’t know about how I’ve been feeling toward this place. How I’m missing that connection to the house.
“I told you the other day in the hallway that I don’t remember my grandmother,” I say, not wanting to look at him as I continue. “I’ve been trying so hard these last few weeks to find a connection to this place—this house. It doesn’t feel like mine. It’s been nothing more than a checklist for me, and I hate that I don’t remember a single memory I’ve had here.”
Tucker crosses in front of the swing, coming to a stop in front of me, lifting my head with the back of his finger under my chin. “Maybe it’s not about what you used to feel. Maybe it’s about what you feel now.”
I look up at him, surprised by how steady his eyes are. “And what if I still feel nothing?”
He smiles. “Then we start from nothing. You rebuild it—the house and the memories. Whatever you want this place to mean again.”
My chest tightens at the warmth behind his words. “You make it sound easy,” I whisper.
“It won’t be,” he says honestly, letting his fingers trail along my jaw and down my neck. “But you won’t be doing any of it alone.”
The air between us pulls tight, charged in a way that makes my breath catch.
Tucker is looking at me like I’m not just some girl trying to remember a childhood swing. Like I’m something he wants to reach for.
I want to kiss him, right now in the open. The thought sparks through me so fast it leaves my knees unsteady. His eyes flick down to my mouth, and it’s enough to make my pulse surge to life.
“Tucker Daniels!” a voice shouts from the yard.
We step apart, both of our heads snap toward the sound, and we spot Nan storming over to where we stand, offended and dramatic. She’s waving a pair of gardening gloves over her head like she’s signaling a passing plane.
“Tucker Daniels,” she repeats, stopping between us. She pokes him hard in his chest, forcing his hands to fly up in defense. “I just found out a little something-something.”
“Huh?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You really textedGriffinfor help with all of this, but not me? I’m wounded.” She pokes his chest again. “I’m offended.” Another poke. “I feel so betrayed.”
“Whoa, Nan,” he says, holding her by both shoulders and leveling his stare with hers. “You. Don’t. Text. Remember?”
She gasps. “I do too! I sent you a picture of my rose bush last month!”
“That was a letter,” Tucker deadpans. “You mailed me a printed photo as if you don’t see me every single day at the bar or around town.”
Nan waves him off. “Details. You still should have alerted me. You know, I could have organized this little plan you had.”
This plan?
Wait, did?—
“And I could’ve been more prepared and brought my chainsaw,” she huffs.
“No chainsaw,” Tucker and I say in unison.
“Fine. But next time, you talk to mefirst,” she says. Tucker nods, and she lifts her chin in victory. “Now, back to whatever you two were doin’.”
As she stomps away, something in my brain clicks into place.
All of this—the town, the help, the overwhelming feeling that I’m not alone.
This was Tucker.
