“What is it, sweetie?”
I exhale slowly, the words finally loosening. “Sometimes I think the real reason I can’t get excited about going back to the city, other than you having your security team watching over me like a hawk,” I joke, “is because that’s where we lived with Mom. That brownstone feels like…her. And I think part of me’s scared that going back means losing her all over again.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he says, gently, “Kiddo, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you felt that way.”
I sniff, brushing at my cheek. “I didn’t either. Not really. Until now.”
The line goes quiet, and I can almost see Dad’s etched brows.
“I kept that house for a reason, you know.” Memory threads through his words, pulling at something that makes my throat tighten. “When your mom and I got together, I had a place back then in some soulless high-rise uptown. But your mom, she had this thing about brownstones.Sex and the Cityon the TV—her pointing at Carrie Bradshaw’s front steps like they were sacred. So I bought one. And I proposed to her right out front. Knees shaking and all.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and I let it fall.
“This house isn’t just a place, honey. It’s our whole love story. It’s where I became a husband. Where I got to be your dad.”
I press the phone tighter to my ear, willing my voice not to wobble. “Thank you for telling me that.”
“I figured maybe it would help to know that you’re not the only one who misses her in these walls.”
“It does help.” I brush at the tears before they can fall again.
After a breath, he asks, “You’re still planning on being here in September, right?”
I nod before I answer. “Yep. I’ll be there.”
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” He doesn’t ask where I’ve been all summer. He’s trusting me to tell him when I’m ready—even if not knowing is killing him.
I smile. “Thanks for letting me heal and figure things out in my own time.”
“Always.”
When our call ends, I stay on the bed a while longer, phone resting on my chest, heart pulled in too many directions to name.
Only fate knows what happens next, in New York or with Knox.
Back downstairs, I find Knox in the kitchen, hands moving with quiet purpose as he chops celery at the butcher-block counter. His mom and grandma are elbow-deep in prep: Hazel stirring something fragrant on the stove; Claire setting out mismatched soup bowls like it’s some sort of tradition.
“There she is,” Hazel calls. “You’re just in time to earn your keep.”
I laugh and slip off my cardigan before washing my hands. “Put me to work.”
Claire hands me a cutting board and a pile of potatoes. “Thin slices, not cubes. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Hazel nods in agreement. “She’s right. Slices cook evenly and soak up the broth. Cubes just sit there like starch bombs.”
Knox flashes me a grin from across the kitchen, and of course, my insides turn to mush.
For a while, there’s only the sound of knives on cutting boards, the low croon of a saxophone from a local jazz station, and the clink of spoons against Dutch-oven enamel. This kitchen smells like butter and bay leaves and something that feels like belonging.
Sy calls from the den, asking for help with the TV remote, and Knox excuses himself, his hand gliding across my lower back as he passes. “Be right back, beautiful.”
And just like that, I’m left with his mom and grandma, who glance at each other, then me. I know that look. I’ve seen that look. It’s the same one Paxton gives me when he’s about to meddle.
Claire dries her hands on a dish towel and leans her hip against the counter. “So…just putting it out there…we think you’re good for him.”
Hazel nods. “He’s lighter. Smiles more. Doesn’t sulk into his coffee like he’s starring in a French art film.”
Claire snorts. “Ever since that woman finally flounced out of the picture.”
