Chuckles rippled down the table, and I smiled faintly at the memory. Our foster home wasn’t the best. Filled with cold walls, hot tempers, and a kind of neglect that had us fending for ourselves most days—so I did the only thing that gave me hope. I escaped into my imagination—the only place no one could touch me—and I took John with me most of the time.
"Before I knew it, we were dragging this giant monstrosity home," John continued, his grin widening as the table hung onto his every word. "By the time we made it to the hill behind our cul-de-sac, she had me convinced we were about to take off for Hawaii. She said we'd live off bananas and pineapples, and swim with dolphins. We even ran home to pack a bag—two Pop-Tarts, a couple juice boxes, and my baseball glove, because apparently I'd need it to catch the coconuts she planned on shaking from trees."
Laughter rippled around the table, shoulders shaking, heads nodding at the absurdity. Dean's mouth curved, his gaze flicking toward me, warm in a way that made my chest ache.
John’s grin softened, his voice dipping lower, pulling the whole table in with him.
“We spread that rug out on the hill, climbed on top, and she grabbed the corners like reins. Told me,‘Hang on tight, because once this thing lifts, there’s no going back.’We sat there forever, waiting. And when it didn’t move, I started to cry.”
He paused, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest second, as though silently asking if I remembered too. I nodded. And for a moment I was back there, the disappointment sharp all over again—knowing we’d have to return to a house that didn’t want us.
“She looked at me then,” he continued, his gaze intense as though caught somewhere far away. “Said,‘It doesn’t matter if it flies, John. What matters is that we believe. If we believe hard enough, one day it will happen.’Then she opened the Pop-Tarts, handed me one, and we sat there until the sky turned orange.”
The weight of his words lingered, threading through the laughter like smoke—sweet, nostalgic, but carrying an undeniable message.Don’t give up, Em. You can have everything you want—all you have to do is believe you deserve it.
He cleared his throat then, his chin lifting as he took a sip from his beer. “Of course, reality caught up with us pretty quick. A flea hopped onto Em’s leg, and she leapt off that rug as though it were on fire.”
Warm laughter spread across the table, but I froze in place, bile instantly climbing up my throat.
John went still, as though he’d realized his mistake the instant he’d let it slip. He’d said my name. Not Vivienne. He said Em.
I forced a laugh, though my pulse hammered hard enough to make my ribs ache.
Beneath the table, Dean’s fingers slid over my knee—but I didn’t dare look at him. I couldn’t. Not when, just beyondthe table, Mason’s gaze brushed over me—brief, curious, gone before I could confirm what it meant.
“They didn’t notice,” Dean murmured into my ear, his chin brushing over my shoulder.
Across the table, John jumped back into his story, his tone bright and easy. “And for the record,” he said, raising his beer with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “she still hasn’t taken me to Hawaii.”
Laughter rose again, quick and carefree, sweeping the table back into its rhythm as if nothing had happened. Even Mason chuckled. But I felt it—the fragile shift, like a single loose thread waiting to be pulled.
After a while, someone called for music, and the first upbeat notes caused chairs to scrape back against wood, as people drifted toward the dance floor.
I stood too, brushing my hands on my napkin before setting it neatly on the table. No one noticed as I departed, making my way toward the quieter side of the deck.
The hum of conversation followed me, softening the farther I went. Finally, I slipped into the lodge, intending to find a quiet corner to breathe—but stopped before shutting the door completely.
Tuesday sat on a small couch near the window, her baby nestled against her chest, nursing.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me almost instantly.
“Don’t be silly,” she said softly, motioning me forward and waving to the chair beside her. “Sit.”
I hesitated for a second, glancing toward the door like I might still slip away—but the calm in her voice pulled me in. The quiet room smelled faintly of lavender and baby powder, a gentle contrast to the noise outside. So, I crossed the room andsat beside her, careful not to disturb the peaceful rhythm of the baby’s breathing.
“She gets distracted easily,” Tuesday explained, smiling down at her daughter. “I needed a break from all the noise, so she’d focus. But I’m glad to have your company.”
A burst of laughter rang from outside—high-pitched and joy-filled—drawing my eyes toward the window. Everyone was on the dance floor, young and old, spinning and shouting and moving like nothing in the world could touch them.
And then, as though by some magnetic pull, my gaze found Dean.
He was dancing with little Emma, guiding her through a clumsy waltz. Her laughter carried even through the glass—bright and breathless, the kind of pure joy that couldn’t be faked.
Something inside me twisted at the sight, warm and sharp all at once. Because I knew he’d make an incredible father. The thought hit me harder than I expected, stealing my breath, because I realized in that moment, that he’d never be mine. The lies we told would never let that happen.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Tuesday asked. Her voice was soft and steady but landed like a stone dropped directly onto my chest.
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to face her.
