I manage to get the oversized piece through the stairwell and into my bedroom. With it in place, I reach for the small box I packed from my childhood bedroom. Rummaging through, my fingers graze leather. Mom’s journal.
My hands tremble as I flip it open to a random page. The entry stares back at me, dated a year ago. Before I can talk myselfout of it, I bury myself deeper under my thick blanket, gripping the journal like a life preserver as I start reading.
Wait…Samuel’s reasons? What could the reason possibly be as to why his son left me with bags packed as I waited for him to pick me up so we could start our future together? We signed a lease; we were moving in together. But that never happened. Instead, I was told by the landlord the first six months of our rent had been paid in full. I didn’t want Jett’s guilt money, but I wasn’t stupid either.
Shaking my head from the brink of spiraling, my fingers fidget with my necklace chain as I turn back to reading.
Tears trail down my face, hot and unrelenting. A drop slips onto the page, blurring the ink. I clutch the journal to my chest, not willing to risk any more tears smearing her words. My whole body shakes like it might come apart as years of guilt claw through my chest.
I’ve tried to bury my grief beneath productivity, hoping the to-do lists for Hannah’s Haven would keep the pain away. But her words unravel me. Despite the pain of missing me, she was proud of me.
Everything’s so confusing. I'm proud of myself for moving away, for finding a new purpose with a broken heart. But I’m terrified of the silence, of being alone with my thoughts. And terrified that last night with Jett unlocked a world I thought was barricaded shut. With my emotions scattered all over the place, there’s one thing I know for sure.
I’m done letting my mom down. It’s time to stop hiding and start living.
Chapter 8
Jett
Whileonthissideof the river, where Drummond Farms and Riggsby Cattle meet, there’s a muddy shoreline separating our land from the water. The water moves past in its steady rush, swollen from spring rains, brown at the edges where it chews up the banks. The current is flowing, but not fast enough to worry about being washed away.
It’s one of the reasons I love this spot. No matter how much rain we get, it’s always safe enough to jump in and cool off.
This spot hasn’t changed in decades. When my dad and Mark Drummond both took over their farms, the two decided to make this a gathering place. An open shelter house stands, its beams weathered and concrete floor cracked from years of parties and floods. When we were little, our families held cookouts here. All of us kids would jump in and swim in the river for hours. My brother, Crew, would sit on my shoulders while Wren would sit on her brother’s as we played chicken. Even with Wren having a few years on Crew, it wasn’t a fair match. Crew’s height and build always gave him the advantage.
Our family cookouts transitioned into wild parties once we hit high school. The guys and I would pile into our trucks to haul kegs down here and build bonfires as we danced to music playing from speakers.
Now it’s lawn chairs lining the banks, fishing line dancing in the current, and sunflower seeds being chewed, instead ofparties, wild nights, and cigarettes. Well, sometimes still cigarettes, but only when Audrey isn’t present.
Speaking of Audrey, I glance over to where she sits in the lawn chair closest to me. Her line dangles out in the current, her long blonde braid brushing her back. She’s humming along with the tune Baker’s playing on his guitar, concentrating as if catching a fish is the most important job in the world. And to her, it is. The girl is competitive, and whenever we bring her out with us, she’s on a mission to catch the biggest fish and brag about it to Davis.
Levi stands a few feet farther down the bank. A cooler is open at his feet as he fishes out a worm. He looks relaxed, looser than I’ve seen him in weeks, though his eyes tell a different story. He works himself ragged while running his daughter to and from practices and games.
Turning to my left, I watch my other friend. Davis isDavis. Always stoic, chewing seeds, and spitting shells with sniper precision into the river. His SBPD cap turned backward as he cast his line again.
For a moment, I let myself breathe in the simplicity of this. Fishing on a Saturday with my friends, my family. The sounds of the water, the pop of the sunflower seeds against my teeth, the occasional burst of laughter from Audrey as Davis screws up his cast or catches weeds.
This is what I tell myself I want. Normal. Simple. But my chest is tight. Because no matter how much I try to settle into life as a civilian, something claws at me. Guilt, grief, restlessness… I don’t know what the fuck it is.
And Wren. Always fucking Wren.
It’s been a little over a week since we danced together at Sunset Shores. Days since her warm body molded perfectly against mine, the way I remembered. Her laugh drowned out the music playing. The way her smile met her eyes as they glimmered with mischief. It all felt so familiar. I’ve pretended it didn’t happen, acting as if I don’t replay it every damn night—as if I haven'tgotten off remembering the scent of her, the way she writhed against me, and the way my hands gripped her hips.
Fuck.
The same floral scent she wore years ago lingered on me long after we parted that night, and as I closed my eyes, it brought me right back here. To being seventeen, her hand in mine as we snuck off from a bonfire to the back of my truck parked down the way. Her head on my chest as we made promises in the dead of night.
And even though those memories are painful, I’d rather be stuck reliving them than the ones keeping me tethered to the darker parts of my past. A life of sand instead of grass. Gun oil instead of river water. Where I’m sitting against a wall in a shack with Rafe beside me. We tell stories to stay awake, both of us waiting for our operative to make an appearance. Both of us talking about home like we can hop on a plane tomorrow.
“We’ll fish together,” I tell him, voice cracked and dry. “When this is over, you’ll bring Sarah and the kids to Silo Bay. We’ll fish while the kids play with the animals. We’ll barbecue and drink ice-cold beer.”
“A cold beer and my kids' laughter sounds incredible right now,” Rafe adds, sounding wistful.
But we never got that cold beer, and I’ve never heard his kids’ laughter. I failed him. I’m the reason a father didn’t go home to his kids. I stare at the cloudless sky, hoping Rafe is up there having a beer and watching his kids.
“Uncle Jett!”
Audrey’s voice yanks me back, and I clear my throat, swallowing down the emotions. Her pole jerks, reel spinning, her body vibrating with joy. Levi tosses his pole aside, and I do the same as we rush over to help Auds.
