Page 52

Charlie’s mouth twitches, barely a smile, but it’s there. Then he points to me. “That’s Lou-Lou.”

Dallas takes a single step forward. Plants himself at my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His shoulder brushes mine.

He looks up, chin tilted, eyes steady. “It’s Louis to me.”

The way he says it—it’s not a correction. It’s a declaration.

Charlie blinks, just once, but something shifts behind his eyes. Like maybe he sees Dallas different now. He studies him for a second longer, then jerks his thumb toward the backyard.

“Want to see the treehouse my dad built?”

Dallas nods, calm and sure, and just like that, they’re off—shoulder to shoulder, two boys finding their own quiet language.

Evie leans back, a hand resting over her belly as she watches them disappear between the trees. Her voice is soft, almost like she’s speaking to herself. “That poor baby.”

I know exactly what she means. Not pity. Not weakness. She just sees it—what most people miss.

The boy who’s never had a soft place to land.

I watch her absently rub her swollen belly, fingers moving in slow, unconscious circles. Pride rises in my chest, thick and warm—but it’s followed by something colder, sharper. Jealousy. I swallow it down hard, bitter as it burns its way through me. Not because I’m not happy for her—hell, no one’s prouder of her than I am. Maybe that’s what makes it worse. Because loving her like I do means the ache cuts even deeper. Means I smile through a grief that never quite quiets.

Because she’s able to have the one thing my broken body will never give.

“Nice ring.” The bitch waggles her eyebrows as she looks from me to the ring on my hand.

“It’s fake,” I mutter, too fast. “Once the papers are finalized, I’ll go back home.”

Evie crosses her arms, leans back against the patio table like she’s settling in for a standoff, one brow lifted, expression unreadable but knowing—too knowing. “Louisiana,” she says, voice low, steady. “This is a child. Not a damn project. Not some half-wild stray you and Henry can bicker over when you decide to drag your mess thirty-six yards back home.”

I drop my eyes. My fingers twitch, desperate for something to hold, so I start dragging shapes on the denim of my jeans—spirals, figure eights, little frantic nothings—just to keep my hands from shaking. Just to keep myself from coming apart.

She doesn’t ease up.

“You really think he’s not going to get attached?” she asks, sharp now, voice cutting through the humidity like a knife. “You think he’ll just bounce back? Pack up his pain and move the hell on? Be real with me, Lou. For once in your life.”

“I have to leave, Evie.” It comes out rough, louder than I mean, voice splintered down the middle. “You don’t understa⁠—”

“No,” she cuts in, voice quieter but more pointed. “You don’t get to use that anymore. 'You don’t understand.' You say it like it gives you permission to burn everything behind you and call it survival.”

She pushes off the table and steps in close. Not angry—just certain. Like she’s already seen where this road ends.

“Look at me, heifer.”

I do. Slowly. And fuck, I wish I didn’t.

There’s water in her eyes. Not a lot. Just enough to gut me. Because Evie doesn’t cry. Not unless it hurts.

“Maybe it’s not about understanding,” she says, gentler now, the way you speak to a wounded thing too proud to limp. “Maybe people don’t need to get it. They just need you to stay.”

She rubs a slow circle over her belly like she forgot she was doing it. Then shakes her head, muttering, “You and Maddox. God help me. Two sides of the same God damn stubborn-ass coin.”

Then, quieter, razor-sharp and soft all at once, she adds, “You want to run because you think you’re not enough for him.”

I clamp my jaw shut, bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal.

She waits.

“Well?” she says, voice thin but unrelenting. “Tell me I’m wrong.”