Inside, the little shotgun house smelled like chicory coffee, fried bacon, and the faint medicinal bite of salveJeankept for her knees.Everysurface was crowded—family photos in frames, jars of dried herbs, stacks of church bulletins.Itwas chaos, but the kind of chaos that felt lived in, not messy.
Jean poured coffee into mismatched mugs, shoved a honey biscuit across the table, and sat herself down.“Talk.”
Rose didn’t sugarcoat it.Shetold her everything - aboutDeclanshowing up shiny as a new penny, about the dinner that felt too easy, about the wooden box on her porch with thePolaroidand the note that cracked her chest open, aboutAcen’sconfession on the ball field.
She spilled it all whileJeansipped her coffee steadily, not blinking, not interrupting, just listening like she was collecting puzzle pieces she already knew the shape of.
WhenRosefinally stopped, her throat dry and her chest hollow,Jeanleaned back, crossed her wiry arms, and said flat as stone: “You’remad he left.”
“Yes.”
Jean didn’t soften.Shenever did.“Here’sthe thing about old wounds,Rosiegirl.Theydon’t stop bleedin’ just because you slap a smile on ’em.Yougotta clean ’em out.Yougotta dig down to the bone sometimes.”
Rose blinked.“Andwhat ifIdig and allIfind is more pain?”
Jean’s sharp eyes went soft.“Thenyou know you cared enough for it to hurt.That’snot weakness.That’slove.”
The words settled heavy between them.Rosestared at the honey biscuit she hadn’t touched.Herstomach was tied up too tight to eat.
“But what aboutDeclan?”she asked finally, voice small.
Jean grinned and leaned forward.“Declan’sa damn fine biscuit.Golden, warm, probably good for you.ButAcen?”Shetapped her finger on the table.“He’sthe one who burned your tongue when you were too eager to bite.”
Rose groaned, burying her face in her hands.“Whydo you always talk in metaphors?”
Jean snorted.“Becauseyou’re aMcAllister.Y’alldon’t listen unless it sounds poetic.”
Rose laughed despite herself, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.Sheswiped them away quickly, embarrassed at how close to breaking she felt.“YouthinkIshould forgive him?”
“I think,”Jeansaid, leveling her gaze, “you ought to decide whether you’re still in love with him.Andif you are - stop pretendin’ you’re not.That’sjust foolish.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.Ithummed with all the thingsRosewanted to say but couldn’t.
She thought ofDeclan’seasy smile, the way he showed up without shadows trailing him.Aman who offered stability, maybe even a future without complication.
Then she thought ofAcen.Theache of him.Theway just standing near him felt like stepping into sunlight and fire all at once.Theman who’d broken her heart - but who’d also been the first person she ever truly gave it to.
Her throat tightened.“WhatifIchoose wrong?”
Jean reached across the table, her weathered hand coveringRose’s.“Thenyou’ll survive.JustlikeIdid when your uncleEarlran off with that hair stylist fromCorinth.Thoughtmy world ended.Itdidn’t.Itcracked wide open, andIbuilt somethin’ new.”
Rose blinked.“Younever told me that story.”
Jean smirked.“Becauseit wasn’t about him.Itwas about me.”
The wind outside shifted, rattling the chimes like laughter and warning all at once.Roselet the sound fill the silence.
Finally,Jeangave her hand a squeeze.“Stoprunnin’ from the hurt,Rosiegirl.It’llfollow you no matter where you go.Theonly way through it is to stand still and face it.”
Rose nodded, though the lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.
Jean leaned back, finishing her coffee.“Noweat that biscuit beforeIbox your ears.Youlook half-starved.”
Rose laughed again, shaky but real this time, and picked it up.
The honey clung to her fingers, sticky and sweet, and as she bit into the warm, crumbly bread, she thought ofAcen’snote again.Inever forgot.Notfor a single day.
And she wondered, not for the first time, if maybe she hadn’t either.
