Her face looked older, wiser maybe, but the eyes staring back at her were too familiar.Theywere the eyes of the girl who had once cried herself to sleep, terrified that everyone would know her mistake, her weakness, her shame.
She had promised herself, back then, that she’d never giveBrianathe satisfaction of seeing her broken.Neveragain.
And yet, here she was, pacing the linoleum floor like a teenager waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She poured a glass of water just to keep her hands busy, then set it down untouched.Theclock ticked past two-thirty.Shethought about callingTasha, just to hear another voice, but she didn’t.Tashawould hear the wobble in her tone, would press her until she said more than she was ready to say.
Instead, she went to the porch and stepped into the night.
The air was damp, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and lake water.Athin mist floated above the shoreline, wrapping the world in secrecy.Sheleaned against the porch rail and let the night press against her skin.Outhere, away from town, she could almost believe the whispers didn’t exist.Almost.
But her mind wouldn’t let go.
She thought about the wayMrs.Lanham’seyes had softened in pity.Theway those men had laughed at the coffee shop.Theway the some of the people in town had nudged each other and smirked.Eachglance, each whisper was like a drop of acid.Itdidn’t destroy her all at once—it wore her down, slowly, carefully, until she was raw.
She remembered being eighteen, sneaking out to cry by the lake when it all got too heavy.Sheremembered the panic, the dread that the truth would spill out, that people would look at her differently forever.Andhere she was, twenty years later, still bracing herself for the same storm.
She gripped the rail until her knuckles turned white.“No,” she said aloud, her voice swallowed by the night.“Notagain.”
Inside, she forced herself to sit at the table, pulled a notebook toward her, and opened it to a blank page.Ifshe was going to get through this, she needed more than stubbornness.Sheneeded to make a plan.Theone she’d toldTashaearlier that she was already working on.
But staring at the empty paper, her mind refused to cooperate.Whatcould she write?Thatshe’d exposeBriana?Thatshe’d confess her secret beforeBrianacould use it?Thatshe’d act like nothing mattered at all?
Every option felt like a trap.
Her pen hovered.Herhand trembled.Shethought aboutAcen.Hiseyes when he’d told her he still cared, the way his presence stirred something she thought had long since burned out.Shethought aboutDeclan.Steady, gentle, showing her what it could feel like to be chosen without drama or conditions.
And she thought aboutRiley, protective as always, furious that he couldn’t fix this for her.
For them, she had to be stronger.
She scribbled a single sentence across the page:Brianadoes not get to win.
The words steadied her.
It wasn’t a plan, not yet, but it was a promise.
The clock chimed three.Hereyes burned from lack of sleep, but she felt a thread of steel slide through her spine.Brianawanted her rattled.ShewantedRoseto look over her shoulder, to doubt herself, to break down in public so everyone could see.
ButRoserefused to play the partBrianahad written for her.
She tore the page free, folded it, and tucked it into the pocket of her robe.Atalisman, small but fierce, something to hold onto when the whispers felt louder than the truth.
Finally, she turned off the lights, lay down on the couch, and closed her eyes.Sleepcame in fits and starts, tangled with dreams of softball fields, coffee cups, and shadows whispering her name.
And when dawn broke over the lake, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold,Rosesat up with the sun on her face and whispered again, steady this time:
“I’m not eighteen anymore.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The rocking chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back, the sound a steady rhythm in the otherwise quiet house.Thechair had belonged to her mother, one of the few pieces of furnitureBrianahad claimed when she returned toPickwickBend.Thecushions were worn, faded to a pale rose color, with a faint smell of lavender clinging to the fabric.Hermother had always been proud of that scent, lavender sachets tucked into every drawer, sprigs tied with ribbon on the backs of chairs, oils dabbed at her wrists like perfume.
Now it clung toBrianalike a ghost.
She hated that smell.Itreminded her of a woman who’d stayed put, who’d never dared leave this town, who’d been content with smallness.Andfor years,Brianahad told herself she would be different.Shehad been different.Shehad gotten out.Shehad gone places where no one knew her last name or cared about theMcAllistertwins or the softball championships atPickwickHigh.
And yet—here she was again.Backin the same house.Backin the same town.Sittingin the same creaky chair her mother had rocked away her evenings in, staring down at a phone instead of a hymnbook.
