About her booth at the farmers’ market. About the lotions and soaps and candles she made with her sisters. About her life here in Lawton, the farm, and the diner. She answered easily enough. Told me about Faith’s talent for scent combinations, about Charity’s business sense, and about Joy’s artistic eye for packaging. She talked about the customers at the market, the regulars at the diner, the way the farm came alive in the spring when everything started blooming.
But when I asked about her childhood, about her parents, about how she ended up in Oklahoma—she deflected.
“It’s not very interesting,” she’d say with a small smile.
Or, “That’s a long story for another time.”
Or, “Tell me more about the Smokies. I want to hear about winter.”
At first, I let it go. Figured she would open up when she was ready, the same way I had. But as the weeks passed, I started to notice the pattern. She would listen to every word I said about my life, my family, my past, but she never offered the same in return. It wasn’t that she was cold or distant. She was warm, engaged, present. But there was a wall there, invisible but unmistakable, and I didn’t know how to get past it.
It bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
One night, we were walking the trails at Medicine Park, the air damp and thick with the promise of rain. The moon was nearly full, casting silver light across the rocks and scrub, and Hope’s hand was tucked into mine, her fingers warm against my palm.
“You ever think about leaving Oklahoma?” I asked, the question coming out of nowhere.
She glanced up at me, surprised. “Why would I leave?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “You’ve got the booth, the diner. But you’re smart as hell, Hope. You could do anything. Go anywhere.”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “I like it here,” she said finally. “I like the farm. I like being close to my sisters. I like the life I’ve built.”
“But is it the life youwant?” I pressed. “Or is it just the life you ended up with?”
She stopped walking, turning to face me. The moonlight caught in her eyes, making them look almost luminous. “Why are you asking me this, Chapman?”
“Because I want to know you,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I intended. “I want to understand you. And every time I ask about your past, about your family, about what you want—you change the subject.”
Her expression shifted, something guarded sliding into place. “I’m not trying to hide anything.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
“I do talk to you.”
“About surface stuff. Safe stuff.” I stepped closer, my hand still holding hers. “But you never let me in, Hope. Not really. And I don’t understand why.”
She looked away, her jaw tightening. “Maybe because my past isn’t as simple as yours. Maybe because there are things I’m not ready to talk about yet.”
“I told you about Julie,” I said quietly. “About Aurora. About the worst parts of my life. And you held all of it without flinching. Why can’t you trust me to do the same for you?”
Her eyes snapped back to mine, and I saw something flicker there—pain, maybe, or fear. “It’s not about trust.”
“Then what is it about?”
She pulled her hand from mine, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s about protecting you.”
I stared at her, thrown. “Protecting me from what?”
“From my family. From the things they’ve done. From the weight of it all.” She shook her head, her voice breaking slightly. “You’ve been through enough, Chapman. You don’t need my baggage on top of everything else.”
“That’s not your call to make,” I said, my voice firm. “I’m a grown man, Hope. I can decide what I can handle.”
“Can you?” She looked up at me, her eyes glistening. “Because I’ve seen what grief does to people. I’ve seen what it did to you. And I don’t want to add to that. I don’t want to be another weight you have to carry.”
I reached for her, my hands framing her face, my thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. “You’re not a weight,” I said, my voice low and steady. “You’re the only thing that’s made me feel lighter in eight months.”
Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, leaning into my touch.
