Not Frostholm.
Briar Cove.
This place. This town. This life. Us.
He opens the door before I can respond. Cold air rushes inside. He pulls his coat tighter and jingles his keys lightly in his hand, already preparing to walk the few blocks back toward the school parking lot where he left his car earlier.
Snow swirls beneath the porch light.
“Goodnight, Sadie.”
His voice drops quieter when he says my name.
“Goodnight.”
And standing there watching him disappear into falling snow, I finally realize something awful.
I’m not trying to protect myself anymore.
I’m trying to protect Jillie.
Because if Colby Reid leaves someday…
I already know exactly how badly it will break her heart.
And I’m starting to fear what it might do to mine too.
Chapter twelve
Sadie
Jillie’s Fears
I know something is wrong with Jillie before she says a word.
That is one of the terrible gifts of motherhood.
You learn the language of silence.
Jillie’s usual silence is never really silence. It hums. It wiggles. It swings its feet against chair legs and whispers to crayons and asks questions about whether penguins have knees.
This silence is different.
This silence sits too still.
She comes into the bakery after school with her purple backpack sliding off one shoulder, her pink hat crooked over one ear, and her mittens clenched in one hand instead of swinging from their string like usual.
No dramatic entrance.
No story about recess.
No complaint about spelling words.
No announcement that someone at lunch traded pudding for pretzels and clearly did not understand market value.
Just quiet.
She steps through the back kitchen door, sets her backpack on the little stool by the prep table, and climbs onto her usual seat.
