"I ain't askin' for forgiveness."
He said it flat. Unperformed. Not an apology and not an ask.
Just a fence he was putting up around what this moment was and wasn't.
"Couldn't take it if you offered it. Ain't mine to have."
He lifted his eyes to mine.
"Just keep on bein' someone your mama would be proud of."
He set his hat back on his head, gave one short nod, and turned.
Walked across the drive.
Opened the door of the truck that had been his home longer than any house ever would be.
Climbed in.
Pulled out the way he came.
I didn't call after. Didn't sayit's okayand didn't sayI forgive you. Didn't saygood riddance, which felt closer to honest than either of the others would've.
I just watched his truck disappear down the drive and past the tree line and out onto the main road.
I was still sitting with my knees pulled up and Brody's flannel tugged down over them when I realized the wet on my face had started somewhere in the middle of all that and I hadn't noticed.
Not a sob.
Just water, finding its way out, because something had cracked open that had been sealed up for twenty-two years, and my body was handling it without my brain's input. The way it had done a lot of the heavy lifting for me lately.
My mamahadbeen a good woman.
I'd known that. I'd been carrying that knowledge in the shape of a twelve-year-old's grief for more than two decades.
But the rest of what Denny said—keep on bein' someone your mama would be proud of—landed somewhere I hadn't been ready for. 'Cause for sixteen years, I hadn't been doing much living. I'd been surviving. Running. Staying alive out of spite and skill and the kinda stubbornness my mama would've recognized but wouldn't have been proud of, exactly. Just relieved by.
It was the last few months that would've made her proud.
A boy scout. A job as a ranch hand. A granddad down in Livingston. A pixie of a friend who'd hugged me goodbye yesterday and told me she'd hunt me down. A kitchen island big enough for a family. A cat named Cat who made biscuits on my stomach every morning. A bathtub full of dirty laundry and nobody running for the door.
Her daughter, finally living.
I wiped my face with the heel of my palm.
Behind me, the screen door creaked.
Didn't swing wide. Didn't rush. Just opened.
Brody.
Giving me the choice.
I reached back with one hand without turning around, and his fingers found mine like he'd been waiting for the cue. Warm. Steady.
He stepped onto the porch, pulled the second rocker up alongside mine with his foot, and eased down into it slow—favoring the bad side, hissing through his teeth just once.
He didn't ask what Denny said.
