“Good. Someone deserves happiness.”
“Thanks, man. You deserve to be happy too, ya know?” he says, quiet, serious.
“Thanks, Luke.”
I turn back to the siding, hammer in hand, rain dripping off my hat brim, soaking my shoulders. The words hang there, heavy and true. I do deserve it. And so does she. But I didn’t give it to her. I let her walk away thinking she was nothing more than a friend. A temporary thing. When she was everything.
The rain picks up, harder now, drumming on the tin roof like it’s trying to drown out my thoughts. I drive another nail—straight this time—and feel the ache in my chest spread. I fucked up. I really fucked up. And I don’t know if I can fix it. But I know one thing, if she ever comes back, I won’t freeze again. I’ll say it. I’ll say everything.
I remember the night clearly as anything. It was late—past midnight, the kind of quiet that settles over the ranch when the crickets finally hush and the only sound is the occasional snort from the horses in the barn. We were on the porch swing, the one Dad built for Mom years ago. The chains creaked soft every time we rocked. Layla was curled against my side, legstucked under her, head on my shoulder. She smelled like vanilla and the mint shampoo she’d borrowed from Maggie. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a few strands sticking to my neck. I had my arm around her, thumb tracing slow circles on her upper arm, mindless, just needing to feel her there.
We’d been talking for hours, about nothing and everything. She’d asked about the ranch, about growing up here, about the horses. I’d told her stories I hadn’t told anyone in years. The way Mom used to sing off-key while she gardened. The way Dad pretended not to notice when she snuck me extra cookies. The way she’d sit on this very swing every evening, watching the sunset paint the fields gold, and say, “One day, Cole, you’ll find someone who makes the quiet feel full, Like I did with your father.”
Layla had gone quiet after that. Just listening. Then she asked—soft, careful—“What was she like? Your mom, I mean. Not the stories. The real her.”
I didn’t answer right away. The swing kept rocking, chains creaking, crickets starting up again in the dark. I stared out at the pasture, black except for the faint silver of moonlight on the grass and felt the old ache rise up, the one I usually shoved down deep.
“She was… steady,” I finally said. “Didn’t raise her voice much, but when she did, you listened. Loved hard. Laughed easily. She’d hug you so tight you thought your ribs would crack, then let go like nothing happened. She saw people—the real them, not the mask they wore. And she never judged. Not even when I screwed up.”
Layla’s fingers traced slow patterns on my hand. “She sounds like she loved you a lot.”
“She did.” My voice came out rougher than I meant. “Miss her every damn day. Some days it’s quiet. Some days it’s loud. Tonight it’s… loud.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute. Just kept those slow circles, like she was soothing something wild inside me. Then she lifted her head, looked up at me, those big brown eyes catching the porch light, soft and steady.
“I wish I could’ve met her,” she said. “ I wonder if she would’ve liked me.”
I huffed a small laugh—more breath than sound. “She would’ve loved you.”
Layla’s brows lifted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I shifted, turning so I could see her face better. “She’d have seen you walk in here—city girl in heels, asking about the horses like you weren’t scared of them at all—and she’d have smiled that smile she saved for people she knew were special. She’d have dragged you into the kitchen, made you help with biscuits, teased you about your fancy coffee order. Then she’d have sat you down on this swing and asked you every question she could think of, because she’d want to know the girl who made her son smile again.”
Layla’s eyes went glassy. She blinked fast, but one tear slipped free anyway. I caught it with my thumb—slow, gentle—brushing it across her cheek.
“She’d have loved the way you talk to Shadow like he’s people,” I went on, voice dropping lower. “The way you laugh at Luke’s dumb jokes even when they’re not funny. The way you light up when you talk about your stories.”
Layla swallowed hard. “I wish I could’ve known her.”
“Me too.” I leaned in, pressed my forehead to hers.
Layla laughed—wet, shaky—then buried her face in my neck. I wrapped both arms around her, pulled her closer, and felt her heartbeat against my chest. The swing creaked soft beneath us. The night was cool, but she was warm. Alive. Here.
I didn’t say “I love you” that night. I still couldn’t get the words out. But I held her tighter than I ever had. And in that moment I knew I was in too deep.
Chapter 36
Time to go home
Layla
The rain taps relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Tina’s downtown Seattle office, streaking the glass in silver ribbons. The city below is a gray blur—tall buildings disappearing into low clouds, taillights bleeding red on wet streets, the constant hum of traffic fourteen floors down. Inside, the conference room smells like fresh coffee and printer ink, the long table scattered with manuscript pages, marketing mockups, and half-empty water bottles. My hands are folded in my lap, fingers twisting the strap of my bag.
“Well, Layla, I have to say this novel was amazing,” Walt says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “My wife and I read it in two days. Couldn’t put it down.”
I nod, small, automatic, my smile tight and practiced. The words should feel good. They don’t. They bounce off me like rain on a tin roof.
Tina and the team launch into the next phase: pre-orders, promo schedule, cover reveals, tour dates. Their voices layer over each other—excited, professional, fast. I hear fragments—“targeted ads,” “BookTok strategy,” “launch party in New York”—but it all blurs into white noise. My eyes are fixed on the window, watching rain trace slow paths down the glass. The drops remind me of Tennessee storms—thicker, warmer, drumming on the barn roof while Cole and I sat on the porch swing, his arm around me, thumb brushing my shoulder.
