“Exactly,” she says, dead serious. “Those ones.”
We spend an hour at the table making “decorations,” which mostly translates to Lila drawing wobbly hearts and horses and practicing writing FAITH over and over until it turns into words that look like F A I F H. She folds napkins and gently rearranges the salt and pepper shakers “so they feel pretty.”
I handle the roast, the potatoes, and the cornbread. She handles quality control, which mostly means licking the spoon and declaring things “good enough.”
“Do you think she’ll like it?” she asks for the third time, standing back to inspect the table.
“I think she’ll love it,” I say, and I do. The table is a kid’s idea of fancy, crooked placemats, three forks on one setting, a lopsided candle in the middle, but it also looks… homely. Mom and the others made themselves scarce, like they knew this was meant to be small.
Lila nods, satisfied, then chews her lip. “Do I look okay?”
She’s wearing her favorite purple dress over striped leggings, hair half-tamed into two puffy braids that are a little off track.
“You look perfect,” I tell her. “She’s gonna think you’re the best thing she’s ever seen.”
The way her shoulders relax at that… sometimes I forget how much weight my words carry for her. Then I remember, and it terrifies me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Faith
January 20th
By the timemy knuckles hit the McCoys’ front door, I’ve rehearsed three different apologies, all of which sound pathetic in my head.
Hi, sorry I emotionally ghosted your five-year-old after she braided my hair and trusted me with her tiny heart….
No. Too honest.
Wow, time flies, haha, been sooo busy not having a job or a plan.
Absolutely not.
Hello, it’s me, Faith “Runaway Bride, Professional Disaster” Ross.
Okay, I’m not allowed to speak anymore.
The door swings open before I can run away.
Dallas fills the doorway, all broad shoulders and quiet blue eyes and that stupid, calming presence that my nervous system recognizes before my brain catches up. He’s in a soft blue button-down, sleeves rolled, jeans, socked feet. Home clothes. The kind of clothes that make me want to stay too long.
For a second, we just… stare.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo, because apparently, I’ve lost the ability to form original thoughts.
Then something barreling and small slams into my legs.
“Miss Faith!”
I look down just in time to catch an armful of Lila.
Her arms lock around my waist, face pressed into my coat. Relief slams into my chest so hard it stings.
“Hi, baby,” I breathe, bending to hug her properly. “Oh my gosh, I missed you.”
“You didn’t come back,” she says, muffled and wobbly. “You said you would, and you didn’t.”
