Cue the guilt tsunami.
“I know,” I say, throat tight. “And I’m so, so sorry. That was on me. Things got… messy in my head, and I didn’t mean to break my promise. Can you forgive me?”
She leans back enough to look up at me, eyes shiny, assessing. It’s a look that reminds me so much of Dallas, it’s almost painful.
“You came now,” she says finally. “So maybe.”
I huff out a wet laugh. “I’ll take ‘maybe.’”
“Come in,” Dallas says gently. “Before you both freeze.”
The warmth of the house wraps around me as I step inside. It smells of rosemary, butter, and something sweet in the oven. The table in the dining room is set with a kind of crooked, overexcited precision. Placemats a little off-center, forks multiplying in strange patterns, construction paper signs taped to the chairs. One says WELCUM FAIFH in purple marker.
My heart does a very embarrassing swoop.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Is this all for me?”
“It’s for us,” Lila corrects immediately. “For dinner. It’s fancy.”
“It’s perfect,” I say. “You did all this?”
She nods, cheeks pink. “I helped Daddy. I picked the candles and the napkins and the plates that aren’t chipped.”
Dallas coughs softly. “Some of them are still a little chipped. Don’t look too close.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I say, glancing at him.
Our eyes meet. A live wire flickers between us.
It isn’t just attraction anymore. It’s memory… Two nights that didn’t stay neatly in the past. New Year’s Eve outside the barn, the way we couldn’t stop touching even after we’d both agreed we should. Then the lake after the rodeo, when I told myself it was just heat and impulse… and ended up feeling more seen than I have in years.
We haven’t said a word about either of them since, but my body doesn’t seem interested in pretending.
Abort, abort. Focus on the child.
“Oh!” I straighten, suddenly remembering the bag in my hand. “I brought you something.”
Her whole face lights up. “For me?”
“For you,” I confirm. “A very, very late Christmas slash I’m-sorry-I-disappeared present.”
She bounces on her toes as I pull out the gift bag, small, pink, tissue paper poofing from the top.
She peeks inside, then lets out a squeal that probably rattles the windows.
“It’s sparkly!”
“It is,” I agree, grinning.
She pulls out the sequined denim jacket I found in town. Kid-sized, covered in tiny stitched stars and ridiculous glitter. It’s the kind of thing my father would have called “tacky.” Which makes me love it more.
Lila gasps excitedly.
“It has stars,” she whispers. “Like the sky.”
“It looked like you,” I say. “And I felt really bad about forgetting my promise, and I wanted to bring you something that said ‘I love you and I’m not going to vanish again without telling you. Pinky swear.’”
She thrusts her pinky out immediately.
