Page 125 of Tessa and Nash

“Boone and Dallas don’t know,” I say.

Mom’s gaze goes to the doorway, toward the rest of the house. Toward my brothers’ rooms. Toward the place where our family history lives in silence and routine.

“Then you decide whether they should,” she replies.

I swallow hard. “If I tell them, Boone’s going to want to handle it.”

“Boone always wants to handle it.”

“And Dallas will try to fix it with paperwork until his eyes bleed.”

“That’s why you have them,” she says quietly.

I stare at her.

Because for a long time, I’ve been convinced I’m the extra piece. The one who makes the room lighter, not the one who carries the weight.

And Mom saying that’s why you have them is permission to not do this alone.

But then the other thought crawls up, cold and sharp:

Tessa did this with me.

She drove me into that house.

She opened the drawer.

She put the truth on the table.

And when it cracked open under us, she didn’t run.

At least, not then.

“I should go,” I say.

“Be careful,” Mom reminds me. “This isn’t just about land.”

I swallow. “I know.”

Do I?

I grab my phone and head down the hall before she can say anything else that makes me feel seen in a way I don’t know how to handle.

Rusty follows me closely.

Outside is sharp, winter clean, the sky bright, mocking me.

I walk toward the barn because it’s the only place that makes sense when my head doesn’t.

The barn smells of hay and old wood and animal warmth. Familiar. Solid. Honest.

I lean my forehead against a stall door and breathe.

Then I pull my phone out and stare at Tessa’s name in my contacts as if it might start talking if I glare hard enough.

I don’t text her.

I don’t call.