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“Knock, knock,” Mom called, holding up a bag of takeout.

I leaned in, pressed a kiss to Rory’s cheek, and whispered, “We’ll pick this up later.”

Rory nodded, dazed.

“I figured you two were hungry, and I wanted to talk to you about final details for the Christmas Eve party and what you all planned to do on Christmas Day.”

I noted how she tried to keep her tone bright and full of holiday cheer when I knew things were anything but cheery for her. Her tired eyes and hollowed cheeks told the real story.

Part of me thought I needed to go next door and really have it out with my dad. Tell him to fix things with my mom before he loses her. But I was in the middle of trying to save my relationship with Rory and . . . make this old house ours. Who’d have thought?

And who was I to give anyone relationship advice?

“I’m starving.” Rory was quick to scurry toward my mom. Obviously grateful for the interruption.

I knew I had thrown a curveball at her, but she didn’t seem opposed to catching it. I think what scared her was that she wasn’t sure whether the ball was really hers to keep.

I was hers. And I planned to show her that.

Aspen Lake no longer haunted me. I realized that I had made up a false narrative about the people there. I’d assumed they all believed the story my parents, especially my father, believed about me. Even I had gotten trapped in that story, not understanding until recently that I had the power to simply shut the book and start a new one.

That’s what I was trying to do. To write my own story. A story I knew needed Rory. Something told me that Aspen Lake wasn’t done with us yet.

But more importantly?

Coco wasn’t done with us yet.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Tate

Iwalked into the parlor after taking Darian lunch in the kitchen. Italian food from one of my favorite restaurants in town.

Rory looked up at me from one of the canvas drop cloths she’d spread across the floor and was currently using as a makeshift picnic blanket. She’d planned to tackle the parlor next. The woman was on a mission.

And judging by her furtive smile, she was trying to mask her feelings about our conversation in the entryway. About keys and wallets. About me living here.

I wasn’t used to her cautious side, and it was a little maddening that I couldn’t get a good read on her.

Like I said, torture.

The best kind of torture, maybe, but the waiting and wondering still felt agonizing.

Rory gave nothing away before turning her attention back to my mom, who sat close beside her, holding an empty plate and looking more pallid than usual. Her eyes were tired, her thoughts clearly somewhere else.

It wasn’t hard to guess where.

Or with whom.

The tension between my parents wasn’t easy on her. They loved each other fiercely and had always defended each other, which probably made all of this hurt even more.

“Do you know anyone who does outdoor holiday lights?” Rory asked my mom while she piled Romano-crusted chicken, salad, and breadsticks onto her plate.

I had no idea where she put it all. She was so lean and lithe, but the woman could put away food like it was her solemn duty.

“I know it’s late in the season,” Rory added, “but Coco would want lights for the party.”

“I’ll see if I can find someone for you,” Mom said absentmindedly.