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“So you love him.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I ruined my chance at that already, or maybe it’s better it doesn’t work out in the end. I can’t say really.”

I hum and take another spoonful of chili. It really is the most perfect recipe, especially for someone with zero cooking skills.

“I hate that it’s still this good.”

Riley laughs, watery and broken, and I feel like something unclenches inside of me. “I refuse to let my love life ruin a legacy of perfect chili.”

“Fair.” I nod. “I still have questions.”

“Okay.”

“But I don’t think I even want to ask them right now.”

“That’s okay too.”

We sit there a little while longer, nothing fixed but nothing broken either. We’re just here together, allowing the space to fill between us.

When I finish my bowl of chili, she grabs it and my spoon and stands to leave, pausing at the door. “I really do love you, Flick.”

I hesitate before I respond. “I love you too.”

It doesn’t feel like a lie either. I’ll always love Riley. She’ll always be the honorary aunt that took me in despite never wanting kids of her own.

After she leaves, I curl back into bed, the room quiet again, my thoughts still there but not screaming anymore. And that’s enough for me.

Chapter Thirty-Seven Knox

The day before Thanksgiving is chaos wrapped in butter and poultry.

Dad and I have been in the kitchen since sunrise, elbows deep in brine buckets, rubbing herbs under turkey skin, and slicing onions until my eyes feel pickled. The house smells like rosemary, citrus, and whatever candle my mom bought last week that claims to be “Autumn Orchard Bliss,” when it really just smells like apple-scented floor cleaner. She’s so busy cleaning the house for people who are here at least weekly that I think she might be outside vacuuming the driveway.

Dad is humming—he always hums when he cooks, which is coincidentally only on holidays—and I’m mostly trying not to think. About Felicity. About the quiet she’s been drowning in. About the quick, surface-level conversations we’ve been passing back and forth as if she’s not drowning in her own problems.

I’m elbow deep in salting the second bird when Dad clears his throat in that very specific I’m about to drop something on you way.

“So,” he says, casual as can be, “did you happen to see what I left in the mudroom for you?”

My stomach drops.

Does he mean the brochure? The certification applications?

I keep my voice steady. “Not sure. You leave a lot of stuff in there.”

He snorts. “Come on. Who do you think told your uncle about it?”

I freeze with my hands inside a raw turkey cavity, my arm halfway shoved up the thing as if I’m stuck in time.

“You left that?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

Dad wipes his hands on a dish towel, nodding without looking at me. “I know my kids, despite what you and your sister think. And I can tell you haven’t been yourself since we started all this planning back in May.”

My throat tightens.

He keeps going. “I figured maybe it was just a transition thing…getting used to the idea. But then Miller mentioned you asking more questions than usual. Different questions.”

I swallow hard. “Dad—”