Chapter One
Lyla
The first noise is a rattle, like metal on metal, then the low cough of a truck settling into park.
I’m halfway through measuring out coffee when the sound hooks under my skin. The Lawson house hasn’t made a noise in years. That place is just an old shell containing the ghosts of what this neighborhood used to be.
I leave the scooper buried in the grounds and step to the kitchen window. The glass is cold against my forearms. Outside, a white work truck sits crooked at the curb, hazard lights blinking like a heartbeat. The tailgate drops. A ladder claps. Boots hit pavement.
And there he is.
Damien Lawson, in a sun-faded Henley and worn jeans, sleeves shoved to his elbows, and hair just slightly longer than the last time I saw him nearly ten years ago.
He lifts a bundle of two-by-fours like they’re nothing, and I hate how my body so easily remembers him before my brain has had a chance to catch up.
Why is he here?
“Mom?” I call toward the hallway. “You okay?”
A muffled “Mm” answers from her room. Good. She’s still resting. It’s early enough that her still being in bed isn’t weird yet.
I should make the coffee. I should sit, outline the episode I’m recording at noon about “Helpful things to say to somebody who’s grieving.” But instead, I watch Damien set the wood down on the cracked front path across the street. He pauses, runs a hand across the back of his neck, and looks at the house like he’s sizing up a fight.
The Lawson place used to be loud. Boys yelling, screen doors slamming, the summer clatter of bikes, and the hiss of sprinklers.
Then Aaron died. And theirs wasn’t the only house that went quiet.
My mother stopped turning the radio on in the mornings. My dad decided this life isn’t what he had signed up for. When my brother died, we learned to live with the silence.
I blink hard and reach for the kettle, anything to break the spell. It shrieks to a boil the second I touch it. I kill the burner, slide mugs to the edge of the counter, but my eyes are already back at the window when the bed of the truck thuds again.
Why are you here, Damien Lawson?
He’s rolling out a compressor, shoulders bunching. He now has a tool belt slung low on his hips, and if he were any other man, I might make a silent comment in my head about how I’d like to break a few things just to have him come fix it.
But then he angles his face toward the street, and I get the shock of his profile. It’s sharper than I remember, jaw shadowed, hair a little too long at the back. His dark brows furrow as he moves the compressor off the bed of his truck.
He’s older. Looks meaner.
Looks… even better than before. And I hate that too.
After all these years, he’s back. And I can’t stop looking.
I brace myself against the counter. He’s across the street. Which means, I need to be ready to run into him at the mailbox, the curb, or my front walk. I take in a deep breath.
It’ll be fine. I’ll park in the garage. I’ll walk fast and wear a big hat. I’ll do just about anything to avoid having to actually talk to him.
Yeah… it’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse.
The phone on the counter buzzes with a calendar reminder.
Sponsor call at 1:30 today.
My stomach twists as my mind lands right back in reality. I need to stay focused.
If I land this deal, it covers two years’ worth of Mom’s caregiver stipend and the new security system the nurse has been nagging me to install. If I don’t… I push the thought away and glance down the hall again. Mom is quiet.
I set up the French press and focus.
