But my boots don’t turn toward the motel. They turn toward home.
Toward her.
Ronnie’s words echo in my head.Stop hiding and go thank her.It sounds simple, but it’s not. Thanking her means seeing her. Seeing her means facing the hurt in her eyes when I told her about Aaron.
Still, my feet keep moving. Past the corner store. Past the weathered cottages. Past the spot on the boardwalk where I kissed her like I’d been starving for a decade.
By the time I hit our street, my pulse is hammering. I can see her house now, the front dark except for the glow of the kitchen window.
And upstairs — a single light. Aaron’s room.
I stop dead in the street. That light’s been off for years.
She’s in there.
I picture her sitting on his bed, maybe holding one of his old baseball caps or flipping through the photo album. I think about all the times she probably came to that room looking for answers and found nothing but dust. And now… she’s doing it again.
And I’m the one holding the answers she hates.
The urge to cross the street and climb those stairs is so strong I can feel it in my teeth. But I don’t.
Instead, I stand there in the shadows, watching that light like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Because if I go in now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to leave again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lyla
The message I type is simple.
Hey. Can we talk?
I stare at it for a long moment before hitting backspace.
New attempt.I’ve been thinking about you.
Delete.
I miss you.
Delete.
I toss the phone onto the couch like it’s burned me, rubbing my hands over my face. I don’t even know what I want to say to him — or maybe I do, and I’m afraid of what he’ll say back.
Mom’s humming in the kitchen again, singing a half-forgotten verse of a song I recognize from my childhood. I grab the mail key from the hook by the door and step outside just to breathe something other than the stale, heavy air in here.
The sight across the street makes me stop cold.
TheFor Salesign in the Lawson yard is gone. In its place: a new one, bright and bold.SOLD.
My stomach drops. I knew it was coming, but somehow, seeing the word in big block letters feels like another door closing between us.
I force my feet to move toward the mailbox, trying not to glance over at the empty driveway.
Inside, there’s the usual stack of envelopes — bills, a flyer for pizza, a postcard from the dentist. And one plain white envelope, no return address, my mom’s name written neatly in black ink.
I flip it over, tear it open.
