“I’m done being blamed for things people know nothing about,” I said, voice trembling but unbroken.
And then I left. I didn’t look back.
The night air was sharp, slicing through my shirt and straight to the bone.
I walked to my truck and climbed in, hands still shaking.
For the first time, I knew what I had to do.
It was time to stop running.
It was time to find out the truth—even if it killed me.
Eleven
Lily
By the time the spaghetti water boiled down into a starchy sludge and the last of the salad leaves wilted in the bowl, I’d gotten exactly nowhere on my promise to keep the apartment “civilized.” Noah had managed to spread both sauce and noodles across a five-foot blast radius, and the floor had a new sticky spot I’d have to tackle with baking soda tomorrow. The moon was already high in the sky out the small kitchen window.
I was scraping plates with one hand, shoveling leftovers into a Tupperware with the other, and negotiating with a toddler over whether toy trucks had to be washed before going to bed. I’d just surrendered and let Noah zoom his favorite dump truck straight through a puddle of red sauce when the knock came at the door.
It wasn’t the aggressive, “open up or else” kind of knock you get from a landlord or a cop, but it wasn’t tentative, either. Just firm, no-nonsense, and a little impatient.
Noah went silent, his face going solemn, then he gasped, “Someone here!”
“Probably just the neighbor,” I called, but my heart was already tripping over itself. The last time someone knocked unexpectedly, it was a certified letter from the courthouse. Thetime before that, my ex’s mother, holding a box of mismatched baby clothes and a look of reluctant pity.
I wiped my hands on my jeans, checked my reflection in the microwave door (still color in my cheeks, still the new blonde streaks refusing to blend), and made sure the hallway was clear of anything that might trip me. I opened the door a crack.
Ford stood in the hallway, toolbox in one hand, the other gripping a plastic bag. He wore a gray t-shirt and dark jeans, his hair a little messy, face clean-shaven but for the stubble along his jaw. The sight of him here—again, in my world—felt unreal. I half-wondered if I’d conjured him out of thin air.
“Evening,” he said. His voice was low, casual, as if he made surprise house calls every night of the week.
I took a step back, holding the door open with my hip. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes went straight to the kitchen, then flicked back to me, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, someone’s gotta keep these pipes in line.”
The tiny dirty spot in my mind set off flares, but I shut it down fast.
Noah appeared at my side, clutching the spaghetti-crusted truck. “Hi, Ford! My truck’s stuck.”
Ford crouched, coming down to Noah’s level, and held out his palm for a high-five. “That’s a tough break, little man. Think you can help me with your mom’s sink first, then we’ll rescue your truck?”
Noah nodded, completely entranced.
Ford’s boots thudded on the linoleum, and the scent of cold air and cedar trailed in with him. He set his toolbox on the counter, then pulled the new faucet from the shopping bag, holding it up like a prize on a game show.
I tried to play it cool. “So this is really happening. Again.”
He grinned, unfazed. “Second time’s the charm.”
I gestured toward the sink, biting down a smile that wanted to show itself. “Alright, well. I guess have at it.”
“I plan to,” he said, already rolling up his sleeves.
He started unpacking tools, laying them out with the kind of efficiency that spoke of a man who worked with his hands, not a techie who sat behind a screen all day. The more I got to know Ford, the more entranced I was.
I hovered by the kitchen table, pretending to organize the mail, but really just watching him. There was something different about Ford tonight—his movements more at ease, his focus sharper. He seemed lighter, somehow, like a man who’d left a bag of stones behind.
