Chapter 24 And It Was Good
Chapter twenty-four
And It Was Good
Ayear.
I still don’t know how that much time has passed.
Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath like it’s still survival season—like I’m waiting for a door to slam, a footstep too heavy behind me, a voice I’ve worked hard to forget.
But then I glance up from the bar and see Cain flipping a dish rag over his shoulder, pouring a whiskey with one hand, and resting the other low on my back. And the world softens.
We live above the bar still. Same creaky stairs, same burnt coffee smell in the hallway, same chipped tile in the bathroom that Cain refuses to fix because “it’s got character.”
It’s simple. Quiet. Ours.
I work the bar every night with him. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because every time I slide a drink across the counter, I remember I made it out. Every time someone calls my name instead of his, I remember I’m not invisible anymore. I’m not prey anymore.
And when Cain runs his fingers down the curve of my spine as he walks past, when he leans in to whisper some dark, sinful thing just to make me blush in front of customers—we both remember exactly who I belong to.
I spend my Sundays under a green canvas canopy at the farmers market.
Cain sets it up for me before heading back to the bar, and I spend the day surrounded by jars of homemade candles, stitched bookmarks, clay rosary beads, and mugs that say things like Get Thee Behind Me, Red Flag in a curly, passive-aggressive font.
I don’t keep a dime.
Every sale goes directly to a small nonprofit I discovered months ago—one that supports women like me. Women who were stalked, hunted, haunted. Women who still flinch when they hear their name said a certain way. Women who need someone to believe them before it’s too late.
It’s my quiet rebellion. My redemption. My tithe.
And on Tuesday nights, the bar is full of laughter and casseroles and paper plates, thanks to Hank.
He started hosting free dinners for the veterans in town, and it has somehow grown into a weekly feast for anyone who needs a place to be.
Cain and I cook. Hank tells terrible jokes.
There’s a piano player now who comes just for the chicken pot pie.
We host every damn holiday like it’s sacred—because it is. Because last year I thought I’d never see another one. Now I spend Thanksgiving buried in pie crust and gravy while Cain kisses my neck and Hank threatens to deep fry the turkey in the alley again.
We don’t have much, but somehow, we have everything.
A spotted shadow follows me everywhere now.
His name is Saint Jude, but I call him Jude or Judas depending on his level of chaos. Cain says it’s blasphemous. I say it’s appropriate. He’s a Dalmatian with too much energy, too many opinions, and the softest ears I’ve ever cried into.
I got him after a particularly bad night—woke up shaking so hard I couldn’t find the floor, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Cain had to carry me into the shower, fully clothed, just to ground me. Hank suggested the dog. Cain made it happen.
Now Jude sleeps by the bar when I’m working, sits under the farmers market table when I’m selling my little crafts, and curls up by my feet when I’m sewing or painting.
He wears a vest that says Not Today, Satan on the side, and people always laugh, but they respect it.
They respect him. He’s saved me more times than I can count.
He senses the panic before it hits. Nudges me. Grounds me. Makes space when I need to breathe.
And he loves Cain like they’re in a secret boys-only club. I pretend to be offended. I’m not. It makes me feel safe knowing they love each other too. Every girl deserves a Saint, right?
Nobody ever came looking. Not for Warren. Not for answers. Not for me.
It’s like the universe finally listened and swept the bastard into a grave no one bothered to dig up. There were murmurs, sure. A few whispers around town. But nothing ever stuck. The cops didn’t come back. No one posted a missing persons report.
I asked Cain once. Just once. It was late. We were tangled up in bed, the moonlight crawling across his chest like it wanted to worship him too. I asked how. Just one word. “How?”
He looked at me, quiet for so long I thought he might pretend not to hear me. Then he kissed my forehead and said, “Some things are better buried, little saint.”
And Hank? I cornered him at the bar, thinking maybe he’d crack if I hit him with my doe eyes and the soft voice I rarely use. He just slid me a Shirley Temple and patted my hand.
“You got your peace, Rabbit,” he said. “Don’t poke at the bones.”
So I stopped asking. But sometimes—late at night, when Jude is snoring and Cain is fast asleep—I wonder. Not out of guilt. God no. But curiosity. And a little awe. Because whatever they did? They did it for me.
As for my mother… Well. Caroline Holloway is gone. Not dead, not buried. Just… gone.
Banished from my life like the curse she always was. Blocked on everything—phone, socials, email, even that ridiculous neighborhood Facebook group she always used to spy on me.
It’s better this way. Safer. Quieter. But some days, the grief still creeps in.
Not for her—not for the woman who looked through me more than she ever looked at me. Not for the sharp voice and colder hands.
I grieve for the mother I never got to have.
The one I dreamed up as a kid with scraped knees and an overactive imagination. The one who made hot cocoa when the monsters came at night. The one who noticed when I was hurting. Who hugged without conditions. Who loved me even when I wasn’t useful.
Caroline never loved me like that.
She didn’t see me—not really. I was a responsibility she resented. A problem she tried to control. A reflection she hated too much to polish.
And still, part of me mourns. Because even poison drips with a mother’s shape when it’s all you’ve known. Even venom leaves behind a void when it’s gone.
But I’ve filled it, little by little. With the farmers market mamas who squeeze my shoulders and say, “How’s my girl today?”
With the bar grannies who make Cain blush when they call him “their dark knight” and bake him ugly pies just because.
With Hank, who’s more of a dad than any blood could claim.
With Cain, who sees every broken part of me and says, “You’re mine anyway.”
I lost a mother. But I found a family. And that ache in my chest doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels like a scar.
I don’t want for anything. Cain makes sure of that.
Not in a flashy, pile-of-money-on-the-bed kind of way. But in the quiet things. A fresh cup of coffee waiting when I come downstairs.
A new hoodie draped over the barstool because he saw me eyeing it at the market last week. The heat turned up before I even think to ask. The front door double-checked three times before bed. Just in case.
He never says, “You’re safe now.” He just proves it, every single day.
We live a simple life. Still upstairs in the apartment over the bar, where the windows stick and the floors creak, and the plumbing hums like a tired old man. But it’s ours.
Cain owns the whole damn building, has for years. Could’ve bought a house in the suburbs, a ranch with land, hell—probably a penthouse if he wanted. But when I once asked if he ever thought about moving, he just looked at me and said,
"Why would I leave the place that gave me you?"
We don’t talk about babies. Don’t make Pinterest boards for dream homes. No color swatches or nursery plans or white picket fences.
We’ve got a dented mailbox. A bar full of misfits. A dog that snores louder than Cain and sheds on everything I own.
Our routine. Our little life carved into a corner of the city most people forget. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.
I wear a simple gold band with a single diamond. Nothing flashy. Just enough sparkle to catch the light when I reach for a bottle or swipe my finger through the foam on Cain’s beer. He wears a plain band. Gold, no fuss. Worn and scratched like it’s been on his finger his whole life.
There was no proposal. No big question or fancy dinner or staged moment.
Just a quiet morning in our kitchen. Coffee on the stove.
His hair still damp from the shower. He reached into the drawer, pulled out the little box I hadn’t even known he had, and held the ring between two fingers like it was something sacred.
He didn’t say will you marry me?
He just looked at me. And I nodded. That was it. That was everything.
He slipped it onto my finger with the same care he uses when he handles my broken things. Then he slid his own band on without a word, like he was sealing a deal written in blood and breath and quiet promises.
Hank was at the bar within the hour, in his Sunday best and looking way too pleased with himself.
Married us right there between the pool table and the jukebox.
Our regulars clapped. One of the old ladies from the market cried.
Then we served nachos and beer and opened the bar, just like it was any other Tuesday.
Everybody knows. Nobody makes a fuss. They treat us like we’ve always been married. And maybe we have.
***
It’s Sunday night, and the market still smells like rosemary and roasted garlic. My feet are a little sore from walking the cobblestone rows of vendors, but it’s a good ache. The kind that reminds me I’m alive, I’m moving, I’m safe.
Cain and I strolled hand in hand—me tugging him toward the little ceramics table I love, him pretending to grumble but buying me a mug shaped like a ghost anyway.
The sun started dipping low when we made our way to the food trucks, and without even asking, he steered us toward the one we always end up at.
The Palestinian woman with the kind eyes and the slow smile.
We eat at a wobbly plastic table under fairy lights, elbows touching, dog curled up at my feet like he belongs there.
Cain tears a piece of flatbread and offers it to me. “Peace offering,” he says, even though I’m not mad at him for anything.