The Sound of Forever

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Julianna

As I pull into the driveway, the house by the lake rises into view, an image suspended somewhere between memory and reality. The familiar wraparound porch is still there, hugging the house like a tentative embrace, but I’m curious as to why it looks like new. The pristine white paint is fresh, too fresh for such an old house. My gaze catches on the flower boxes. The ones that used to hold Mom’s geraniums—her pride, her joy. Now they’re empty, cracked at the edges, after so many seasons of abandonment.

It’s like the house itself is unsure whether to welcome me back or shut me out entirely.

Rayne shifts in the back seat, her arms crossed so tight it looks like she’s trying to hold herself together. She hasn’t spoken since we left, aside from the heated exchange that ended with her declaring I don’t understand her and she hates me. If I could only bring back her mom, she’d leave me forever.

The words still sting, even though I know they’re born of anger and exhaustion. I glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror, her face twisted in silent rebellion. It’s clear that this move is just another failure in the long list of ways I’ve let her down.

The lake glimmers through the trees, its surface deceptively calm. It’s too still, too perfect, as though mocking the churning storm inside me. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. I don’t move right away, letting the engine idle like a heartbeat I can’t quiet.

When I finally step out, the air smells of pine and damp earth, a scent I used to find comforting. Now, it feels foreign, almost invasive. I walk toward the porch with hesitant steps, every creak of the wooden boards beneath my feet amplifying my unease. The door is different, more modern with cut glass and squiggly accents. The lock is different. A keypad now sits where the old brass lock used to be. My stomach knots as I pull out the key that’s been on my chain since I was a teenager.

It used to fit perfectly. Now it doesn’t. I try again, jiggling it, but it’s useless.

A lump swells in my throat as I step back, scanning the windows. The curtains are drawn tight, the house giving nothing away. Did my father sell the house and not tell us? Well, how can he when we haven’t spoken in years. Maybe he has a new life, a wife and children who come every summer to enjoy this town. A new family to erase the one he didn’t want anymore.

I understand divorces happen, but abandoning your children because your romantic relationship didn’t work out? I don’t understand and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for doing that to us.

I crouch, lifting the new welcome mat. There’s a key underneath, unfamiliar and foreign, but it fits. The door unlocks with a soft click, but before I can exhale, a piercing chime cuts through the silence. An alarm. My pulse spikes, panic flaring hot in my chest. Seconds later, the siren wails, a sound so loud and shrill it seems to slice through the trees, echoing across the lake. I freeze, the idea of running flashing through my mind, but why would I have to go?

This is supposed to be my house.

Gravel crunches behind me, and I turn to see flashing lights and a police cruiser pulling into the driveway. My stomach twists as a tall, broad-shouldered man steps out, his hand hovering near his holstered weapon.

“Ma’am, step away from the house,” he orders, his voice firm but cautious. “You’re breaking and entering.”

I raise my hands, my breath hitching. “This is my father’s house,” I say, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs.

His eyes narrow. “Name?”

“Julianna Valencia. I’m Daniel Valencia’s daughter,” I reply, my tone clipped and defensive. “My cousin, Nydia, she can vouch for me.”

He radios someone, stepping aside but keeping his watchful gaze on me. The alarm blares on, its relentless shriek setting my nerves on edge.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours before he returns. “ID?”

I fumble with my bag, my fingers shaking as I pull out my wallet. He examines my driver’s license, his expression softening slightly. “So, you’re a Valencia?”

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” I argue, trying not to be upset. “I spent summers here. I know this house like the back of my hand.”

He nods, seemingly convinced, and punches a code into the alarm system. The silence that follows feels almost louder than the siren, a vacuum of sound that leaves me unsteady.

“You should call your father,” he says, his tone bordering on pity. “He updated the system. He didn’t mention family visiting—or that he has a grown daughter.”

I swallow hard, embarrassment burning in my chest. “I don’t have his number,” I admit, the words tasting bitter.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, stepping back toward his SUV. “Good luck,” he says before driving off.

The driveway feels emptier now, the house looming in front of me, both inviting and forbidding. I pull out my phone, scrolling until I find Oscar’s name. I hit record, my voice trembling as I leave a message explaining what happened. At the end, I ask for our father’s number or a solution to this problem because it is obvious that we’re no longer welcome in this house.

As I end the message, my mind drifts to the past. This house was supposed to be ours—Mom’s, mine, Oscar’s, even Elena’s. After the divorce, after Dad left, it still felt like home. I believed this could be what would help Rayne when Oscar suggested it, but now . . . I should probably go to check with Nydia and see if she can help. I’m okay renting something around the area.

Promptly, Oscar sends me the number with the words, It’s going to be okay.

I want to believe him. I really do, but is it really going to be okay?

There’s a child who is counting on me to be her guardian and so far I’ve done a shitty job. As much as I tell her that we’re now a family, that she has to trust me, she just stares at me like I’m some kind of idiot who can’t understand her language.

I stare at the screen, the words blurring slightly as I reread them. I want to believe him, but my stomach twists with unease. My thumb hovers over the call button, trembling with hesitation. It feels like crossing a line I’ve spent years avoiding. I haven’t spoken to my father since I was a teenager. The idea of hearing his voice again, of him hearing mine, stirs something deep inside me that I’m not ready to face.

But what choice do I have?

I press the button.

The line rings, once, twice, a third time, the silence between each tone growing louder in my mind. And then, a voice—his voice comes over, “Gustavo Valencia, speaking.”

It’s like the past crashing through a door I thought was locked. My throat tightens, the words jamming together before I force them out.

“Hey,” I say, and my voice sounds small, unfamiliar even to me. “It’s me. Umm . . . Julianna.”

A pause. A long, suffocating pause.

“I . . . came to the lake house,” I manage, fumbling for words that feel just out of reach. “In Luna Harbor. We were . . . moving in temporarily. A few months, maybe a year, until Rayne and I figure things out. But the locks are changed, and there’s now an alarm system. It might be too much to ask, but if you could rent it to me?—”

“Julie, it’s your place too,” he interrupts, his voice gruff, but not cold. “You don’t need to pay me to stay there. Mind if I ask who Rayne is?”

His question lands like a misstep on a staircase—jarring and unexpected. My breath falters as I scramble for the right words. “Elena . . . she’s gone,” I say, each word feeling heavier than the last. “Apparently, she was a mother, and now I’m in charge of her daughter.”

The silence that follows stretches thin, brittle. When he speaks again, his voice sounds different, raspier, like gravel underfoot. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

The apology lingers between us, carrying the full force of his absence, his abandonment. I want to snap back, to tell him it’s too late for that—for everything. But I don’t.

“She’s six, her daughter,” I say instead. “Her name is Rayne, and . . . she barely talks to me. She’s grieving, and I . . . I don’t know how to help her.”

The words spill out, raw and uneven, like a wound I can’t hide. His silence feels like an invitation to keep going.

“Oscar said coming to Luna Harbor might help. Maybe this place could help her heal,” I continue, the desperation thick in my tone.

“And you?” he asks, cutting through my rambling like a blade. “Will it help you?”

I falter. “Me? I’m fine,” I lie, trying to sound casual. “I just need to get through this.”

The words feel hollow even as I say them, but I don’t wait for him to call me out on it. “This will be temporary,” I add quickly. “I’ll ask Nydia if she knows of a place we can rent so we don’t impose on you and your new family.”

There’s a scoff on the other end, the sound low and rough. “The house is always ready for whenever you or Oscar need it. I’ll text you the alarm code. If you need furniture for the guest room we never furnished, let me know. Rayne should have her own space, something she can make hers.”

His offer surprises me, the generosity of it catching in my throat. Before I can thank him, he speaks again, quieter this time.

“And, Julianna . . .”

The hesitation in his voice wraps around me, pressing against old scars I thought I’d buried.

“Yeah?” My voice barely rises above a whisper.

“I’m sorry. For everything,” he says, and the crack in his tone feels too real, too raw. “For giving up so easily.”

I want to ask what he means. What exactly he’s sorry for. But I can’t bring myself to go there. Not now.

“Thank you for letting us stay,” I say instead, my words clipped and measured. “Let me know what I owe you for utilities. I wouldn’t want to freeload.”

I hang up before he says anything else and lower the phone, staring at it while I wait for the codes. The house stands in front of me, and somehow the place feels unsettling. Maybe this was a bad idea.

I glance at Rayne, still in the back seat, her little arms folded tightly across her chest. She’s staring out the window, her expression closed off.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool lake air. This place—this town—it’s not a cure. It’s not magic. But it’s all I have left to help this child with her grief.

Maybe Luna Harbor is the start of something new. Or maybe it’s just another place where I’ll learn how to lose. For now, though, it’s where we are. And that has to be enough.