Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Julianna
The lavender shop smells like a dream—soft floral notes mingling with earthy sweetness, a scent so calming it feels like it could wrap itself around you and pull you into a long-overdue nap. The polished wooden shelves are lined with jars of dried herbs, essential oils, and handmade soaps, each neatly labeled in Nydia’s careful handwriting. Even the air here feels soothing, like it’s holding you close in a warm hug, whispering, It’s okay to breathe.
Behind the counter, Nydia is focused on tying small bundles of lavender and eucalyptus with pale ribbons. Her hands move with practiced precision, the kind that comes from loving what you do. When the bell over the door jingles, she glances up, her dark eyes softening as she sees me.
“Hey, Jules,” she greets with a smile that feels like an old friend reaching out. “Surprised you finally made it into the shop. How can I help? You need lavender to help you sleep?”
I laugh lightly, though the sound feels a bit forced. “I still have plenty of . . . well, everything, from the last time you visited,” I say, my gaze drifting to a shelf filled with stuffed bunnies. One in particular catches my eye, its soft gray fur and floppy ears giving it an almost forlorn look.
Would it be okay to buy one for Rayne? Probably not. She might just toss it in the trash and tell me how much she hates me. Maybe I could do it later when she’s more open to the world. We could give a little rest to Fufu Floppy before the poor thing ends up in rags.
“How’s Rayne doing? Motherhood still kicking your ass?” Nydia doesn’t even look up from her work as she speaks, tying another bundle with care. “Manelik’s offer still stands, by the way. He’ll fly someone in to help if you need it.”
One of these days I’m going to ask her why the guy has access to private jets and helicopters. Also, people who can do almost everything he needs. Sure, he’s in a band—a very famous band. Still, do they have so much money for all that?
“Thank you,” I say, setting my backpack on a nearby stool and letting out a sigh. “I’m mentally exhausted. The Friday at noon class is always a nightmare. I had three beginners—tourists, of course—who were more interested in chatting than actually doing the poses. Not sure why the visitors think yoga is part of the town’s attraction.”
“You have the patience of a saint,” Nydia says, shaking her head as she ties a final bow. “Tea?”
“Please,” I reply, sinking onto a stool by the counter, my shoulders sagging.
She disappears into the back corner, where an electric kettle sits. In minutes, she returns with a steaming mug and places it in front of me before leaning on the counter, her expression expectant. “Now,” she says, her tone firm but kind, “are you really going to tell me how you’re doing?”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “Not sure,” I admit after a moment. “I’m still trying to figure out how to help Rayne. I hoped moving to Luna Harbor would help her . . . but so far, things are the same. I’m constantly worried she’s going to run off into the woods one day and not come back.”
Nydia nods, her brow furrowing slightly. “I don’t think she’d do that, but if it makes you feel better, I can have Manelik set up cameras in your backyard.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” I say, though the thought of resorting to surveillance leaves me feeling overbearing. “Maybe a tracker too, just in case. I mean . . . her mom used to leave and not come back until the next day. What if she’s just like Elena?”
“You’re talking about teenage Elena,” Nydia counters, her tone firm. “Rayne’s a little girl who’s grieving the loss of the only person who loved her unconditionally.”
“I know,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice. “But it’s been months, and she’s still so . . . closed off. She barely speaks. She’s struggling in school. And most days, it feels like it’s my fault because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
Nydia reaches across the counter, her hand warm and grounding as it covers mine. “You’re doing more than enough,” she says gently. “You’re there for her, Jules. That matters more than you realize.”
I nod, blinking back the tears threatening to spill over. “It’s just hard, you know? I’m trying so damn hard, but sometimes it feels like I’m drowning.”
“Parenting always feels like that,” Nydia says with a faint smile. “Even when you’ve had time to prepare for it. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s all anyone can ask.”
I take a sip of the tea, letting its warmth soothe my frayed nerves. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
Nydia leans back, crossing her arms. “How are things with your neighbor? I saw him take one of your classes a few weeks ago, but he hasn’t been back since.”
The mention of Keane sends a ripple through me, and I quickly lower my gaze to my mug, hoping to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “He’s . . . nice,” I say carefully. “And he’s actually been helpful. Rayne likes him, and he’s good at getting her to open up—just a little, but it’s something. Have you met him?”
She shrugs. “Twice. Once when Mane’s band was playing at Too Far From a Bar, and another time when his brother dragged him to my place for dinner.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “His brother? You know him?”
Nydia smirks. “Not well, but Mane does. He knew Keane and his family from before. When he was the Keane Stone .”
My mouth falls open. “Wait. What? You mean . . .” My words trail off as the realization hits me. “That Keane Stone? I thought he was dead. There was a car accident . . . I remember the funeral being televised.”
She shakes her head. “Yes, that Keane Stone, but he’s alive. His parents let the public believe he was gone because they didn’t think he’d ever wake up.”
The room feels still as her words sink in. My thoughts spiral, connecting the pieces. The scars on his hands. The way he holds himself, like he’s fighting invisible battles every second of every day.
“What about the baby?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “There was no mention of a child.”
Nydia’s expression softens. “His fiancée was pregnant,” she says quietly. “The baby didn’t make it.”
I had no idea he was engaged. There’s never been any mention of him dating, just the constant presence of groupies and models orbiting him like a cliché. But I don’t say anything, just nod slowly as the pieces of Keane’s life snap together in my mind. The way he carries himself, the way he drifts through moments like he’s unsure where he fits—it all starts to make sense now.
Liking him the way I do makes even less sense now. I should stay away from him. He has a fiancée, after all. That little fact should be enough to slam the brakes on whatever confusing feelings I’ve been harboring.
Then again, I haven’t seen anyone visiting him. Not once. There’s no sign of her—no calls that I’ve overheard, no little touches of someone else in his life. Knowing this about him should make him seem off-limits, unattainable. And yet, it doesn’t.
It makes him . . . something else. Someone else.
He’s a different man now. A man who spends most of his days avoiding himself, as if the very act of living is some kind of punishment he’s not ready to escape. Don’t I tell him often enough that he should forgive himself? That he should stop looking backward and focus on what’s ahead?
And yet, here I am, the very definition of hypocrisy, standing in the middle of my own mess of feelings, completely unable to take my own advice. Because despite everything—his past, his mistakes, his fiancée—there’s a pull I can’t ignore. A pull I know I should fight, but somehow never do.