Chapter 17
LUCAS
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as we get closer.
This could be a mistake, but I have questions that I need answers to. Because Dominic will show up in less than a week, and his presence will inevitably complicate things.
I can feel her watching me as I navigate the dirt roads that didn’t exist fifteen years ago. My brothers and I spent several summers in my early twenties cutting drivable trails to our favorite places on the property. After five minutes of driving, the road gets narrower and the trees get thicker.
My heart is pounding now. I realize I’m nervous and second-guessing this whole plan. What if she doesn’t want to be here? What if bringing her back to this place hurts more than it helps? What if I learn something tonight that I can’t ignore?
Maybe I should turn around. Maybe—
But then I’m pulling onto the barely there path that leads to a clearing, and it’s too late to back out now. I park and kill the engine, glancing over at Holiday. She’s staring out the windshield into the darkness.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head.
When we were kids, she was afraid of the dark. Some things never change.
I smile. “I’ve got you.”
“You always did.”
I get out of the truck, and I open the door for her, taking her hand.
The November air is cold and crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant wood smoke.
Holiday looks up at the starry sky, and I watch her breath fog in the air.
The stars are brighter out here, and it’s hard to believe they’re the same ones we used to wish on.
I lead her forward, and she stops dead in her tracks when we move closer to our destination.
The tent sits exactly where it always did, the same spot we claimed as ours when we were seventeen. Two camping chairs face the firepit with an extra stack of wood nearby. Bourbon sits in one of the chairs, chilled by the late November temperature.
“Lucas,” she whispers, and her hand tightens on mine.
I can see recognition flash across her face as memory after memory hits her. Her eyes go from the tent to the firepit to the exact spot where we spread a blanket under the stars fifteen years ago. The place where I told her I loved her for the first time and where we made promises we couldn’t keep.
She takes a few steps forward, her hand slipping from mine. She moves toward the tent and reaches out to touch the canvas like she’s making sure it’s real.
“I feel like I’ve stepped back in time,” she says.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “Haven’t really been back much, either. Just a few times.”
The truth is, it was always too hard to visit. There were times when I was in my feels and sat out here, drinking alone. But I never brought anyone else here. This place has always been ours.
I light the wood I stacked earlier. The kindling catches quickly, and flames lick at the larger logs.
The fire grows, casting dancing shadows across the clearing and pushing back the darkness.
The firelight catches her face. For a second, she looks exactly like she did when we were teenagers—all hope and possibility, with that perfect smile that used to easily undo me.
“I can’t believe you remembered all the details,” she whispers.
“Our time together was unforgettable.” The admission costs me, but I give it anyway.
I remember the first time I brought her here and how nervous I was. Back then, we rode a four-wheeler down the path I’d carved out when I found this natural meadow. We stayed up all night talking about our dreams—her bakery; me expanding the farm; us building a life together.
We made love for the first time right here, under these same stars.
Both of us nervous and excited and fumbling through it, promising to keep one another like a secret.
She looked at me afterward like I’d given her something precious.
We held one another through the night and then spent three months fooling around. Best summer of my damn life.
I remember the last time we were here, before she left for culinary school. We lay in this exact tent, and she cried because she was scared to leave. I believed distance couldn’t touch what we had. How wrong I was.
Holiday walks around the area, taking it all in. She stops at the firepit and runs her fingers along the stones we carefully arranged all those years ago.
“Wow,” she says.
“Yeah.” My throat is tight.
“We were both so nervous and excited and so in love.” She looks at me; her eyes are shining with unshed tears.
“Come on. Let’s get warm.”
Holiday sinks into one of the chairs, putting distance between us. Smart. Because right now, with all these memories pressing in, I’m not sure I can be trusted to keep my hands to myself.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asks.
I uncap the bourbon and take a long drink. The burn reminds me of all the lonely nights I spent thinking about her, wondering where she was and if she ever thought about me. About this place. About us.
I hand her the bottle. “We need to talk.”
“We’ve been talking all week.”
“No. We haven’t.” In the night, her eyes seem darker; it makes her look like she did when we were young and stupid and thought nothing could tear us apart. “We’ve been dancing around things. Being careful. I’m tired of it.”
She takes the bottle but doesn’t drink yet. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“Lucas—”
“Want to play a game?”
She goes very still. “No.”
“Yes, you do,” I tell her, taking the bourbon and gulping it down. “Confessions. Remember the rules?”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her considering it. Weighing the risk. Wondering what truths might come out in the next hour that we can’t take back.
“This is a very bad idea,” she finally says.
“Probably. But we’re doing it anyway. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you. Tired of not saying what I really think. Tired of pretending everything is fine.”
She snatches the bottle and drinks. “You asked for this. The answers might not be what you want to hear.”
“Right back at you.”
It’s a game we invented when we were sixteen.
Simple rules: steal alcohol from Mawmaw’s liquor cabinet, set a timer for one hour while getting drunk enough that the truth comes easy, and then take turns asking each other anything for another hour.
The catch was that when the game was over, everything said during Confessions stayed in Confessions.
Nothing changed. We went back to being who we were before we played.
It was our way of being honest when we were too scared to say what we meant.
The pulse in her neck increases, and I set an alarm on my phone for one hour.
For the first fifteen minutes, we drink without speaking.
I think about everything I want to know, all the questions that have been burning in my chest. We keep passing the bottle back and forth, the bourbon going down easier with each sip.
My throat and chest are burning, and I’m sure Holiday’s are, too.
I glance at her and notice how damn pretty she is, how she’s always been, without even trying. It makes me drink more.
Forty minutes in, I stand to add more wood to the fire and don’t walk in a straight line. The world tilts slightly.
Holiday giggles and stands, too, but she stumbles over nothing.
Without thinking, I wrap my arm around her to steady her. She’s warm and soft and smells like gardenias and wood smoke. Having her this close, in this place, with bourbon making everything feel more dangerous—it’s almost too much.
“You’re always saving me,” she whispers, looking up at me.
“Only when you let me.”
Her face is inches from mine. I can see the firelight reflected in her eyes and can feel her breath on my face. I remember exactly what it felt like to kiss her fifteen years ago in this exact spot.
I force myself to step back. “Sit.”
She plops down in the chair, and I add more firewood, taking my time to get myself under control. When the fire is blazing again, I rejoin her. The heat from the flames does nothing to chase away the cold awareness between us.
We’re drunk now. The kind that makes consequences feel like they’re in a galaxy far, far away.
Being here with her, in this place, is more dangerous than I thought. We’re about to say things we can’t undo and learn things we can’t deny.
And I did it anyway.
Fuck it, right?
A few minutes later, the timer on my phone goes off. The drinking portion of the game is over.
Holiday looks at me, and something passes between us. It’s understanding, fear, and anticipation. We’re officially at the point of no return.
“Ready to start confessing?” she asks with a hiccup.
“Yep, there’s no backing out now.” I lift the bottle to my lips and take one long pull for courage. “Thoughts and prayers.”