Chapter 9
NINE
WILLA
I sit curled up on the old couch in the living room at my parents’—my dad’s—house.
A mug of tea cooling is in my hands as I tare at the television without really seeing it. The news anchor’s lips move, the blotter crawls along the bottom, but nothing sinks in. My thoughts are too loud.
There will be no bonfire tonight. Canceled on account of the wind and drought.
The dream I’d been clinging to—gone, just like that.
I understand. I do. Safety has to come first. But… But…
But Beckett hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not even a short message to say he’s sorry again.
I keep replaying what happened yesterday. Did I scare him off? Did I push too hard, too fast?
I press the heel of my hand to my chest, trying to rub away the ache.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Dad says from his recliner. He sets aside his paper and studies me, his gaze sharp in the way only a father’s can be. “Everything okay?”
I force a shrug. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he repeats, like the word is a personal insult. “That’s the answer of someone who’s not fine.”
Tears sting my eyes. “It’s just… everything. The bonfire. Mom. Beckett…” I shake my head. “It feels like I’m losing all of it. Again.”
Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know how your mom and I met.”
I sniff, half-laughing. “At the bonfire.”
“That’s the short version. The fairytale.” His eyes soften. “You don’t know the rest.”
I glance over. “What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t easy at first,” he says. “We were broke. Your granddad didn’t think I was good enough.
Your mom had dreams that didn’t always line up with mine.
Struggling to get pregnant. Struggling to stay pregnant.
There were fights, tears, nights when one of us slept on the couch. But you know what we learned?”
“What?”
“That it wasn’t ever just about the bonfire or the spark,” he says gently. “It was about building something that could survive the hard times and the good. It took work. It took patience and grace. And it took both of us giving in sometimes, opening up when it was easier to shut down.”
I blink at him, throat tight.
“You’ve got a chance at something like that, Willa.” He pats his knee.” Don’t waste it pouting on the couch.”
“I don’t even know if Beckett wants?—”
Dad pushes himself up, cutting me off. “Come on.”
I frown. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I follow him reluctantly, tugging on my coat as we head out to his truck. My mind spins the whole way, Dad’s words circling with my own doubts.
Patience.
Grace.
Work.
I can see how all of those might come into play in a future with Beckett. Assuming there is a future.
I’m so caught up in these thoughts, I barely notice where we’re going until the truck turns onto the gravel road that leads to the lake.
My heart skips. “Dad?”
He just smiles faintly and keeps driving.
When we crest the final hill and the shoreline comes into view, I gasp.
The lake glows.
Thousands of lights are strung overhead, draped from poles sunk deep into the ground.
Warm orange and red bulbs flicker like embers.
Heat lamps hum along the perimeter, sending waves of warmth through the crisp night air.
Speakers hidden among the trees pipe in the low crackle of fire, blending with the sweet notes of a fiddle.
And the air itself carries a faint smoky scent, like woodsmoke without the danger of a real fire.
And the people… I swear, the whole town must be here. Families, couples, kids darting around with marshmallows on sticks. Someone’s set up tables with graham crackers and chocolate. People are playing cornhole, laughing, singing, dancing.
It’s everything I imagined. Everything I wanted.
Only… Better.
My eyes blur with tears. “How… how is this possible?”
“Ask him,” Dad says, tipping his head toward the center of it all.
Beckett.
He’s waiting by the steel ring that was supposed to hold the fire, now filled with a sculpture of glowing light rods that pulse and shimmer like flames. He looks solid and steady, but when his gaze finds me, something in his expression cracks open.
I step forward, my knees unsteady. “You did this?”
“Of course I did.” His voice is rough, thick.
He takes my hands in his, his warmth flowing into me.
“Because I love you, Willa. I love you. And I wanted you to have this. Not just because it mattered to your mom. Not just because it mattered to the town. But because it matters to you. And your happiness matters more to me than anything.”
A sob breaks out of me, half laugh, half cry. “You love me?”
He nods once, firm. “Yeah. I do. And I want us to have a story to tell our kids someday that’s every bit as good as your parents’. Maybe better.”
Tears spill over my cheeks. “Beckett…”
“I know it won’t always be easy,” he says. “I know I’m stubborn and grumpy and I’ll get things wrong. But I’ll fight for you. For us. Every damn day.”
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him, hard and certain and full of every ounce of love flooding my chest. The crowd around us cheers, but all I feel is him—his mouth, his arms, his heart beating against mine.
“I love you too,” I whisper when we finally break for air. “I’ve been falling for you since the moment you stood up and told me no.”
His laugh rumbles through me. “Guess it pays to be a buzzkill.”
The crowd cheers again as we kiss, long and sweet and sure, under the glow of a flame that isn’t a fire at all.
Then the wind shifts. Cool air ripples across the lake, tugging at my hair, and the first drops fall—soft, unexpected, cleansing.
I pull back with a startled laugh as the drizzle thickens, pattering against the leaves, the lights, our skin. Instead of scattering, people tip their faces up, smiling, laughing, arms open.
It’s the first rain in forever. It’s cleansing. Like a blessing.
Beckett brushes a wet strand from my cheek, his eyes steady on mine. “I guess the weather finally decided to cooperate.”
“Guess so,” I breathe, my heart practically bursting.
With rain falling all around us—gentle, magical, washing the grief and fear away—we kiss again.