Chapter 9 #2
“I swear,” she said, spearing a pickle, “every time I think I’ve got momentum, the universe just—” she made a small deflating sound, “—taps me on the shoulder and goes, actually, no. Every single time.”
“You’ve always been stubborn enough to keep going anyway.”
She snorted. “I prefer persistent.”
“That’s just stubbornness with better PR.”
That earned a laugh, real and unguarded, and for a second she looked like herself again—the version of herself she’d been before everything had gotten heavy.
“I don’t know,” she said, the laugh fading into something quieter.
“It just feels like I’m spinning my wheels lately.
Like I keep starting and not quite—” She trailed off, shaking her head.
“From where I’m sitting, it looks more like regrouping.”
She looked up at me, something uncertain in her expression. “You always used to say stuff like that. Optimistic.”
“Only when it’s true.”
She studied me for a second, then let out a slow breath. “It helps,” she admitted. “Having someone not freak out on my behalf. Harper means well, but she has a very expressive face, and every time I tell her something she—” she widened her eyes in silent demonstration.
“That’s Harper’s job,” I said. “Along with Jude.”
“God, don’t tell Jude anything. He’ll try to form a committee.
” Another laugh, softer this time, the tension easing again.
She glanced down at her plate, then back up at me, something thoughtful settling behind her eyes.
“I’m glad we’re doing this. Talking. Normal talking, where nobody’s—” she gestured vaguely, “—you know.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.” And I meant it more than I let myself show.
Across the room, the pub hummed on, but right there in the booth, it felt like we’d carved out a small pocket of the past. Not to live in. Just to remember how it felt.
“Savannah’s going to start charging us for nostalgia,” she said, nudging her plate. “We’re taking up a booth.”
“Family discount. I’ll put it on my tab.”
She smiled, then shook her head slowly. “It’s weird, though. How easy this feels. I keep waiting for it to get awkward, and it just—” she paused, “—isn’t.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “I keep bracing for it.”
She poked at her food for a second, thinking. “You always knew what you wanted to be,” she said eventually. “And now you’re doing it. I genuinely admire that about you.”
“I don’t know if I’d say I knew, exactly. I was eight years old and liked fire trucks. That’s a pretty low bar for a life plan.”
“Still.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You picked something and stayed with it. You found the fit. I’ve never really had that—not even at the salon, if I’m being honest, and everyone always assumed I loved it.”
“My sisters practically worship you. They’d be devastated to hear that.”
“Your sisters are very kind, and I also gave them good highlights, which helps.” She laughed briefly, then sobered. “I don’t know. I keep trying things, and nothing quite settles. Does that make sense?”
“It makes complete sense,” I said. “But for what it’s worth—and tell me if I’m veering into motivational speech territory—”
“You’re getting close.”
“I’ll be quick. You’ve never been afraid to start over. Most people are terrified of it. You just—do it. That’s not spinning your wheels. That’s something else entirely.”
She looked at me for a long moment, skeptical but listening, turning it over. “You really think that’s a strength?”
“I know it is.”
Her shoulders loosened a fraction, like she’d been holding herself tight without realizing it. “You make it very hard to argue with you,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Constantly. I’ve learned to take it as a compliment.” She laughed again, and I felt it in my chest the way I always did, that particular warmth. “You don’t have to have it all figured out tonight, Becca.”
“Good,” she said softly, meeting my eyes. “Because I really don’t.” A beat. “I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you.”
“You didn’t. We’re just talking.” I held her gaze. “We used to be good at that, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do.” And the way she said it, quiet and a little careful, like she was handling something she didn’t want to drop, told me she wasn’t just talking about conversation.
The pub noise swelled around us again—laughter, the clink of glasses, someone calling out an order—but the space between us stayed calm and peaceful. Like we’d found our footing again, even if neither of us knew exactly where we were headed next.
The moment lingered, right up until it didn’t.
I noticed the change before I saw the reason for it. The way Becca’s shoulders stiffened. The way her gaze slid past me and stuck. I followed it.
Travis stood near the bar, jacket slung over one shoulder. Same easy confidence. Same smile that never quite reached his eyes. He scanned the room, then saw us. His mouth curved, slow and possessive, like she was something he could still claim.
Becca exhaled, sharp and controlled. “Of course.”
I turned back to her. “You okay?”
She nodded too fast. “Yeah. I didn’t expect to see him.”
“Do you want to leave?” I asked quietly.
Her jaw set. “No. I’m not doing that anymore. I can take up space, too.”
That earned my respect. And maybe a little worry.
Travis started toward our table, stopping to greet someone along the way, as if he owned the place. He always did that. He worked the room and made himself impossible to avoid.
Becca straightened in the booth, lifting her chin. I didn’t touch her, didn’t crowd her, but I moved my body, making my presence unavoidable.
When Travis reached us, he smiled at me first. “Levi.”
“Travis,” I said, neutral.
Then his attention slid back to Becca. “Didn’t know you were out and about today—with him. How are things by the river?”
“Fine.” She met his gaze, calm but cool. “I am having a meal with Levi. And it’s none of your concern.”
“Whatever.” He glanced at me dismissively. “We need to talk—”
“This isn’t the time,” she said evenly. “And for the record, it will never be the time again. Ever.”
Something flickered in his expression—annoyance, maybe—but he smoothed it over fast. “Just thought I’d say hi. Maybe check on you and see how you were holding up.”
“Okay, hi,” she said with a flippant wave of her hand. “I’m fine.”
Travis’s smile lingered on Becca a beat longer than necessary. “You always did like to talk things through,” he said casually. “I thought maybe you could talk to me. Please. How are things by the river?”
Becca’s hand stilled around her glass. It was so quick that most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I did. The faint tightening of her jaw. The way her eyes flicked up, sharp and wary, before she smoothed it away.
Travis stepped back with a shrug. “Anyway. Good seeing you. We’ll talk later.”
When he walked off, Becca didn’t watch him go.
I pressed my knee lightly against hers under the table. She pressed back.
Something was wrong. The entire exchange nagged at me. The phrase. How are things by the river?
He’d said it twice. Casual. Like small talk.
Except Travis had not spent a single meaningful hour down by the river since he and Becca broke up.
He’d called her living at the campground ‘temporary.’ He’d made his feelings about Aggie and the whole situation perfectly clear.
Everyone in Sweetbriar knew she lived at Riverside Pines.
But this felt like he was referencing something else.
I filed it away to think about later and said nothing.
“That was weird,” I said, watching her carefully. “Want to talk about it?”
“Yeah. He’s nothing but weird.” She nodded, slower this time. “No. I’m okay. I’d rather not even think about him at all.”
“Okay.” Neither of us really went back to our food after that.
Becca pushed her plate away with a small sigh. “I think I’m done.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
I caught Savannah’s eye as she passed and lifted my hand slightly. She nodded, already bringing us the check like she’d been expecting it.
Becca frowned when I slid my card onto the tray. “Levi—”
“I’ve got it,” I said easily. “Don’t make it a thing.”
She hesitated, then gave in with a quiet, “Thank you.”
Outside, the air was cool and damp, the kind of Sweetbriar evening that smelled like rain even when the sky was clear. We walked side by side toward her car, neither of us in a hurry to break the bubble the pub had given us.
I noticed her shiver, and without thinking, I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
She looked up at me, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re cold, and I’m not. No big deal.”
She pulled the jacket closer, fingers curling into the sleeves. The faint scent of my laundry detergent mixed with the night air. “Thanks.”
We reached her car. I stopped just short of crowding her, hands in my pockets now.
“Do you want me to follow you home?” I asked. “Make sure you get there okay?”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile was real. “You sound like my brother. He’s made hovering over me a habit lately.”
I huffed a quiet breath, stepping a little closer before I could second-guess it. “I’m not your brother, Becca.”
A pause. Small, but deliberate.
My voice dropped anyway, softer than I meant it to. “He cares. So do I.” I held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then forced myself back on track. “If you won’t tell me what’s really going on, at least call Matt. He’d want to know if something is bothering you this much.”
Her eyes met mine in surprise, then something softer filled her gaze, almost grateful. She looked down for a second, then back up at me. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not when I can see it’s weighing on you,” I said quietly. “I’m not asking to fix it. I’m just asking you to let someone in. Even if it’s not me. What about Harper? Even Jude? It’s okay to need people, you know.”
She studied me for a long moment. The streetlight caught in her eyes, turning them warm and golden brown. Then she stepped closer, rose on her toes, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to my cheek.
My heart stopped for half a second. The warmth of her lips lingered on my skin, faint and sweet, like the ghost of something we could have had years ago.
She smelled like vanilla perfume and night air.
The press of her mouth was gentle, lingering just long enough to make my pulse race out of control.
She pulled back slowly, eyes meeting mine. “Thanks,” she whispered. “For tonight. For caring enough to push a little. Sometimes I feel like I need too much. But you’re good at making me feel like it’s okay.”
Before I could answer—before I could even remember how to breathe—she slid into her car, pulled the door shut, and drove off.
I stood there, hand touching the spot she’d kissed, the faint echo of her lips still warm against my cheek.
Whatever this was between us wasn’t finished.
Not even close. And after the way she’d looked at me before she left, she might be starting to let herself hope, too, and that made my chest ache in the best possible way.