Chapter 29 #2
I looked at Becca. Her jaw was clenched. She knew what she was going to do, and I would be there for her through all of it.
We said goodnight to Matt at the door. He gripped my arm briefly as I passed, a firm, brief contact that said several things that didn’t need to be spoken, and I received all of them.
“Keep her safe,” he said.
“I will,” I promised him. “I got her. Don’t worry.”
He nodded and let go.
Outside, the night was cold and clear, and the stars shone with relentless intensity, as if they had something to prove.
We helped Aggie to her car, waving as she drove off toward home.
We walked over to the truck and then stood there.
We stayed on the passenger side in the cold, not quite ready to move yet.
I reached for her hand.
She gave it to me without looking, found my hand with hers in the dark, fingers threading through, a small and certain thing.
“That was a lot,” she said.
“It was. More than I think either of us was expecting when we walked in there tonight.”
She let out a slow breath. “Aggie—” She stopped. Started again. “She just told it like it was nothing. Like it was just the facts of a thing that happened.”
“That’s how she carries it,” I said. “Some people, that’s the only way they can.”
Becca turned her face up toward the sky. I watched her profile in the dark, admiring the line of her jaw, the small crease between her brows that appeared when she was worried.
“I keep thinking about the woman who’s been sober for three years,” she said quietly.
“I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t know her name, don’t know her face, and she’s probably asleep twenty feet from my trailer right now, and she has no idea that someone in Portland is sitting in a nice office deciding whether her home is worth more as a resort. ”
“No,” I said. “She doesn’t.”
“That’s the part that keeps snagging on me.
She did everything right. She got sober, she stayed sober, she built something small and quiet and hers.
And none of that counts for anything to these people.
They don’t even know she exists.” Her voice had gone tight at the edges.
“They’ve never once had to know she exists. ”
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say to that, and she didn’t need me to fill the space.
“I know what I want to do,” she said finally.
“I know you do,” I said. “I’ve been watching you decide for the last hour.”
She looked at me then. In the dark, in the cold.
Her eyes were steady and clear and completely unafraid, and I thought about the girl who had put her voice behind a filter and whispered into a microphone alone at night because she needed somewhere to put the truth, and the woman standing in front of me now who was going to take the filter off and say it where everyone could hear it.
I was so proud of her, I didn’t have words for it.
“I’m scared,” she said. “I want to be honest about that. I’m not standing here feeling brave. I’m standing here feeling terrified, but I’m going to do it anyway, and I need you to know those are different things.”
“They are,” I said. “And for what it’s worth, the second one matters a hell of a lot more than the first.”
Something in her face softened, just slightly. “You’re not going to tell me it’ll be fine?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know if it’ll be fine. But I know you, and I know that whatever happens, I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
She held my gaze for a moment longer, something passing across her face that I couldn’t quite name but felt the weight of. Then she squeezed my hand and turned toward the truck.
We drove back to Riverside Pines in quiet.
Not the heavy kind of quiet that presses down, but the soft, shared kind that comes after a long day when words aren’t necessary because everything important has already been said.
Becca’s hand rested on my thigh the whole way, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.
I kept my left hand on the wheel and my right over hers, fingers laced loosely, every few minutes giving a small squeeze. She squeezed back.
The campground lights were low when we pulled in—most trailers dark, a few porch lamps glowing like fireflies.
Aggie’s Airstream had one curtained window lit; Gerald’s silhouette moved across it like a small, imperious shadow.
I parked in my usual spot beside Becca’s trailer, killed the engine, and we sat for a moment listening to the ticks of cooling metal and the river’s steady murmur beyond the trees.
We got out, crossed the short stretch of gravel.
She unlocked her door, flicked on the small lamp just inside, and the warm yellow light spilled across the familiar space.
She kicked off her boots by the door; I did the same.
We moved around each other with the easy familiarity of people who’d spent years orbiting the same small patch of ground, only now the orbit had tightened to nothing at all.
She went straight to the kitchenette, filled the kettle, and set it on the burner. I leaned against the counter and watched her—hair still a little messy from the day, sleeves pushed up, the way she moved like she was settling into her own skin for the first time in a long time.
“You want tea?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Whatever you’re having.”
She smiled and pulled two mugs from the cabinet. Chamomile. She dropped bags into both, then turned and leaned back against the counter beside me. Our shoulders touched. She didn’t move away.
I turned toward her, cupped her face with both hands. “I’m going to be here for everything. All of it.”
“I know.” Her eyes searched mine. “But I’m still scared. Not of recording—I’ve done that a hundred times. I’m scared of what happens after. What if it’s not enough? What if they just push harder?”
“Then we push back harder.” I brushed my thumbs along her cheekbones.
“You’re not the only one who’s going to fight for this place.
Aggie’s in. I’m in. Harper, Jude, my entire family, Matt—they’re all going to be in.
And the people in those trailers, and the town?
Once they hear your voice asking the right questions, they’ll be in too. ”
She closed her eyes for a second, leaned into my touch. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple. It’s just true.”
The kettle clicked off. She opened her eyes, gave me a small, grateful smile, and turned to pour the water. Steam curled up between us. She handed me a mug, wrapped her hands around her own, and we stood there hip to hip, sipping in silence while the chamomile cooled.
Eventually, she set her mug down, took mine from my hand, and set it beside hers. Then she stepped into me, arms sliding around my waist, face pressing to my chest. I wrapped her up immediately—chin resting on the top of her head, hands stroking slow circles on her back.
“Thank you,” she whispered against my shirt. “For being here. For not trying to talk me out of it. For just being you. My best friend. And now—”
I kissed her hair. “There’s nowhere else I’d be. I’ve been waiting forever to be right here.”
She smiled and led me to the bedroom. We didn’t rush.
Didn’t tear at clothes. Just peeled them off slowly, piece by piece, like unwrapping something precious.
When we were bare, she pulled back the covers and slid in.
I followed, pulling her against me, chest to chest, legs tangled, her head tucked under my chin.
I ran my fingers through her hair, slow and steady, the way I’d wanted to for years. She sighed, melting into me, one hand resting over my heart.
“I feel safe with you,” she said quietly. “Like I can breathe all the way down to the bottom of my lungs.”
I kissed her forehead. “You can.”
She pressed closer, nose against my throat. “I’m going to do this. Hopefully, enough people will hear it and care enough to start keeping an eye on their neighbors.”
I tightened my arms around her.
She lifted her head, kissed me—slow, tender, tasting faintly of chamomile and trust. I kissed her back the same way, hands gentle on her back, her hips, her hair.
But then she shifted, rolling half on top of me, her bare thigh sliding between mine. Her mouth found the hollow of my throat, lips brushing soft, then pressing firmer, a quiet claim. My breath caught. I felt her smile against my skin.
“Becca…” My voice was low, rough with everything I was trying to keep gentle.
She lifted her head just enough to meet my eyes in the dim lamplight. “I want to feel you tonight,” she whispered. “Slow. Just us. I want to remember every second of this before everything happens.”
I searched her face—saw the quiet need there, the trust, the faint shimmer in her eyes that said she was asking for more than pleasure.
She was asking for proof that this was real, that I wasn’t going anywhere, that whatever storm was coming wouldn’t wash this away. My heart squeezed so hard it hurt.
“Anything you want,” I murmured, voice thick. “Always.”
I rolled us carefully so she was beneath me again, weight braced on my forearms. We kissed deeper now—still slow, but with a little more heat building under the tenderness.
Her hands roamed my back, nails grazing lightly, then sliding down to grip my hips and pull me closer.
I settled between her thighs, already hard for her again, the thick length of me resting against her slick heat.
She reached down between us, wrapped her fingers around me, stroked once, twice, making me groan low in my throat. Then she paused, hand stilling.
“Condom,” she whispered, voice soft but certain. “I want to feel you, but I want to be careful too.”
I nodded, kissed her again, then leaned over the side of the bed, fishing in the drawer of her bedside table.
I pulled out the foil packet, tore it open with my teeth, and rolled it on with steady hands, even though my pulse was hammering.
She watched me the whole time, eyes dark and trusting, fingers tracing my forearm like she was memorizing the feel of me.
When I was covered, I settled back between her thighs, braced above her. I kissed her again, then nudged at her entrance, waiting.
“Look at me,” she breathed.
I did. Held her gaze as I pushed in—slow, careful, inch by careful inch—watching every flicker across her face. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, lips parting on a soft gasp as I filled her completely. We both stilled for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
She lifted her hips in a slow roll that made me groan low in my throat.
“I used to lie awake,” she whispered, “wondering what it would feel like if you ever touched me like this. If you ever looked at me the way you’re looking at me now.
I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop.
I never thought I could have something like this, like you. ”
I kissed her—deep, slow, tasting the salt at the corner of her eye. “I’m looking at you now,” I said against her mouth. “And I’m never going to stop. You have me. You’ve always had me.”
She wrapped her legs around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, urging me closer, deeper.
I moved with her—long, lazy thrusts, each one drawing a quiet moan from her throat.
Our mouths stayed locked together; we kissed through every slow glide, tongues sliding in the same rhythm as our bodies, breathing each other’s air.
Her hands slid up to cradle my face. “Look at me,” she breathed again.
I did. Held her gaze as I rocked into her—slow, steady, deliberate. Her eyes were wide open, shimmering, full of everything she wasn’t saying out loud yet. Trust. Fear. Hope. All of it laid bare.
“I’m right here,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”
She tightened around me, breath hitching.
I felt her start to tremble, felt the flutter of her inner muscles as she climbed.
I kept the pace even, deep, letting her chase it at her own speed.
When she came, it was quiet—back arching, a soft, broken sound against my mouth, pulsing around me in waves that pulled me over the edge with her.
I buried myself deep, groaning her name low and rough, spilling into the condom as she clung to me, nails pressing half-moons into my shoulders.
“Hey,” I whispered, brushing them away with my thumbs. “What’s this?”
She gave a shaky laugh. “I don’t know. I just… I feel so much. Too much. Like everything I’ve been holding back for years is finally coming out, and I’m scared it’s going to break me open.”
I pressed my forehead to hers. “Then break. I’ll catch every piece.”
She closed her eyes, a fresh tear slipping free. “I’ve never felt this safe,” she whispered. “Not in years. Not ever.”
My throat closed. I kissed her—slow, reverent, tasting salt and chamomile and everything we’d waited years to give each other. When I pulled back, my own eyes were wet.
“You are safe,” I said, voice rough.
She smiled through the tears and pulled me down until I was half on top of her, half beside her, still inside her, still connected. We stayed like that, skin on skin, breathing together, hearts slowing in tandem.
Eventually, I eased out gently, tied off the condom, and dropped it in the small trash bin by the bed. I pulled her back into my arms. She nestled against me, cheek over my heart again, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest once more.
I stayed awake, listening to her breathing even out, feeling the steady rise and fall of her ribs against my side, the quiet river outside.
Tomorrow, things might change. But right now, in this small trailer with Becca in my arms and the world held safely at bay, everything was exactly as it should be.
I pressed one last kiss to her hair, closed my eyes, and let sleep take me too.