Chapter 16 Derek
T he storm hits like judgment.
Thunder cracks overhead as I steer the truck into the darkness.
My wipers struggle against sheets of rain, water streaking in thick veins across the glass, turning the road ahead into a blur of wet blacktop and smeared reflections.
My knuckles are white on the wheel. I don’t even know where I’m driving anymore.
Anywhere but home.
Anywhere but back to her.
I don’t have a destination. I just drive. Fast and reckless, like maybe if I outrun the ache in my chest, it won’t catch up.
But it always does.
It’s in every mile I chew up on the odometer. Every lie rattling through my head. Every fucking time she looked at me and didn’t tell me the truth.
And I can’t decide if I’m more furious at her for lying or at myself for falling so hard that I never saw it coming.
Lightning forks in the distance. My stomach turns. I shift gears, push harder on the gas. My mind won’t shut up. I can still see her face and those wide, wrecked eyes. The tears that came in a flood I didn’t know how to catch.
You… You forged divorce papers?
Christ.
It’s not just the lie that kills. It’s the silence. The choice she made to keep me in the dark while I built our life on sand. I gave her everything. My home. My name. My heart.
And she was still married to him.
I slam on the brakes and pull off to the shoulder, tires spitting gravel as I twist the wheel and turn off onto an old service road. I know where I need to go now.
The graveyard.
The storm’s moved east by the time I hit the ridge, but the roads are still slick, the sky still low and heavy. I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other clenched in my lap. Rain clings to the windshield in lazy streaks now, like the weather’s too tired to rage anymore.
Unlike me.
I kill the engine and sit there a minute, rain pattering the roof of the truck, before I swing open the door.
The cemetery gates creak when I push through them. Mud sucks at my boots as I cross to her. The place is soaked, grass flattened, and puddles blooming in the dips between headstones. But the air’s still. Too still. Rain dripping with flatness.
A rusted wind chime that always sounds like a lullaby in the wind calls out in song. I find her grave like I always do. No matter how long I’m away, my feet remember.
The chime sways like it recognizes me. The bouquet from last week is soaked and sagging.
Sarah Mae Waters.
Beloved daughter. Cherished mother.
Gone too damn soon.
My stomach twists when I see it. The tiny apple blossom pin Misty left last spring is still tucked into the soil, a little rusted but holding strong. I crouch and run my thumb over her name, tracing the grooves in the stone like they’ll give me answers.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. The words hit the air and vanish. Like always. “Been a little busy... accidentally committing felonies.”
I kneel, hands flat on earth and rain soaking through my jeans.
"I messed up," I whisper. "Again."
The words burn going down. Like whiskey and guilt.
"You’d hate all of this. The lying. The secrets. The goddamn legal mess of it. But you’d like her. Annabelle. She’s stubborn. Brave. A little broken, just like I was. Just like you."
I press my palm to the earth, as if it could absorb the ache in my chest.
"She forged divorce papers, Sar. Lied about it. Married me, knowing it might not be real. And yet..." I look up at the sky. "I still want her. Even now."
The wind stirs the trees, and for a second, I swear, I hear her laugh. The one she used to aim at me when I overthought shit. The one that said, “You already know what you’re gonna do. So just do it.”
I chuckle under my breath. "I know. I hear you. But it still fucking hurts."
I stay there until the cold seeps into my knees, until the pain and guilt stop clawing quite so hard. Then I go back to the car and drive toward the bakery.
Everything’s closed except for Valley’s Delights.
I park in front of Honeycrisp Pies, and kill the engine.
The sign swings on its bracket in the wind, the painted letters glistening with rain.
The air still smells like flour, burnt sugar, and memory.
I stare at that sign like it’s the goddamn North Star guiding me home.
I can almost see her inside. Flour on her cheek. That little crinkle between her brows when she’s deep in dough. Her laugh echoing off the tiles as she teases Blake. The air thick with butter and cinnamon and something sweeter—hope, maybe.
It hits me then.
How long she must’ve lived with that fear. The weight of a lie that only grew heavier the more I gave her. How easy it would’ve been for her to run again. But she didn’t.
She stayed.
And maybe that means something.
I lean back in the seat, staring through the windshield at the flickering lights.
I lean my forehead against the steering wheel.
“I’m still angry,” I murmur, “but I’m still in this.”
When I lift my head, I catch movement across the street.
Caroline.
She steps out of Valley’s Delights, tugging her coat tighter against the storm. Her heels click over the sidewalk, steady and unfazed, even as the rain slicks her dark hair to her jaw. She’s halfway to her car when I throw my truck into drive, and roll down the window, passing by her.
“Caroline.”
She glances up, spots me, and hesitates just long enough for me to see her sigh before she veers around my truck. She opens the passenger door and slides in like this isn’t the weirdest moment of her night.
“You look like shit.” She shuts the door with force.
“I feel worse,” I admit.
"You always did mope like a country song."
"Don’t start," I mutter. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”
She pats her belly. “Baby Boone had a craving for a cheese croissant.”
She rubs her hands together for warmth and gives me a long side-glance. “So, are we venting or planning a defense strategy?”
“I need answers.”
“About?”
“Forged signatures. Backdated divorces. What happens when a man marries a woman who wasn’t free to marry him.”
She lets out a long, slow breath. “Jesus, Derek.”
I nod. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
“I have an attorney-client privilege. I can’t really talk to you about this.”
I reach into my pocket and grab the first bill I find—a twenty—and hand it to her. “Here. Now you’re my lawyer too. Now talk.”
Caroline rests her head briefly against the headrest, then straightens.
“It’s complicated. If the court finds out she forged a signature, there’s potential criminal exposure, but we might be able to argue coercion, especially with Mike’s record and the abuse she’s gone through.
It’ll take court intervention, yes. Probably a fine.
You might need to annul that marriage and remarry. But it’s fixable.”
My grip tightens around the steering wheel.
She softens. “The real question is, do you still want to fix it?”
The thunder rumbles low over the valley, rolling through the hills like a warning.
I stare at the windshield, rain blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. But in my mind, I see her hands again, rolling dough, stirring apples, lighting candles in a bakery she dreamed into existence. I see her running through our orchard. I see her in my truck, in my bed, in my life.
“I do,” I say quietly. “God help me, I do.”
Caroline studies me for a long moment, then reaches over and rests her hand briefly on my forearm.
“Then go home. Fight for her. You don’t get many shots like this.”
Her voice softens.
“I’ve seen what it looks like when someone gives up on love too soon. Don’t be the guy who walks away because the paperwork got messy.”
She pauses, eyes steady on mine.
“She’s been alone a long time, Derek. She chose you because she thought maybe, for once, she didn’t have to survive everything on her own.”
She steps out of the truck without another word.
I sit there a moment longer before shifting into gear.
The wipers beat a slow rhythm as I pass through the empty streets of town. I drive on instinct, turning toward the old road that leads past the high ridge and down to the family farm.
I pull in front of my parents’ house. The lights are still on.
Through the front window, I see my mom standing in the kitchen, stirring something in a bowl, her silver hair pulled into a messy bun.
My dad’s slouched in his recliner, book in hand, feet tucked into those ridiculously huge, fuzzy socks Blake bought him last Christmas.
And on the couch, Blake has his arm around Misty, his palm splayed wide over the swell of her belly, brushing circles there like he’s memorizing her shape.
Misty leans into Blake, head on his shoulder.
And I know that look. That safety. My mom catches Blake’s eye and smiles, tired but proud of her grandson.
My dad turns a page, completely at peace.
It’s not perfect. It’s just real. And for the first time tonight, I remember what I’m trying to come home to.
It’s a snapshot of everything I didn’t think I could have. Everything I still might lose.
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes, letting the ache sit in my chest without pushing it away.
I remember walking into the kitchen a few days ago, flour everywhere, two puppies asleep in her apron, and Annabelle laughing like it didn’t matter that the pies were burning. She looked up at me and said, “I made too many again. Guess we’ll have to give love away today.”
She wasn’t talking about pies.
She’s been giving love away this whole time. To the bakery. To my family. To me. All while carrying wounds no one else would’ve survived.
And I—God—I almost threw that away because I was scared to feel betrayed, but I’m not walking away from it.
I drive slower now. The fury’s burned itself down to embers, and what’s left in the cab with me is silence and consequence.
My jaw aches from clenching. My hand cramps from gripping the wheel.
But nothing compares to the truth vibrating under my ribs.
I hurt her. I stormed out. I left her shaking on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, shivering.
I don’t know if that makes me her protector or just one more man who made her feel small. And I don’t want to be that man. Not again. Not ever.
By the time I pull up the drive, it’s nearly midnight.
The rain has slowed to a steady whisper, but the air is heavy, the sky swollen with grief. The house looms ahead, windows dark. The porch light is off.
The dogs don’t bark. No paws against the window. No Kara stretching on the welcome mat. No Bear looking half-asleep by the door.
Something twists low in my gut.
“Annabelle?” I call as I step inside, dripping onto the floorboards.
No answer.
“Bear? Kara?”
I find the dogs on the couch, but the silence in the house is deafening. A hollow vacuum that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
The bedroom’s empty. The kitchen untouched. The pie tins from earlier sit in the sink like they’re holding their breath.
I check the laundry room.
The puppies are curled together in a warm pile. Mama’s still nursing. All dogs are accounted for, quiet and dry. That should calm me, but it doesn’t.
Because she’s not here, and nothing about this night feels safe anymore.
I press a hand to the wall, steadying myself like the house might answer. I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my ribs hurt. I picture her gone. Bags packed. Letter on the counter. I try to imagine what she’d say, but all I hear is the silence that’s swallowing this place whole.
My pulse thuds loud in my ears. Something glints softly from the kitchen counter, pulling my gaze.
I step closer, my heart catching as I see the apple blossom ring I gave her, abandoned there like a broken promise. It glistens under the pale kitchen lights, a silent accusation.
I snatch it up, gripping it tightly in my fist. My stomach twists painfully, but I slip it into my pocket and charge toward the back door, calling her name into the storm. “Annabelle!”
No answer.
My boots hit the porch hard. Cold air knives through my shirt, rain soaking my already soaked shoulders as I hit the steps and charge across the yard. The grass is slick. My pulse is louder than the thunder. Louder than the doubt clawing its way up my throat.
She’s gone.
She’s—
There.
Light spills from the RV like a beacon, soft and gold against the storm-dark night. And in the doorway, framed by the glow, she stands—barefoot, wrapped in her robe, her soaked hair clinging to her cheeks. Her hands are braced on either side of the door like she’s holding the world in place.
Like she’s holding herself together.
Her eyes find me across the yard.
And for one breathless second, we don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stare.
I don’t know what’s written on my face, but I know what I see on hers—fear, hope, heartbreak.
“Annabelle,” I whisper.
And I run.