Twenty-four
Sadie
T he moment I step through the door, I know I’m not alone.
Beckett’s jacket is hanging on the hook. His keys sit on the counter. And his presence—calm, quiet, and now suffocating—presses against me like a wall.
I let the door shut behind me with a soft click, sagging against it for a breath.
My arms ache. My back’s a tight knot. My feet feel like I walked on broken glass, which isn’t far from the truth.
I actually did step on a shard today because the stupid dishwasher exploded mid-shift, and I had to haul racks of rinsed glasses down to the restaurant like a dishwasher mule.
After cornering me when Julia visited, Zach ghosted the whole afternoon.
Eight tastings. Most overlapped. I barely got a bathroom break .
And now I get to manage Beckett.
“Hey,” he says, stepping out from the kitchen like he’s been rehearsing this moment.
I freeze. The look in his eyes isn’t casual. It’s sharp. Intent.
I drop my bag on the bench and kick off my shoes. My socks are damp. One has a hole in the toe. I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“You talked to the police this morning.”
I don’t even look at him. “And? You were here.”
“You told them you didn’t know anything about that guy whose picture they showed you.” His voice is level. Calm. Which somehow makes it worse.
“Because I don’t,” I snap.
“You smoothed your sleeve when you said it.”
That gets my attention. I turn slowly. “I what?”
“You have a tell. When you lie, you mess with your clothes. You straightened your sleeve, just like you do when you’re dodging something.”
A small, bitter laugh escapes. “Wow. You keeping notes on me now?”
“I notice things.” He crosses his arms, jaw tight. “You were lying.”
“No,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t lying. I don’t know anything for sure. I suspect. And suspicion doesn’t mean anything without proof.”
“You could’ve told them what you suspected.”
“What would be the point?” My voice climbs. “So they can write it down and do nothing? So I can give them fuel for a ‘he said, she said’ they’ll never pursue? So I can label myself a snitch?”
“You didn’t even tell me.” His voice softens.
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Bet you told Rosie.”
I flinch, but I didn’t tell her. I never want anyone to worry about me. No one knows the truth.
“I don’t want to be part of this,” I whisper. “I was hoping it’d go away.”
He takes a step closer. “That’s not how things like this go away.”
I meet his gaze, bracing for judgment. “God, you sound just like everyone else. My brother. Alex. Everyone who thinks I need to be told what to do, like they need to save me.”
His brow furrows. “I don’t think you need saving.”
“Really?” I step back, the heat rising under my skin. “Because last I checked, you’re the reason I’m not homeless right now.”
“Seems I’m the reason you have a bed and a door you can slam when you’re angry.” He offers me a smile.
That does it. My stomach knots, tight and sick. “You didn’t do that out of kindness. You did it so you could control the outcome.”
He blinks. “Are you serious?”
I throw my hands up. “You’re a fixer, Beckett. You see a mess, and you have to clean it. I’m just one more mess to fix. One more box to organize.”
His voice is suddenly razor sharp. “You’re a tornado, Sadie.
You leave everything in your wake. You never put things back.
You never close drawers. You’ve started five art projects and haven’t finished one.
You make smoothies and leave the blender out for days.
You live like nothing has consequences.”
“And you live like life’s a sterile operating room where God forbid anything is out of place!” I pull in a shaky breath. “You’re so focused on control that you don’t even know how to feel unless it fits into your checklist!”
“At least I finish things,” he growls. “You quit everything. You don’t stick around. You didn’t stick with your last job, your last city, your last relationship—”
My face burns. “Don’t. You don’t get to go there.”
“Why not? You think you’re the only one with baggage? With fear?”
“Fear?” I laugh, but it cracks. “You think I’m afraid?
I’ve been surviving for more than ten years all on my own.
You know my par ents died inches away from me when I was seventeen.
Sure, I have Caleb, but he’s never here.
As soon as he had me stashed with your parents, you both returned to school.
He’s never come back. Your parents were great, but I was a mess.
I lived with Ginny, and then I had my own place until I lost a job and couldn’t make rent.
I’ve had that happen more times than I can count.
But I’ve managed to feed and handle my own shit without anyone’s help. I keep showing up.”
His voice is low now. “Then why won’t you tell the truth?”
“Because the truth makes it real,” I say. “And if I make it real, I have to face it. All of it. I don’t know if I can.”
He softens, just a fraction. “You don’t have to face it alone.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. You can’t be my everything. You already took over my living situation. Now, you’re monitoring what I tell the police?”
“I’m trying to help.”
“It doesn’t feel like help.”
I turn and walk down the hallway, jittery with adrenaline. He doesn’t follow. Good .
“Sadie,” he calls.
At my bedroom door, I pause. “Just leave me alone. I mean it.”
I slam the door. The echo rattles the frame.
And then I slide to the floor. My breath catches. Everything hits at once—the aching muscles, the fear I’ve been pretending isn’t there, the way he looked at me like he knew every flaw I’ve ever tried to hide. And worse…the way he didn’t leave when I pushed him.
I bury my face in my hands and let the tears come. Quiet, hot, and heavy.
He was right.
And that scares me more than anything.
A minute later, the front door slams so hard the windows rattle. Then I hear the squeal of tires ripping down the driveway.
I don’t know if I want to scream, cry, or punch something .
No. I do know.
I’m done. I have to get out of here. It’s too much.
I rise and yank my suitcase from under the bed.
It scrapes against the hardwood, catching on the edge of the rug, but I don’t care.
I grab handfuls of clothes—clean, dirty, wrinkled.
I don’t even look. I stuff everything in without folding, without thinking.
A pair of socks gets tangled in a T-shirt.
A bra strap hangs out the side. I jam my sketchbook in on top, the edges already curled from the last time I had to pack in a rush.
I was supposed to be safe here. This was supposed to make things manageable.
But everything feels overwhelming again.
I slam the suitcase shut, the zipper catching on fabric.
I yank it loose with a curse. My hands are shaking.
Beckett is impossible. Condescending. Cold when it counts.
Always right. Always fixing. Like I’m one more broken thing on his to-do list.
And still, when I walk out of the room, dragging the suitcase behind me, part of me doesn’t want to go. As much as I hate his meddling, I know I’m throwing a tantrum right now. But I feel powerless to choose something different.
I call the rideshare from the porch. My phone is at fifteen percent, but it’s enough to get me to the hospital. It has to be.
The car shows up five minutes later. I climb in, swallowing the lump in my throat and hugging my suitcase like a security blanket. The driver says nothing, just nods at me in the rearview mirror. I’m grateful for the silence. I couldn’t speak if I tried.
Halfway there, I remember my shampoo and conditioner are still in the guest bathroom. The expensive kind I splurged on last month, bright citrus scent, sulfate-free, the one little luxury I allowed myself.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the seat.
Whatever . I can buy more. Eventually.
Maybe.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I’ve finally saved a few thousand dollars.
A miracle. Enough to breathe. Enough to feel like I have a cushion for once in my life.
But now I’m about to blow it all on rent.
On another move. On first and last month’s deposit, setting up utilities, scraping together a mattress because I can’t carry one with me.
Again.
I watch my reflection in the window, distorted by streetlights flashing past. My face looks pale. Hollow. Like I’m disappearing, one crisis at a time.
I don’t know where I’ll sleep tomorrow.
But tonight I can go to the hospital. I can see Rosie. I can sit by her bed and pretend like something in my life makes sense. I can be there for her, focus on something besides myself.
When the car drops me off, the hospital is quiet.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in an over-sterilized glow.
I roll my suitcase down the hall, the wheels wobbling over a crack in the tile.
I smile weakly at the receptionist who’s seen me a half dozen times already this week, and she nods without a word.
Rosie’s hallway is dimmer, quieter still.
I pause outside her room, her laugh catching me off guard.
It’s a raspy burst, followed by Ginny’s sharper cackle and the unmistakable sound of shuffling cards.
For just a second, I stay still, watching the light underneath the door, listening to the murmur of their voices.
Warmth. Connection. A little bubble of normal.
I could stand here forever, pretending everything in my life hasn’t just blown apart. But I can’t delay the inevitable.
I push open the door.
Ginny’s curled up in the chair by the window, dealing cards. Rosie’s propped up in bed, her cheeks pale but glowing from laughter. They both look over at the same time.
Ginny clocks the suitcase first. “Uh-oh. That looks like emotional baggage.”
Rosie squints. “Please tell me that’s a rolling cooler full of sauvignon blanc.”
I drag the suitcase inside and let it fall beside the chair with a heavy thud. “I wish. It’s just my entire life. Again.”
Ginny’s eyes widen. “You and Beckett?”
I nod, exhaustion pulsing behind my eyes. “Had a fight. ”
Rosie puts down her cards. “Like a we-need-a-day-to-cool-off fight or a grab-your-shit-and-don’t-look-back fight?”
I sink into the chair beside her bed. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? It’d say it was more a door-slamming, tire-squealing, emotional-explosion fight.”
They both go quiet.
Rosie finally breaks the silence. “Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “I haven’t figured it out.”
There’s a beat of stillness before Ginny clears her throat. “I’m staying in the caretaker’s house on our family vineyard. It’s empty, weirdly haunted, and smells like mothballs, but it’s got a bed, hot water, and a roof. You can stay with me.”
I blink at her. “Really?”
She shrugs. “Sure. It’s not exactly luxury, but I’ve had worse roommates. I’ve filled the guest room with boxes I don’t want to look at, but you can have the couch until I get it cleaned up.”
Rosie gives her a look. “There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.”
Ginny smirks and points a finger at me. “Avoid my grandmother like she’s the plague.
No eye contact. No sudden movements. And whatever you do, don’t breathe a word about you working in the Paradise Hill tasting room.
If she finds out, I’ll be excommunicated from the family.
Or worse, she’ll make me work in the fields. ”
That gets a laugh out of me. “Got it. Grandmother equals danger. I’ll stay invisible.”
“Excellent,” Ginny says. “You’re officially qualified.”
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. A place to go. A place where I won’t have to explain myself or keep pretending everything’s fine.
My phone pings.
I reach for it, hope flaring to life inside me before I can stop it. Beckett?
I tap the screen .
Julia: Where are you?
My heart sinks like it’s been dropped into a bucket of ice water.
“It’s Julia,” I mutter. “She cornered me at work and wants to meet tonight. She’s asking where I am.”
Rosie groans and throws her head back against the pillow. “Oh, no. What does she want?”
Ginny frowns. “Wait—Julia as in Alex and Simon’s sister?”
“Yeah,” I say, still staring at the screen like I can will it into changing. “She said she wanted to get together to catch up, and I—I don’t know—I told her I’d meet her later to get rid of her because Zach was on a tirade. She came to my work.”
Rosie sits up straighter. “She’s as bad as her brothers. Whatever she wants, stay the hell away.”
“She could be doing an errand for Simon and Alex,” Ginny offers, and the goose bumps rise on my arm. “Desperate people do dangerous things.”
They’re right. I know they’re right. But the part of me still wants to understand her. Wants to get to the bottom of whatever twisted mess this is.
“I think it’s a bad idea,” Rosie says, voice firm. “Plus, the three of us are hanging tonight. You don’t have time for her.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Ginny starts reshuffling the cards, and I really look at Rosie for the first time since I came in.
Her face is thinner. Her skin dull. The shadows beneath her eyes are darker than usual. Even her hands, usually full of restless energy, sit still in her lap.
She’s getting worse.
And there’s nothing I can do.
Suddenly, all my problems feel smaller. I reach over and squeeze her hand.
The nurse pops her head in. “Ladies, it’s time to wrap up. We’v e got vitals checks and quiet hours.”
Ginny stands and leans over to hug Rosie. “I’ll swing by tomorrow, okay? Try not to hustle the night nurses at poker.”
“No promises,” Rosie says, managing a grin.
I hug her tightly, holding on. “Hang in there. Hurry up and get that new heart.”
“I’m working on it,” she whispers. “But you need to take care of yours too.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and follow Ginny out.
Outside, the air is cool and smells faintly of wet pavement. Ginny throws my suitcase into the trunk of her car like it’s nothing. We slide into the seats, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.
She starts the car, and we steer down the road that winds out of town, streetlights giving way to the darker countryside. I lean my head against the passenger window and let my eyes close.
“Thanks for this,” I murmur.
“You don’t have to thank me. Just don’t hog the hot water, and remember, no eye contact with Eleanor.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
As the lights of Paradise fade behind us and the quiet stretches, I feel a little better. This will be just like old times.