2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
JACKSON
A nd to think I almost didn’t come.
Even now, as Ava and I walk further from the chapel, the sound of muffled wedding music still drifting through the trees, I can’t believe I showed up.
I’d stared at the invitation on my kitchen counter for two weeks before finally RSVPing. Then I almost bailed twice. Once when I saw the suit hanging in my closet, and again this morning when the sky looked like it might rain.
Weddings are hard for me. Still.
Since losing Claire two years ago, I haven’t been to a single wedding. She used to cry at every one we went to. Even commercials with proposals got to her.
Now, just the sight of white flowers or the sound of a string quartet makes my chest tighten.
But when Greg mentioned that Ava had invited me, I felt like I couldn’t say no. She was always the quiet one, the girl with big glasses and even bigger books, always trailing behind her brother and me.
So in the end, I decided to come. Her wedding fell on a rest day so I figured that was a sign. I thought I’d just sit in the audience and silently support my best friend’s little sister on her wedding day.
But instead, here she is, a runaway bride trembling in my jacket, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Her breath comes in ragged little gasps as I guide her around the far side of the church property. She hasn’t said anything since we sat on that bench—just clutched my jacket and stared at the ground like it might disappear from under her if she didn’t.
I don’t ask questions. I just move beside her, steady and quiet, letting her set the pace.
I know what it feels like to be blown open.
And I know what it feels like not to want anyone touching the pieces.
We walk in silence toward the parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. Her hands have disappeared into the oversized pockets of my jacket, shoulders hunched forward as if she’s trying to disappear inside it.
When we reach my truck, she hesitates.
“This okay?” I ask gently.
She nods once, almost imperceptibly. I open the passenger door, and she climbs in slowly, gathering what’s left of her dress as she settles into the seat.
When I slide in, she’s staring straight ahead, her phone now in her lap. It starts buzzing before I can even buckle my seatbelt. Once, twice, again and again. Her screen lights up with notifications: texts, calls.
“Do you want to shut that thing off?” I ask softly.
She looks at it like it might bite her, then presses the side button to power it down. The buzzing stops, and the quiet that follows is almost startling.
“I can’t face anyone right now,” she mutters, her voice barely audible. “And I definitely can’t go home—”
A sob escapes before she can finish.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to.”
Her shoulders shake once, but she presses her lips together, trying to hold it in.
“Ava, you’ve got to breathe,” I say softly, shifting in my seat so we’re at eye level. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that?”
Her dark eyes dart to mine. Wide, glassy. She nods, but her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts.
I reach over and rest a hand lightly on her shoulder, trying to ground her. Her hands find mine and clutch it firmly.
“Follow me, okay? Breathe in.” I take a slow, deliberate breath, exaggerating it for her to mimic me. “Now out.”
She exhales shakily. We do it again. And again.
After a few rounds, some of the tension starts to leave her face. Her grip on my hand loosens a little.
As I watch her take slow, deliberate breaths, a memory flashes. Ava at ten, sitting on the curb outside the school, her face flushed with frustration. She’d been late to class because her bike chain broke, and some kids had thought it’d be funny to hide her backpack while she was trying to fix it.
I’d found her crouched by the bike rack, trying to blink back tears as she searched for her things. Without a second thought, I marched into the nearby crowd and demanded her bag back, my twelve-year-old self in an all fury.
When I handed it back to her, she grinned through her tears. I’ll never forget how she had clung to me so fiercely then.
Just like she is now.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods again, more solidly this time. “Yeah. A little.”
She lets out a slow breath, then glances down at her phone again.
“I should probably at least text my parents,” she says, as if she’s thinking out loud. “Just so they know I’m safe. I just… I can’t talk to them yet. Not right now.”
I nod, staying quiet.
She unlocks the screen with a shaky thumb, types something quickly, then powers it back off without waiting for a reply.
I sit back and ease the truck into gear.
“I didn’t think I’d ever be the girl who runs,” she murmurs after a long moment.
“You didn’t run,” I say, eyes on the road. “It sounds like you walked away from a fire. That’s different.”
She doesn’t reply, but her head leans back against the seat.
“I feel like my life is falling apart.” She swallows hard, her lips trembling. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to figure everything out right now. Let’s get you somewhere safe. You can figure it out from there.”
Her brows furrow. “Where?”
“My place,” I answer without hesitation. “It’s quiet. No one will bother you there. You can take all the time you need.”
She hesitates, glancing back toward the church. The fight drains from her posture, and she nods. “Okay.”
The drive is quiet, the only sound is the low hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of fabric as she adjusts the layers of her dress. She stares out the window, face pale in the passing light, her jaw clenched.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting uselessly in my lap, resisting the urge to say too much. She doesn’t need words. She needs stillness. Space.
At a red light, I notice her lip quivers, and she blinks rapidly, as if fighting to keep it together. Without thinking, I reach over and give her hand a gentle squeeze. She doesn’t pull away.
My house sits at the end of a long, curved driveway tucked behind rows of sycamore trees, the kind of place people don’t stumble upon by accident.
Three stories of warm brick, dark wood accents, and iron-railed balconies come into view, framed by a wraparound porch and tall windows that glow softly from within.
It’s quiet, private. The opposite of the chaos Ava just walked away from.
As we pull in, she straightens in her seat, eyes drifting over the sprawling house like she’s trying to decide if it’s real. Her gaze lingers on the warm lights glowing behind the windows, on the porch swing swaying gently in the breeze.
“This is your house?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
I nod but keep my voice low. “It’s quiet. That’s the part I like most.”
She doesn’t answer, but something in her posture softens, and that’s all I need to see.
I don’t say much. Just kill the engine and let the quiet settle.
“I wasn’t planning on company,” I say finally. “But I’ve got plenty of space. You can stay as long as you need.”
She blinks. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Of course.”
Miss Taylor steps out onto the front porch, drying her hands on a dish towel. She doesn’t say a word at first, just watches with quiet concern as I round the truck and help Ava down.
Her brows knit, her eyes softening when she sees Ava step out of the truck in a torn wedding dress. Ava freezes, as if unsure what to do next.
“This is Ava,” I explain, rounding the truck. “She’s a friend. Needed a place to crash.”
Miss Taylor nods once and steps aside. “Well, come on then, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside. It’s chilly out.”
Ava stares at her with wide eyes, timid and uncertain, as if taken aback by her kindness.
“Miss Taylor is the nanny for my boys. She lives in the guest house out back. She’s a lifesaver, and I don’t know how we’d function without her.”
I place a hand at the small of her back and gently steer her toward the steps.
The screen door opens again, this time with a thump and the sound of sneakers on wood.
“Daddy! You’re back already!”
Liam and Noah come bounding out in matching dinosaur pajamas, all elbows and energy.
They skid to a stop when they see Ava.
Noah’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Are you a princess?”
Liam tugs at his brother’s sleeve. “You’re not supposed to say that out loud.”
Ava blinks, then lets out a soft, stunned laugh.
“This is Uncle Greg’s sister,” I explain.
Liam’s face lights up. “Wait, the cool doctor? The one with the skeleton in his office?”
I almost smile. “Yeah, that one.”
Inside, the house is warm and softly lit. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, and a fire crackling in the fireplace. Ava steps in hesitantly, like she’s afraid she’ll leave footprints where she shouldn’t.
Miss Taylor disappears into the kitchen, murmuring something about tea. The twins linger, eyes still wide.
“Can she stay for a sleepover?” Noah asks, bouncing on his toes.
“Noah,” I warn gently, shooting Ava an apologetic look.
But she gives him a small smile and crouches slightly. “Only if you have extra pillows.”
“You can have mine!” he beams.
Liam, quieter, just nods and tugs her hand once before stepping back.
I clear my throat. “Alright, you two. Brush your teeth and pick one book. Miss Taylor will be in soon.”
There are grumbles but they listen. When they disappear down the hall, I turn back to Ava.
She glances at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
“I remember when Greg told me about you having twins. I had just graduated from college. That would make them…”
I hold back a smile as she counts on her fingers.
“Six?”
I nod. “That’s right.”
Her gaze lingers on me, searching as though she wants to ask something more. I have a feeling it’s about my late wife Claire. But instead, she simply nods, her lips pressing into a faint, thoughtful line, and I’m grateful she doesn’t say anything.
It still hurts to talk about.
“I’ll show you to the guest room. You can shower, change. Whatever you need.”
She nods slowly, the exhaustion settling into her shoulders.
As we head upstairs, her small purse slips from her hand. Her phone spills out onto the hardwood with a soft clatter.
She stares at it like it might explode.
“Do you want me to call your brother Greg?” I ask gently. “Let him know you’re safe?”
Her breath hitches. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
Her lips tremble as she nods. “Thank you.”
I lean down to pick up her phone and hand it to her.
In the guest room, I gesture to the en suite bathroom. “There are towels and extra toiletries inside. I’ll grab you something to change into.”
I come back a moment later with an oversized navy shirt. It’s soft, worn, and easily long enough to pass for a dress on her. No surprise, considering I’m 6’4” and she barely reaches my shoulder.
“Here,” I say, placing it on the edge of the bed. “Probably more comfortable than a wedding dress.”
That earns the tiniest smile from her, and I take it as a win.
She nods, and before I leave, I notice the tension in her frame begins to ease.
And in that moment, I know.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.