Chapter 55
We pulled up to the house as the last of the sun had finally given up. The porch light was on, glowing gold against wood siding. Ansel shifted into park but didn’t move right away, just looked up at the old A-frame like he was seeing it through me.
His voice was soft. “She left the light on.”
My cheek pressed against the seatbelt strap, eyes drooping despite the caffeine and sugar I'd inhaled hours ago at the diner. I blinked at the house blearily. “So sweet of her to accommodate your dramatic movie-star entrance.”
“My luggage is a canvas tote and emotional trauma.”
“Don’t forget your collection of weirdly specific books.”
“I need all of them,” I said seriously. “They’re curated.”
He turned toward me fully, that tired smile of his coming slow and quiet. His eyes softened. “You okay?”
I nodded too fast. “Yup.”
“You sure?”
“Definitely,” I said, then leaned forward like I had a secret. “...But also maybe I forgot how to stand up.”
He let out a low laugh and got out first, circling the car to open my door. I stayed curled in the seat, limbs boneless and my brain a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Juniper.”
“Mmm?”
“Come on.”
“I live here now,” I said, sinking deeper. “The seat and I are one.”
But then his hand was there — warm and real and gentle against my arm. And I looked up.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t tug. Just waited.
I couldn’t help but compare Ansel’s soft and unending patience with the demeaning man I had lived with for years. I never thought it could be like this for me.
I took his hand.
Getting out of the car felt like surfacing from the ocean. The air was cooler up here, crickets loud, the smell of pine and dry bark and… something soft I couldn’t quite place. It smelled like him.
We climbed the porch steps quietly. My shoes scuffed the wood. I could see the silhouette of a woman behind the curtain, moving in the kitchen. Something warm clutched my ribs.
I paused before the door. “This is real, right?”
Ansel’s hand grazed my back. Just for a second. “Yeah, baby. It’s real.”
The door swung open before he could even knock.
“Jesus, Ma,” he muttered, laughing. “You just sit at the peephole now?”
She beamed up at him like he’d just walked on water. “You take nine hours to drive here and you think I’m not going to be listening for the engine the second it gets dark? Don’t be stupid.” She reached up and cupped his face. “Hi, baby.”
Ansel ducked a little, hugged her tight. His body softened in that specific way people do when someone who raised them is near. Like he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying tension until it unspooled before her.
Then she pulled back and looked past him, and her whole face lit up again. “And you must be Juniper.” I froze. I hadn’t expected her to beam. I hadn’t expected any of this.
“I — uh — yes. Hi.” I gave a too-fast wave. “Sorry it’s so late.”
“Oh please.” She waved me off, already pulling me into a hug like we’d met a dozen times. She was smaller than I expected. Warm. She smelled like chamomile and almond extract. “You think you’re the first girl I’ve welcomed into this house after a long drive and a string of dramatic press releases?”
Ansel groaned behind her. “Ma.”
“I’m kidding,” she said sweetly. Then looked back at me, and with a dramatic stage whisper, “You are.”
I laughed, nervous. “Well, I’ve been behind most of his recent press releases, ma’am.” I shifted uneasily. “I tried to warn him.”
She grinned at that — and then, softer, gentler, she spoke again. “You’re safe here, sweetheart.”
It broke something in my chest.
“Now,” she clapped her hands, stepping back into the cozy little kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and dish soap, “I was going to wait until morning, but I’ve got a pie cooling and a pot of tea and a very curious desire to hear everything.”
Ansel shot me a look. “We’re doomed.”
“I’m not scary,” his mother protested, opening the cabinet for mugs.
“You used to be a therapist,” he said. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
She winked. “Well. At least I didn’t ask if you’re sleeping together.”
I choked on air.
Ansel just muttered, “Ma,” and reached for the kettle.
“Come, come, loves, bring your tired selves into the living room and tell me about your drive.”
The couch was old but soft, worn in all the right places. A blanket the color of old sunflowers was pulled across our laps, and Ansel’s mother was puttering around in the kitchen still — pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping while claiming she was just “tidying.”
The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that had shape, memory, meaning. The kind that made it easy to breathe.
Ansel’s arm was stretched behind me, not quite touching, but close. His thumb had been brushing against the back of my neck on and off for the last ten minutes, I’m not even sure he realized he was doing it. Almost like it was just muscle memory.
Almost like this was how it always was when we were together.
I felt — anchored. Maybe a little floaty, but safe.
He leaned toward me, voice low. “You holding up okay?”
I nodded, head tipping against the back of the couch. “Your mom’s really sweet.”
He gave a little smile, soft and crooked. “Yeah. She’s the best person I know.” There was something in his voice — like he wasn’t just saying it, like he needed me to know it.
I wanted to ask more. I wanted to press my face into his shoulder and whisper thank you. I wanted to crawl into his lap and sleep for three years. Instead I just mumbled, “Don’t tell her I almost cried over her tea.”
“Oh, she knows,” he murmured, grinning now. “She definitely knows.” I laughed. It came out loopy, a little broken with exhaustion. My head dipped again, this time to his shoulder. And I hadn’t meant to close my eyes, hadn’t meant to lean forward — but once I did, I couldn’t stop it.
His fingers stilled at the nape of my neck.
“You’re falling asleep,” he said.
I tried to shake my head. “No I’m not.”
“You are.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’ve been blinking in slow motion for twenty minutes.”
“I can hang,” I mumbled into his sleeve.
“You can’t.”
“I want to hang.”
“I know you do, baby,” he said, quieter now, bending so his cheek brushed my hair. “But you’re swaying like a drunk toddler.”
I let out a miserable little noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re mean.”
“And you’re adorable.” He kissed the top of my head. “It’s late. Let’s turn in, sweetheart.”