Chapter 9
Hannah
T he house is finally quiet. Ivy’s breathing turned slow and even a few minutes after I tucked the blanket under her chin. School tomorrow. Lunch packed, shoes by the door, library book back in her backpack so we don’t rack up another quarter in fines.
I tell myself there’s nothing left to do tonight but rinse the dishes and blow out the cinnamon candle.
Still, I move through the rooms like I’m listening for something.
I stack plates and wipe the counter twice.
The house is too quiet. I should put on a podcast or some music and listen through my earbuds.
Headlights sweep across the living room wall.
I pause, dish towel in my hand. Another set of lights follows, slower this time, like someone easing down the street, not in a hurry to get where they’re going.
It makes me a little nervous. This small-town area is pretty quiet on weeknights especially.
I glance toward the front window. The pumpkin on the porch throws a fat orange shadow across the glass.
I step closer and peek through the curtain. A truck sits on the street that I haven’t seen before. But what makes my heart miss a beat is the outline of a familiar man – one I can’t forget – making his way up the walkway to the house.
Oh, shit!
I stare harder at the figure. This is a duplex. Maybe it’s the neighbor’s friend. Maybe it’s nothing. Lock the door, Hannah, be smart.
My breath lodges high in my throat. Something inside me feels excitement and terror at the same time. It’s him. It’s definitely him. I flip the deadbolt open and ease onto the porch.
The air is cool enough to raise goose bumps along my forearms. Out on Maple, the streetlights paint the asphalt in pale circles. Crickets chatter in the hedge. I cross my arms and stand beside the pumpkin like it and I had a plan to meet here all along.
The silhouette moves toward me, tall and broad-shouldered, carrying something tucked against his side. He steps into the light … Levi.
Up close, he looks larger than I remember, as if the festival somehow compressed him to fit inside the day.
His jacket is unzipped and there’s a white T-shirt underneath, the sleeves hugged around his arms. He’s holding a half gallon of cider by the neck with one hand and balancing a paper bag and a small jar in the other.
A faint scent of pine and woodsmoke clings to him, like he carried the mountain down with him.
“Hey,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t disturb the night. “I, uh… had some leftovers. Didn’t want them to go to waste.”
“Leftovers,” I repeat, because anything more than that would come out as a squeak.
He lifts the bag an inch. “Bread from the bakery stand. And honey from old Mr. Pike’s booth. He swears it’ll fix any problem a person has if you just stir enough into your tea.”
I find a smile, and it’s ridiculous how relieved my body feels to be doing something as simple as smiling. “Is that medical advice?”
“Frontier medicine,” he says, straight-faced, then the corner of his mouth lifts. “Thought you and Ivy might like the cider at least.”
“Thank you.” It comes out too quiet, like the words are slipping past a lump in my throat, so I try again. “Really. Thank you.”
He nods and looks down at the pumpkin between us like it’s an extra person joining the conversation. “That one’s a champion. Almost needs a forklift.”
“Kyle said the same,” I say, warmth rising to my cheeks. “I told him our eyes were bigger than our arms.”
He shifts the bag to his other hand. “Where should we put this? I can set these inside for you, if you want.”
“I …” My eyes glance at the door. If Ivy wakes and sees the ‘train conductor’ standing in our living room, she’ll be so excited that she won’t go back to sleep easily.
“We can put them on the table by the swing.”
He follows my glance and then looks back at me.
“You’ve got a swing,” he says, like it’s a small miracle.
“It came with the house,” I say. “It’s a little squeaky.”
“Squeaky’s honest.” His gaze tips toward it, then returns to me. “Mind if I…? I don’t usually sit much when I’m at the ranch. My place is up on the mountain ridge, so most nights I end up on my own porch anyway.”
The way he says it makes me picture it without trying — a cabin somewhere higher than this street, porch light burning against the dark trees, swing creaking in the quiet.
I feel the question brush against that place inside me that’s been walled off since Jake left.
I don’t have to do this. I can take the food, say good night, close the door, lock it, and finish drying dishes until my mind goes blank.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “For a minute.”
We walk the few steps together. He sets the bag on the side table, and puts the jug of cider carefully beside it.
I watch as he tests the swing with his hand like a man checking a bridge before crossing.
It creaks, obliging, and he sits. The chain groans once and settles.
I lower myself next to him, leaving polite space, but not too much. The swing sways, soft and slow.
It feels absurdly intimate to be beside him with the neighborhood breathing around us. My porch light throws a gentle halo making the pumpkin glow. Somewhere, a dog lets out a single bark and then stops, like it changed its mind about being vocal.
“Long day?” I ask, because anything more personal is a leap I’m not ready to make.
He exhales. “The longest ones always come with the best kind of tired.”
“That a proverb?”
“Could be.” His smile is quick and shy all at once, like he’s out of practice with smiling at women on their porches at night. “Crowds were good. Kids were happy. Nobody fell off the train or a hay bale. I’ll call that a win.”
“It looked … well-run,” I say, remembering the way he moved through a hundred tiny tasks as if each one mattered. “You must have half the town working for you.”
“Feels like it some days.” He lets the swing rock, boot heel idly nudging the porch once, twice. “Truth is, they keep it running. I just make sure the train doesn’t throw a fit and the vendors get their change buckets filled.”
“And haul giant pumpkins to strange women’s porches.”
He turns his head toward me, eyes catching mine in the soft porch light. “Wish I could’ve done it myself. It would have been the best part of my day.”
The words slip under my guard so neatly that I don’t have a prepared place to put them. I look down at my hands and rub at a spot of invisible sugar on my jeans. “It was kind. Most men stop at opening the door.”
“I’m not most men.” He says it without ego. It lands somewhere between a fact and a hope.
We let the swing do the talking for a few breaths. The boards beneath us creak. The chain chink-chinks.
He tilts his head, looking toward the dark street.
“Sometimes you get a feeling about someone. It may not make sense at all. But, it’s like the moment you lay eyes on them, something piques your curiosity.
That same something makes you want to get to know them better. You ever have that happen, Hannah?”
The words tug at something in me because they are too close to my own thoughts I don’t want to admit. “I know what you mean,” I say, carefully. “But … sometimes we need to be cautious.”
He glances at me, trying to read me. “Yeah, the world is full of all kinds of people. But if it really tugs at you, you have to take a chance.”
I clear my throat. “You have to weigh the risk.”
He lets that hang between us. When he speaks again, his voice has a roughness to it. “My mom used to say that having friends and people to care for was a blessing. That can’t happen unless someone makes the first move of friendship.”
“Cider, peach bread and honey sound like a good way to sweeten someone. Is that what you’re doing?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“If you’ll let me,” he says.
I swallow around the sudden baseball in my throat … speechless.
“You and Ivy,” he says after a few seconds, quieter, “just the two of you, right?”
I stare at the pumpkin, avoiding his gaze. The porch light reflects in his blue eyes, and I can’t look directly. Not right now. “Just us,” I say. “And a cat who refuses to acknowledge us unless we open the tuna.”
He laughs, and the sound is a deep rumble … like a happy earthquake.
I could leave it there. I could keep this surface-level, safe. Instead, a small part of me leans in and says, “Her dad … he left a while ago. We’re fine. We’re better than fine.” I let out a breath. “Trust is complicated.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”
The swing slows. His shoulder is close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the whisper of space between us. He smells like … something I can’t quite describe. Whatever it is, it’s delicious and very masculine.
“I don’t usually invite people to sit here,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even … I mean, it’s been a long time since I …” I trail off, embarrassed by my own clumsiness.
He doesn’t make me finish. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “Conversation included.”
“I know.” Finally, I meet his gaze and it’s almost painful, but I want to. He looks at my mouth for a fraction of a second before catching himself and lifting his eyes back to mine.
Somewhere down the street, another car passes and keeps going. He clears his throat gently. “I should go. It’s late. You’ve got school in the morning.” A small smile touches his mouth. “Well, Ivy does.”
“Yeah, Monday will be here soon.” My hands don’t seem to want to move even though my head nods. “Thank you for the … frontier medicine.”
He stands, and the swing tilts a little. I steady myself on the chain. He reaches out as if by reflex to catch the back of the swing. His hand just barely grazes my shoulder, and I shudder from the slight touch. He pulls back slowly, careful like a man defusing something fragile.
“I’m around the ranch most days,” he says, eyes on mine. “If you need anything … or if the champion pumpkin tries to roll away.”
I huff a laugh. “I’ll nail it to the porch.”
“Are you going to carve it?” he asks, looking it over once more. “I’d be happy to give you and Ivy a hand with it.”
“Let me ask her first,” I say, using Ivy as my excuse not to give a solid answer.
We hover in that awkward, sweet space where goodbye could become something else if a person wanted to make a mess of their life. I don’t. Not tonight.
“Good night, Hannah,” he says, my name doing a strange, traitorous thing to my knees.
“Good night, Levi.”
He steps down from the porch. He then turns back around and pulls out his wallet. He rummages for a second and hands me a card.
“Anything you need, here’s my number,” he says, smiling. His eyes twinkle as he looks at my reaction. “Anything, Hannah. Give me a call.”
“I will,” I say, and it’s the bravest thing I’ve said in a long time. Because as much as I’d love to just jump into his arms and hug him right now, I’m a coward. He seems too interested. Too good to be true.
He heads down the walk. At the sidewalk, he turns and lifts a hand. I lift mine back. Then he’s a dark shape moving toward the truck, a door closing, an engine turning over.
I sit on the swing until he’s driven away, my thumb moving back and forth over the card he just gave me. My guard is still there, but it doesn’t feel like a wall tonight. More like a gate I’ve set my hand on, undecided whether to push it open.