Chapter 28
I wake to light streaming through the gauzy curtains of my room at the bed and breakfast, warm and golden.
For a moment, I just lie there, blinking against the stillness, half convinced I dreamt the whole night.
But that hug, God, that hug was real. So was the way Liam held me like he didn’t know how to let go.
I sit up slowly, brushing my hair off my face. There’s a knock at the door, and before I can say anything, I hear my mom’s voice through the wood.
“Something’s in the hallway for you.”
I frown. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she sings. “But it smells delicious.”
By the time I swing my feet to the floor and shuffle to the door, she’s gone.
But what’s waiting on the porch stops me in my tracks. It’s a wooden tray. Not fancy, not store-bought but handmade, from the looks of it. The kind of thing someone might sand down in a barn during a quiet afternoon. And sitting on it? Breakfast.
A white plate filled with cheesy eggs and cinnamon toast from and beside it, a hot cup of my favorite tea. Chamomile with honey. A single pink rose in a tiny jar sits between them, petals soft and just beginning to open.
But what breaks me is the folded note tucked beneath the cup. It’s my name written in his unmistakably messy scrawl. My fingers tremble a little as I unfold it.
Olive,
I know mornings have been hard lately. Thought I’d try to make this one a little easier.
There’s more I want to say but for now, just know this: I meant every word last night.
I’ll be at the barn later. If you feel like dropping by, I’ll be there. No pressure. Just hope.
— L
I read it twice. Then a third time.
And the ache behind my ribs is something I don’t recognize at first. It’s not grief or fear, but a hope that’s gentle and small, but stubborn.
It’s enough to make me smile through the tears.
I sit on the edge of the bed with the tray in my lap, the scent of cinnamon and honey curling into the cool morning air.
I haven’t touched the food yet. The tea’s gone lukewarm. The note is folded neatly, sitting under my palm like a secret I haven’t decided what to do with.
I hear the door creak behind me and then the slow, careful steps of someone who knows not to interrupt too fast. Mom sits beside me, hands wrapped around her own mug of coffee, still in her robe.
Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, and she’s got that look on her face that makes it hard to hide anything.
I don’t try.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit quietly, eyes on the pink rose still bobbing in its jar.
“I know,” she says gently. “But you’re doing something. That counts for a lot.”
I nod, throat tight.
We sit in silence for a moment. My chest aches in that slow, dragging way grief always leaves behind even when it’s not fresh anymore.
“I loved him,” I say. “I love him. And I don’t think that’s changed. But I’m scared that the next time it breaks it’ll be for good.”
Mom hums, like she’s heard that thought a hundred times in her own life.
“Is love ever not scary?” she asks, voice low. “Especially the real kind?”
I glance over at her. She’s staring at me, not pushing. Just there.
“I used to think love was about choosing someone who made you feel safe,” I say. “But Liam doesn’t always feel safe. Sometimes he feels like a storm I want to run into and run away from at the same time.”
“And how do you feel this morning?”
I pause. “Like I might want to stand in the rain a little while longer.”
Mom smiles softly.
“You always were your father’s daughter,” she says. “Stubborn and brave.”
I huff a small laugh. “Is that what this is? Brave?”
“Brave isn’t the absence of fear, Olive.” She nudges my knee. “It’s doing the hard thing anyway.”
I nod, letting her words settle.
After a moment, she says, “You don’t owe him forgiveness. But if your heart’s still leaning toward him then maybe it’s time to see what happens if he meets you halfway.”
I look down at the note again.
Hope, he wrote. No pressure. Just hope. I fold it up, gently, and tuck it into the pocket of my cardigan. Then I finally take a bite of the cinnamon toast, and the sugar rush hits just enough to make the decision feel a little clearer.
I think it’s time I went to the barn.
Thirty minutes later, I come to a stop and get out of the car.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I step out of Mom’s borrowed car and shut the door behind me.
The sun is high now, and the scent of dust, hay, and saddle leather hits me the second I cross the split-rail fence that marks the edge of the property.
Every step I take toward the barn tightens something in my chest. My fingers are curled around the folded note in my pocket, like it’s some kind of talisman.
The barn doors are wide open, and I hear the familiar sound of hooves against wood, the low murmur of country music playing from a portable speaker, and the deep, occasional murmur of Liam’s voice.
He doesn’t see me at first.
He’s in the back of the barn, bent over the flank of a sorrel mare, brushing her down. His sleeves are rolled up again, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, his jeans dusted with dirt. The light through the slats paints golden streaks across his back. He looks peaceful. Capable. Like home.
I don’t speak right away. I just watch. Watch the way he works. The gentleness in his hands. The quiet way he exists when no one’s watching.
Eventually, he senses me. He glances up. And stops.
For a long, quiet moment, neither of us moves.
Then he straightens slowly, brushing his palms down his jeans, and wipes a forearm across his brow. There’s a long rope of tension in his shoulders like he doesn’t quite know which version of me is walking toward him.
I cross the space between us, stopping just short.
“You left breakfast on my porch,” I say.
His mouth tips up at one corner. “Wasn’t sure if you’d open the door or throw it at me.”
“It was perfect. Thank you.”
His shoulders drop just a fraction, like he’s been holding his breath.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says softly. “I’m trying not to push. Just show up. Like I should’ve before.”
I nod, glancing around the barn, then back at him. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
“But you did.” His eyes meet mine. “That means more than you know.”
I swallow. “You said no pressure.”
“I meant it.”
Another silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty.
It’s full of every word we haven’t said, every apology we’re still figuring out how to make.
“I thought maybe…” I reach into my pocket and pull out the note, unfolding it between my fingers, “…you could tell me what happens next.”
Liam takes a step closer, slow and careful, like I might vanish if he moves too fast.
“I don’t know what happens next, Olive,” he says quietly. “But I know I want to be in it with you. With them.” His eyes drop to my belly. “Every hard day. Every beautiful one. I want to build something that lasts.”
My throat tightens. “Even if it’s messy?”
He chuckles under his breath. “Especially if it’s messy.”
I bite my lip to keep it from trembling.
“I’m not asking you to come home today,” he says. “I’m asking if I can start earning a spot in your life again. One honest day at a time.”
His hand hovers, like he wants to reach for me but waits.
I nod once and whisper, “Okay.”
He steps forward and presses his forehead to mine. I close my eyes and lean into it. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. But something more important. The beginning.
One month.
That’s how long it’s been since I stood in the barn and let Liam into my heart again—not all the way, not yet—but enough.
And somehow, beginning has turned into something more.
In the first week he shows up every morning with chamomile tea and a different kind of muffin—blueberry, chocolate chip, banana walnut. Each one wrapped in a paper towel like he packed it himself. I suspect he doesn’t actually make them, but it’s still a sweet gesture.
He brushes the horses while I sit on an overturned bucket nearby, boots tapping softly while I sip and watch. We talk about easy things. Weather, crops, baby names. We laugh a lot.
One morning, he kneels down and ties my sneaker when I can’t reach it. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks up at me with that soft smile like this, right here, is exactly where he wants to be.
In the second week he teaches me how to throw a lasso. I’m terrible at it. Like, really terrible.
But he stands behind me anyway, hands guiding mine, breath warm on my cheek as he whispers, “Loosen your wrist.”
I feel every inch of him pressed against my back, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe let alone throw.
The loop falls wide and crooked. I curse. He laughs.
Then he presses a kiss to my shoulder, gentle and quick, and doesn’t say a word about it.
Later, he sends me home with a bouquet of wildflowers in a mason jar. I find a sticky note in the middle that says: Day by day, Olive. I’m not going anywhere.
In week three we go for a drive out near the ridge, the sky impossibly big. He brings snacks and we sit in the tall grass with the sun on our faces, not saying much at all.
At one point, he reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek.
I lean into his palm without thinking. He smiles, like maybe he needed that more than I realized.
That night, he walks me back to the bed and breakfast and kisses my forehead before I go inside.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes my knees weak.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I don’t cry myself to sleep.
By week four we’ve moved on to spending time in the house. The twins kick while he’s reading out loud to me. It’s some silly rodeo magazine, but I don’t care. I’m lying with my head in his lap on the couch, and he’s rubbing circles on my belly when he feels it.
He freezes. Looks down at me.
“Was that…?”
I nod. He drops the magazine, stunned. Then he bends over and kisses my stomach like it’s holy ground.
“Hi, babies,” he whispers. “It’s me. Your dad.”
Something in me splinters. I realize I’m not afraid anymore. Not of him. Not of this. Not of staying.
And just like that, we fall.
Not all at once.
But day by day. Laugh by laugh. Touch by touch.
And it’s deeper than before.
Not shiny and new but real. Lived in. Fought for.
The kind of love you build. The kind of love you tell your grandkids about. The kind of love that love songs are written about.
The next day we spend all day together. I end up falling asleep on the couch and wake up alone. It’s late when I go looking for Liam. The kind of late where the stars are sharp and close, and the air hums with crickets and the faint scent of hay and warm earth.
I find Liam in the barn loft, of all places sitting on a bale of hay, elbows on his knees, a steaming mug in his hands. He looks up when he hears me, then stands instantly, worried.
“Everything okay?” he asks, crossing the space.
I nod. “Yeah. Just needed air. And maybe a back rub.”
He smiles, relief softening his whole face.
He sets his mug down and takes my hand, guiding me gently to sit on the hay bale, then kneels behind me, hands already moving in those magic circles low on my spine.
I groan without shame. “God. Marry whoever taught you this.”
He chuckles against my shoulder. “Don’t tempt me. It was my grandma.”
I laugh, and for a while, we just sit there. Me, between his knees, his hands working slow and steady, the warmth of his breath brushing my hair.
“I used to come up here when I needed to think,” he says quietly. “Even as a kid. It was the one place my dad wouldn’t follow.”
I look down, letting the silence answer for me.
“You don’t have to say it,” he adds. “I know what he cost us. I live with it every day.”
I reach back, covering one of his hands with mine.
“I know you do,” I whisper.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Thanks for being here.”
And that’s when it slips out. I don’t mean to say it. But I feel it. And suddenly, it’s the only truth I can give.
“I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m just glad to be home.”
The word lingers in the air. Liam stills behind me. His breath catches. His hands stop moving. Slowly, he rises to his feet and comes around in front of me, crouching so we’re eye-level. His eyes shine in the low barn light, the emotion there too big to hide.
“You mean that?”
I nod once, and tears burn in my throat.
“I didn’t think I’d ever say that again,” I admit. “But it’s true. This—you—it feels like home.”
He doesn’t speak. He just leans in and kisses me like he knows the moment is too fragile to rush. And I kiss him back with everything I’ve been holding in.
Not because we’re fixed. Not because everything’s perfect.
But because we made it through the fire.
And we’re still choosing each other on the other side.
“Olive Fiegel, I’m going to marry you one of these days,” he says in a low tone.
I smile up at him. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
And just like that I know that I’m right where I’m supposed to be.