Chapter 3
Nate
Errands with Tilly took twice as long as they should have and somehow still felt like the best part of my weekend.
The drive into town was slow in the good way, the kind Honeybrook Hollow specialized in.
Late-morning clouds hung low but bright, the sun breaking through in patches that warmed the windows just enough to make me crack one open.
The air smelled like damp earth and pine, leftover from rain the night before.
Tilly sang along with the radio, making up her own lyrics, while I kept one ear on the road and the other on the quiet of the house we’d left behind.
Lois had watched us go from the front window, tail thumping, chocolate-brown eyes full of hope and accusation.
She loved the new backyard—had already claimed it as hers—but the fence still needed fixing, one loose panel I hadn’t gotten to yet.
I told myself she’d behave. I also told myself that about toddlers once, and I knew how that had gone.
“Do you think Lois is okay?” Tilly asked, peering back at the house as we turned the corner.
“She’ll be fine,” I said. “She’s got her toys.”
“And the couch,” Tilly added helpfully. “And the pillows.”
I sighed. “Yes. The pillows.” Mental note: add new toss pillows to my ever- growing list of things I need for the house.
Maybe I needed a crate. I didn’t love the idea, but I loved the idea of not coming home to chewed furniture more. I added it to the mental list, right under fix fence and buy more peanut butter.
The hardware store was first. I needed screws and brackets for the fence, but Tilly treated the place like a gallery.
She inspected paint swatches with great seriousness—declaring yellow “too shouty” and blue “sad but polite”—and asked the clerk if dogs were allowed inside because Lois liked meeting new people.
The clerk laughed and said yes while pointing to a canister of dog treats he kept on the checkout counter.
At the feed store, Tilly waved enthusiastically at the chickens as if they were old friends.
We circled the aisles twice, Tilly leading the way like a seasoned explorer, pausing to deliberate over the merits of each flashlight and garden gnome.
I let her pick out a small packet of seeds—sunflowers, her favorite—promising we’d plant them together once the yard dried out.
The clerk offered Tilly a cookie for Lois, which she accepted with solemn responsibility, clutching it in both hands all the way to the checkout.
I grabbed dog food and listened to a detailed explanation about why Lois preferred the blue bag over the red one, even though, as Tilly pointed out, “she cannot read, but she can feel vibes.”
I did not argue with this.
By the time we reached the park, the clouds had thinned, sunlight filtering through the trees and catching on the playground equipment. The grass was still damp, cool, and green, the air alive with the sound of kids laughing and someone strumming a guitar near the gazebo.
Tilly burst toward the slide, then doubled back suddenly to grab my hand. “You’re coming too,” she said, like it was optional.
I sat on the bench while she climbed, slid, and narrated every move. And then I saw Eliza.
She was cutting across the park with a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, hair loose, sweater sleeves pushed up like she’d been busy and forgot to be anything else. She slowed when she spotted us, lifting a hand in a small wave.
“Hey,” she said, stopping near the bench.
“Hey,” I replied.
Tilly skidded to a halt in front of her, eyes bright. “We went to three stores,” she announced. “Daddy is fixing the fence because Lois keeps trying to escape, and also he’s thinking about buying her a crate, but he feels bad about it.”
I closed my eyes. Briefly.
Eliza’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a lot of information.”
Tilly nodded. “Lois chewed up a shoe once. But it was an accident.”
“It was not an accident,” I muttered.
Eliza laughed, real and warm, crouching to Tilly’s level. “What kind of shoe?”
“One of Daddy’s good ones,” Tilly said solemnly. “Not the running one.”
Eliza winced in sympathy. “That’s tragic.”
“She also snores,” Tilly added. “And Daddy talks to her like she’s a person.”
I cleared my throat. “Okay.”
Eliza looked up at me, smiling. “I talk to my coffee machine. I think you’re safe.”
Tilly seemed pleased by this common ground and immediately launched into a detailed explanation of our house—how Lois liked the backyard but didn’t understand fences, how I cooked but sometimes forgot the importance of ketchup, how we were having grilled cheese for dinner again “because it’s a comfort food year. ”
I let it happen. Mostly because stopping her would’ve taken effort I didn’t have.
Eventually, Tilly darted back toward the slide, satisfied she’d shared everything she knew.
Eliza stayed. “She’s amazing,” she said quietly.
“She is,” I agreed. “Thank you.”
Sunlight caught in her hair as she smiled at me, and I stayed on the bench, watching Tilly climb like the world was nothing but possibility. Lois would probably chew something. The fence would get fixed eventually. And for once, the unfinished parts didn’t feel like failures.
They felt like proof we were settling in.
Eliza lingered instead of leaving right away, shifting the tote higher on her shoulder.
Up close, I noticed the details I always did—the soft sweater in a chocolate brown that brought out her eyes, the way her hair was half-tamed and half-defiant, like she’d run out of time and decided not to apologize for it.
She looked tired, but in a way that made me want to offer her a chair and something warm, not in a way that dulled her.
If anything, it made her feel more real.
“Heading in?” I asked, nodding toward town.
“Yeah. The Coffee Cabin,” she said. “My grandma opened this morning. I woke up with a headache, and she staged a full takeover.” Her mouth curved. “She’s dramatic, but effective. I’m better now.”
“Good,” I said, meaning more than just the headache. “I was going to ask if you were okay.”
She smiled at that—small, but genuine. “I am. Thanks.”
Tilly reappeared long enough to announce, “Grandmas fix everything,” before racing off again.
Eliza laughed softly, watching her go. “She’s not wrong.”
We stood there for a beat, the sounds of the park filling the space between us—laughter, the squeak of swings, leaves stirring overhead.
“I should get going,” Eliza said, though she didn’t move yet. “But… good luck with the fence.”
I huffed. “I’ll need it. Most days, Lois goes to my grandpa’s when I’m at work or when Tilly’s at school. He loves having her. Spoils her rotten.” I shook my head. “Today was a test run. For all of us.”
Eliza’s smile softened. “She’s lucky.”
“So are we,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean—Tilly and me.”
“I know what you meant,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” I said, quietly. And for a second, everything around us felt still, like the morning was holding its breath.
She adjusted her tote, the light catching her just right, and I realized these were the things that stayed with you—the unremarkable moments, easy and unguarded.
Not because they demanded attention. Because they didn’t, the park hummed softly around us—distant laughter, the creak of swings—and she moved through it the same way she always did with Tilly at the Coffee Cabin: patient, warm, never talking down, like kindness was something she carried without thinking about it even though she hid it behind sarcasm and jokes.
“Well,” she said finally, stepping back, “tell Lois I’m rooting for the couch.”
I smiled. “I won’t.”
“See you, Nate.”
“See you, Eliza.”
She headed toward town, and I watched her go longer than necessary, hoping she really did feel better.
It struck me then that she looked different outside the Coffee Cabin—lighter somehow, like the morning hadn’t asked anything of her yet, like this version of her belonged to herself. The thought settled quietly in my chest, warm and unexpected all at once.
“Daddy?” Tilly called from the top of the slide.
I looked up.
“She’s nice,” she added, like this was a conclusion she’d been working toward. “You should make her grilled cheese. Or spaghetti!”
I laughed, pushing to my feet. “Yeah,” I said softly. “Maybe I will someday.”