Chapter 45
HAILEY
"You know," Karen said softly in the intense quiet of the car, "we've been wanting to tell you about Mallory's discharge for weeks. We were waiting for the right moment, but..." She glanced at me sideways from the passenger seat. "There never seemed to be a right moment with you."
The words should have stung, but they didn't. They were just true.
I shifted in the backseat, Mallory's head heavy against my shoulder where she'd dozed off almost immediately after we'd gotten into David's Jeep.
The familiar scent of the leather seats and Karen's subtle perfume wrapped around me like a memory I'd been trying to forget—or maybe trying to convince myself I didn't deserve.
"I wasn't exactly making myself available," I admitted, the confession scraping against my throat like broken glass. My voice came out rougher than I intended, thick with the emotions I'd been shoving down for six years. "I thought if I kept my distance, it would be easier. For everyone."
David's eyes found mine in the rearview mirror, and even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I could see that familiar expression; the gentle challenge I'd learned to recognize over the years. The one that said he saw right through my bullshit but wasn't going to call me on it harshly.
"Easier for who?" he asked, not turning around but his voice carrying that patient weight that had always made me want to run in the opposite direction.
I bit my lip, that familiar nervous habit that seemed to be getting worse around emotional conversations. The same one Lively always seemed to notice, though I pushed that thought away before it could take root. "For…for you guys. When you realized taking us in was more trouble than it was worth."
The Jeep's engine seemed to grow louder in the sudden silence that followed my words. I watched David's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, and Karen's sharp intake of breath made something twist painfully in my stomach.
"Hailey," David said, and there was something raw in his voice that I'd never heard before—something that sounded almost... broken . "Do you really think that little of us?"
"No," I said quickly, the word tumbling out before I could think it through. Then I stopped, forcing myself to sit with the uncomfortable truth. Honesty. I owed them honesty after six years of walls and distance. "I think that little of me."
The words hung in the air between us like a living thing, heavy and fragile and impossibly true.
I watched understanding dawn on both their faces in the rearview mirror and passenger seat respectively.
Not pity—I couldn't have handled pity. Just understanding, and something that looked almost like relief.
"Oh, sweetheart," Karen whispered, turning in her seat to look at me fully. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and this time when she reached back to touch my face, I didn't pull away. Her fingers were warm against my cheek, gentle in a way that made my chest ache.
"You've been taking care of everyone but yourself for so long," she said quietly. "Haven't you?"
Her question made me freeze, my breath stilling for one long second.
Because she was right. I'd been so focused on being strong for Mallory, on being independent so I wouldn't be a burden to David and Karen, on keeping everyone at arm's length so they couldn't hurt me, that I'd forgotten what it felt like to just.. .be cared for.
"I don't know how to let people take care of me," I whispered, the admission feeling like tearing open a wound that had been festering for years. "I've been responsible for her,"I gestured to Mallory, "for so long that I forgot how to be anything else."
"You don't have to be responsible for everyone," David said, his voice gentle but firm. "You're allowed to be taken care of too, Hailey. You're allowed to need people."
The familiar streets of their neighborhood were sliding past the windows now, the elegant colonials and perfectly manicured lawns lit by street lamps that cast everything in a warm, golden glow.
I'd driven these streets countless times, but tonight they looked different somehow.
Less like a place I was visiting and more like. ..
"We're almost home," Karen said softly, and the word sent a jolt through my system.
Home. The word that had always felt borrowed, temporary. But sitting here in the back of David's Jeep, with Mallory's warm weight against my shoulder and Karen's worried eyes on my face and David's patient presence filling the driver's seat, it didn't feel borrowed anymore.
It felt like coming home.
The Hartley house— our house, the place I'd spent six years running away from—appeared around the familiar curve, its windows glowing with warm light against the darkness.
The circular driveway, the carefully maintained flower beds, the front porch with its elegant columns—all of it looked exactly the same as it had hundreds of times before.
But something fundamental had shifted in the way I saw it.
This wasn't just a beautiful house where generous people had given me shelter. This was home. This was where I belonged…where I’d always belonged.
David pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, the sudden silence somehow both peaceful and charged with emotion. Mallory stirred against my shoulder, blinking sleepily as she took in our surroundings.
"Are we home?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"Yeah," I said, "We're home."
David came around to help me extract Mallory from the backseat, his movements careful and practiced. He'd done this so many times over the years—carrying her when she was too tired or her condition was flaring, never making it seem like a burden or an inconvenience. Just part of loving her.
The way he'd have loved me, if I'd let him.
David fumbled with his keys for a moment before the front door swung open, revealing the warm, inviting foyer I'd walked through countless times but had never truly felt welcome in. Tonight, though, as Karen flicked on the lights and gestured me inside, it felt different.
"I think we're all pretty emotionally drained," David said, adjusting Mallory in his arms as we made our way toward the family room. "Maybe just some tea?"
"That sounds perfect," Karen agreed, her hand finding my elbow in a gentle, grounding touch.
The family room. The space with the overstuffed furniture and the throw pillows Mallory had claimed as her own, where family photos covered every surface and the big television was perpetually tuned to whatever cooking show Karen was obsessed with that week.
I'd always felt like an intruder especially there, perching on the edges of furniture like I was ready to bolt at any moment. But tonight, as David settled Mallory on her favorite corner of the sectional and Karen gestured for me to take what she'd always insisted was "my" chair, it felt different.
It felt like I belonged there.
"I'll make some tea," Karen said, starting toward the kitchen.
"I'll help," I said automatically, rising to follow her.
She paused, turning back with surprise and delight written across her features.
In six years, I'd never once offered to help with anything domestic.
I'd always maintained that careful distance, accepting their hospitality but never fully participating in the rhythms of their household.
Now that I thought about it, it made me feel a lot like an asshole.
"I'd like that," she said, and her voice was thick with emotion.
The Hartley kitchen was a chef's dream; all granite countertops and professional-grade appliances, and I knew it was because Karen had a habit of cooking when she got stressed.
At least, I knew that much. Now, I wondered if she'd ever stepped in here because of me.
Not in the way I'd believed I was a burden to them, but because I wasn't opening up to them.
Man, I was such an asshole, wasn't I?
"Chamomile?" Karen asked, already reaching for the familiar blue tin from the collection of teas arranged on the open shelving.
"Actually," I said, surprising myself… pushing myself, "do you still have that hot cocoa blend? The one you used to get me to drink when we first moved in?"
Her hand stilled, and when she turned to look at me, her eyes were bright with memory and something that looked like hope. "Of course I do. I never stopped buying it."
The admission hit me square in the chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. Six years. Six years she'd been buying tea I'd refused to drink, holding space for a relationship I'd been too scared to accept.
"Why?" I whispered, the word barely audible.
Karen smiled, her fingers gentle as she pulled the lavender tin from its place on the shelf. "Because I always hoped that someday you'd be ready to let me take care of you. Even in something as simple as making you some cocoa."
The tears came then, hot and overwhelming, spilling down my cheeks faster than I could wipe them away.
Karen set the cocoa tin aside and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me against her chest the way she'd tried to do countless times over the years.
But this time, instead of stiffening and pulling away, I melted into her embrace.
She smelled good, and her arms were strong and sure around me. This…sense of safety, of being wanted…was what I'd been denying myself all this time.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I made you think I didn't care, because I do. I…I care so much it terrifies me."
"Oh, sweetheart," Karen whispered, her voice breaking. "You don't have anything to apologize for. We told you in the parking lot, didn't we? We've always understood."
"But I wasted so much time—"
"No," she said firmly, pulling back to look at me. "You weren't ready then. You're ready now. That's what matters."