Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mac woke to sun sliding across the bedroom wall, the faint clatter of a delivery truck somewhere down the street, the low, domestic peace that had been following her lately.
She lay there for a moment, cataloging nothing in particular. No schedule tugging at her. No internal checklist lighting up.
That was still new enough to feel earned.
By the time she stepped outside with her coffee, phone in hand, Connor was already on his porch, crouched near the step, tightening something on one of the loose boards. A screwdriver lay beside him. He looked up when he heard her door open.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” She crossed to the railing and leaned, watching him work. “You didn’t have to fix that yourself.”
“It’s not a problem.” He smiled, easy. “I like knowing that things are solid.”
She let that sit, not because it meant anything yet, but because it brushed something familiar. Control disguised as care. She knew that move. Had lived it.
He finished tightening the screw and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I was thinking about last night,” he said casually. “The fish fry.”
“Mm?” She took a sip, the coffee still too hot.
“My mom texted this morning,” he continued. “She loved having you there.”
Mac smiled. “She offered me leftovers.”
“Yeah, that tracks.” He paused, then added, “She asked if everything’s okay.”
Mac blinked. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Connor hesitated. “I told her you’ve got a lot going on. Career stuff. That you’re figuring things out.”
The air didn’t snap. It just…shifted. Mac felt it in her shoulders.
“You told her that?” she asked.
“Just so she wouldn’t start in with questions,” he said quickly. “I figured it might be easier if people didn’t—”
“Decide things for me?” she finished gently.
Connor stilled, a quick recalibration passing through his face. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was trying to give you space.”
“I know.” Mac kept her voice even. “I just want to be the one who decides what gets said. Even if it’s awkward.”
He nodded once. “Okay. That’s fair.”
She watched him breathe, watched him choose not to fill the silence with defense.
“I spent years letting other people explain things for me,” she said. “Agents. Coaches. Doctors. It was easier, until it wasn’t.”
Connor’s gaze held steady.
“Sometimes they’d explain my feelings like they were facts,” she continued, softer now. “And once that version is out there, it’s hard to pull it back without looking ungrateful.”
His mouth tightened briefly. Not defensive, but thoughtful. “I don’t want to be another person who does that.”
“You’re not,” she said, stepping closer. “This isn’t me pushing you away. It’s me staying present.”
Something eased in him. He nodded again. “Okay.”
They stood there, the morning unfolding around them. A jogger passed. Somewhere, a radio clicked on.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Always.”
“When that stuff shows up… What helps?”
She thought about the question. How different it was from, What are you going to do?
“Not being rushed,” she said. “Not being protected from it. Knowing I’m allowed to take my time, with you beside me, not in front of me.”
He smiled faintly. “That, I can do.”
She smiled back, but felt the awareness settle in. The small, undeniable truth that even kindness could brush against old scars. That love required more listening than guessing.
The phone in her hand buzzed.
She stared at the screen, pulse steady but alert. The text was from Paula.
Need ten minutes today. Deadline stuff.
Connor watched her from the porch, not intruding, not withdrawing. Just there.
She didn’t answer the text. Not yet. She met Connor’s gaze and lifted the phone slightly, an unspoken acknowledgment.
“I’ll handle it,” she said.
“I know you will,” he replied.
By the time they’d finished their coffee, things felt solid again, the porch board and the situation between them.
Later that morning, they rode their bikes side by side out of town, the noise thinning as the buildings gave way to trees and open stretches of road. The morning was already warm.
Mac matched Connor’s pace without thinking, the rhythm of it easy, familiar in a way that surprised her.
She hadn’t planned on a bike ride. He’d just looked at the sky and said, “It feels like a good morning to be outside.”
She’d agreed before her brain could weigh in.
The route wasn’t one she knew. The road narrowed, curved, dipped slightly before climbing again. Cottonwoods lined the edge, their leaves flickering silver in the breeze.
Connor glanced back once, checking that she was still with him, then pointed ahead.
“Shortcut?” she asked.
“More like a long way that’s worth it,” he said. “Tourists don’t usually bother with this one.”
That felt like a distinction, even if he hadn’t intended it that way.
They crested the rise and slowed at the same time before stopping.
Below them, rows of cherry trees stretched out, branches heavy with fruit, red against green in a way that made Mac laugh softly.
“Okay,” she said. “This feels like something I should’ve made time to know about.”
Connor grinned as he dismounted. “Cherry Acres. Wyatt and Greer’s place. Which means,” he reached up, plucked a cluster of cherries and dropped it into her palm, “we’re allowed to be here.”
She laughed again, the sound coming easier than she expected, and rolled one of the cherries between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. It burst, sweet and sharp, on her tongue.
“Yeah,” she said. “Coming here was the right call.”
They left their bikes in the grass and wandered between the rows, the ground uneven beneath their shoes. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling Connor’s shoulders, her arms, the space between them.
Mac caught herself noticing how little she was thinking. No tracking of time. No sense of what this meant or where it might be headed. Just the present moment unfolding without instructions.
Connor leaned back against one of the trunks, watching her with that steady, observant focus she was starting to recognize. Not evaluating. Just paying attention.
He smiled, small and genuine. “You look different out here.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Quieter,” he said, then shook his head. “Not quieter. Looser.”
She considered that. “I don’t usually let myself stop moving unless there’s a reason.”
He nodded. “What’s the reason today?”
Mac looked around—the trees, the open sky, the cherries staining her fingertips. Connor, standing there, his posture free of expectation.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But it feels like enough—and like something I don’t want to lose.”
He nodded, like that made sense to him.
They sat beneath one of the older trees, the shade cool against the heat of the day. Mac crossed her legs, absently stacking cherry pits on a flat stone beside her. Connor stretched out beside her, one arm propped behind his head.
For a while, they didn’t talk.
She noticed how easy that felt, too.
Then Connor’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it and tucked it away.
Mac watched his jaw work once.
She didn’t ask. Not yet.
But after a few seconds, she said, “That looked like it mattered.”
“It’s Ric,” he said. “Being Ric.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “He wants me to come back to Seattle. He sends me constant updates. Games, mutual friends. His way of reminding me what I’m supposedly missing.”
“And are you?” she asked, not pressing. Just asking.
He considered it. “Not today.”
That answer sat easily between them.
A breeze stirred the branches overhead, leaves whispering against one another. Connor reached out and brushed his thumb lightly across the back of her hand, a touch that didn’t ask or claim.
She let it stay.
When they finally stood and brushed the grass from their clothes, Mac noticed something small but unmistakable—her shoulders hadn’t tightened once.
They walked their bikes back to the road, the orchard receding behind them, the path ahead open and unremarkable in the best possible way.