Chapter 20
The dirt was warm beneath her knees, soft and dark and full of promise.
Hazel knelt in the garden with her hands sunk deep into the soil, her gloved palms dusted with the fine grit of mulch and clay, the damp scent of earth rising in gentle waves around her.
Her grandmother’s wide-brimmed sunhat shielded her face from the light, though the early spring sun wasn’t harsh, just golden and kind.
It was the kind of light that made everything glow at the edges.
Her gloves were already streaked with dirt, the fingertips worn nearly through, and there was a smudge of something dark across her cheek from when she’d pushed back her hair without thinking. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it away.
It was the beginning of April. The days had begun to stretch a little longer, the light lingering at the edges of the sky like it wanted to stay.
Tiny green buds were beginning to unfurl on the bushes along the fence.
The tulips she’d planted in early February were opening now, their petals fragile and bright.
The chives had grown nearly a foot tall.
There was still a slight bite in the breeze, but it was threaded now with softness and the promise of more.
Everything was growing again.
She reached down to nestle a seedling into its place, her fingers careful, almost tender.
It wasn’t about perfection, it was about presence.
Hazel pressed the soil around the base of the stem, patted it gently, and sat back on her heels with a long breath, her knees aching pleasantly beneath her.
The breeze lifted the brim of her hat and carried the scent of something rising from the house— yeast, flour, and honey.
She’d started a loaf earlier that morning and left it near the oven, covered with a linen cloth just like her grandmother used to do.
Behind her, the old screen door creaked open.
Hazel didn’t turn right away. She just closed her eyes for a moment, letting the light settle against her eyelids, warm and dappled through the weave of the hat.
Then came Beck’s voice, quiet and low, gentle with the kind of softness he only used for her. “They’re here.”
Her eyes opened.
She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she just sat in the stillness of that moment, her heartbeat picking up, not fast but deep— like a drum, like a reminder.
Her gloves slipped off slowly. She set them on the edge of the garden bed and pushed herself to her feet, brushing the dirt from her jeans.
Her palms were still damp with soil and her nails were rimmed with it.
Her breath felt strange in her chest, as though it didn’t know how to move through this new, uncertain version of the day.
Beck waited for her on the porch, one shoulder pressed against the post, the screen door still open behind him.
He hadn’t changed since breakfast— still barefoot, still in the navy blue plaid shirt that she loved, sleeves pushed up, collar stretched from the way she’d tugged on it the night before.
His jeans were soft and faded, the knees worn, and there was a smudge of flour on his thigh where he’d wiped his hand without noticing.
He didn’t move toward her, he just watched her, his gaze steady and open.
Hazel joined him with slow steps, her heart beating a little too hard for how ordinary the moment looked.
When she reached him, he didn’t say anything, he just reached out and carefully adjusted the brim of her hat with two fingers, then tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
His thumb lingered there for a breath longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheekbone.
Hazel leaned into it, just for a breath, and exhaled.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said, his voice soft. “You can just say the word and I will tell them to go.”
She nodded once, though not because she was uncertain— because it still mattered to hear the words said aloud.
“I know,” she replied.
They rounded the corner of the house together, Beck walking just half a step behind her— not leading, not following, just near.
The gravel crunched beneath their feet and the old hydrangea bush rustled faintly in the breeze.
Hazel tugged her gardening hat from her head, setting it down on the corner of the porch.
The driveway was already full.
A sleek silver SUV sat parked with the engine off, sun glinting off the windshield.
The rear passenger door opened first. Her half-sister, Colette, stepped out, tall and bright and flushed from the ride, her blonde hair twisted into a loose bun that looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial.
She wore a spring green jacket with gold buttons and ballet flats Hazel wouldn’t have dared touch to the muddy gravel.
A phone was in her hand— always, Hazel thought, if she’s anything like Juno— but she slipped it into her back pocket as she turned toward the house.
Then her younger brother, Levi, climbed out, his movements slower, like perhaps he had fallen asleep on the drive up from Hartford.
His shoulders were hunched like he’d grown too tall, too fast and hadn’t quite figured out how to carry himself yet.
He wore a navy hoodie with the sleeves pulled down over his hands and jeans that looked a little too long, bunching at the ankle.
His hair flopped into his eyes and he didn’t look up.
Hazel’s father stepped out of the driver’s seat, followed by his wife, Dana, from the passenger side.
Hazel’s stepmother wore a pale pink cardigan and sunglasses that she pushed onto the top of her head.
She was elegant in the way that made Hazel feel like a crumpled napkin in comparison, but her expression was neutral. Not cold. Just… waiting.
No one spoke.
Hazel stood there, the weight of a thousand unsaid things pressing into the space between them.
The wind stirred her hair and she reached up, trying to push the dark strands back, away from her face.
She felt Beck at her side, close enough to feel his presence, his warmth, and the way his thumb brushed softly against her wrist.
And she stepped forward.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she called out.
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear, and it didn’t shake. She took that as a win.
Colette was the first to smile— big and genuine, like she’d been waiting for that one cue to let all her light back out. “It’s so pretty here,“ she said, her eyes bouncing from the porch to the garden. “I love the yellow on the door. And your flowers— those are tulips, right? I always kill mine.”
Hazel found herself smiling, just a little. “They’re forgiving,” she said, offering her sister a shrug. “For the most part. You just need to know the tricks.”
Levi looked up then, just for a second, and their eyes met. Hazel saw it, that flicker of something familiar. Not recognition, exactly, but maybe kinship— or something close to it, at least. He didn’t speak, but he offered Hazel a small, sideways smile in greeting.
Her father stepped forward next. His hands were empty. No flowers, no gift, just him. A man with grayer hair than she remembered, a little softer at the edges. The lines around his eyes deeper than they’d been the last time she saw him in person.
“It smells like bread even out here,” he remarked, his eyes softening as they landed on Hazel. “You baking?”
Hazel glanced over her shoulder toward the house. “I left a loaf to rise earlier,” she said. “Should be ready soon.”
Her father nodded, taking a few steps towards the front porch. “Your grandmother always made the best bread,” he admitted, his hand reaching for the railing. “I still remember this one she used to make… with the walnuts and cinnamon, I think.”
Hazel’s smile widened. “I’ve got that one in the oven,” she said.
He met her eyes and held them, something gentle overtaking his expression. Like he was seeing her, perhaps for the first time. “I can’t wait to try it.”
Hazel inhaled a long, steadying breath of air. The breeze carried with it that same, distinct scent of Maine— of ocean, and earth, and pine needles that had long since fallen from the branches of their trees.
And for the first time in years, she didn’t brace herself against any of it. She just let it all in.
She turned and caught Beck’s eye. He nodded once, subtle and certain, and she felt it move through her like a steadiness she didn’t know how to name. His hand found hers again, no pressure behind his touch, just a quiet, calming presence.
He was her lighthouse, the figure that loomed overhead and kept an eye on the world around them, ensuring nothing that could cause harm would draw too near.
“Well, you’d better come in, then,” Hazel said, turning towards the front of the house.
It wasn’t perfect.
But then again, nothing ever was.
The tulips were blooming, the bread was rising, and the wind was warm.
And it was enough.