Chapter 35
The Willow Tree
Cole
I spent all night reading her book.
All night. Didn’t even try to sleep. Just sat in the guest house chair—her chair—under the lamp she always used, the one with the crooked shade that cast soft yellow light across the pages.
The room still smelled like her, vanilla candle wax, faint lavender from the laundry detergent she used, and that sweet floral perfume she sprayed on her wrists.
The scent was fading, but not gone. Not yet.
Every time I turned a page, I inhaled deeper, like I could pull her back through the ink.
The words were meant to be us. They were about us. She didn’t even try to hide it.
The cowboy in her story was me, down to the toothpick he chewed when he was thinking too hard, the way he built things instead of saying them, the silence that stretched like barbed wire around his heart.
She wrote about the pool. The willow tree swing.
The creek where we first kissed. She stayed.
She fought for the ranch, for the horses, for him.
And he finally said it. Out loud. Under the stars, with her hands in his, he said, “I love you.”
I read that line three times. Then I had to put the pages down because my hands were shaking so bad the paper crinkled.
My chest felt cracked open, raw, burning.
I could hear her voice in every sentence.
The way she teased him. The way she hurt when he went quiet.
The way she loved him anyway. I get it now. I truly fucked up.
I’d give anything for her to come back. I’d give anything for her to be here in my arms again, her head on my chest, braid tickling my neck, her breath warm against my collarbone, her laugh filling the quiet spaces I’ve lived in too long.
I want to wake up to her humming in the kitchen, barefoot, stealing bites of my toast. I want to walk past the pool at dusk and see her writing there, feet dangling in the water, sunlight catching in her hair.
I want to hear her call me Scrooge and roll her eyes and then kiss me like she can’t help it.
She left. She told me she loved me—voice cracking, tears on her cheeks—and I froze.
I’m the one who should’ve said it back. She did nothing wrong.
I mean, I get why she left. Why she thought she needed to.
I pushed her away in silence. With half-kisses and half-promises.
With “friends” when we both knew it was a lie.
I let her believe she was temporary. That she was replaceable.
That she wasn’t the best thing that ever walked onto this ranch.
But God, I miss her. The ache is constant—deep in my chest, like someone hollowed me out and forgot to fill the hole.
Every time I pass the guest house, the porch light is off.
Every time I walk by the pool, the water is still, no laptop on the lounge chair, no towel draped over the back.
Every time I go to the barn, Shadow nickers at the gate like he’s waiting for her, ears pricked, eyes searching. Even the damn horses know she’s gone.
Today I’ve been working hard to just get this ranch put back together after the fire.
Maybe even working harder. Just to get her off my mind.
But it doesn’t help. The only thing it does help is getting rid of this anger I have at myself.
The pain of not seeing her walking around this ranch, her braid swinging, shorts hugging those hips, that smile she gave me like I was worth something.
I swing the hammer harder than I need to—nails bending, wood splintering, muscles screaming.
Sweat runs into my eyes, mixing with the soot still clinging to everything. The air smells like wet char and pine.
“You okay, man?” Luke asks, holding the board steady while I hammer this siding in. His voice cuts through the rain drumming on the tin roof.
“Yeah, I mean no—not really.”
“Layla?”
“Yeah. Don’t fuck up like me, Luke,” I say, hammering hard, nail sinking crooked, wood groaning. The impact jars up my arm, satisfying in a way nothing else is right now.
“We all mess up, Cole,” he says, steady. “I mean shit, Steph and me—we were friends before all this. We’ve been friends since kids and then the separation, her going off with that douchebag. Me and all the women. Everyone makes mistakes. You can fix it. Maybe she’ll even come back.”
I look at him, really look. He’s young, but he’s so sweet. Marrying Steph at his age, knowing that’s what he wants. No hesitation. No fear. I envy that.
“Yeah… maybe,” I mutter. “Ya know, I was thinking. Maybe you and Steph can have your wedding here. You said she wanted it in the fall, right?”
“She does, yeah.”
“Well then we’ll do it right here on the farm. Have the reception where we throw all the weddings–”
“Dude, she will go crazy!” Luke says, happy, eyes lighting up.
“Good. Someone deserves happiness.”
“Thanks, man. You deserve to be happy too, ya know?” he says, quiet, serious.
“Thanks, Luke.”
I turn back to the siding, hammer in hand, rain dripping off my hat brim, soaking my shoulders.
The words hang there, heavy and true. I do deserve it.
And so does she. But I didn’t give it to her.
I let her walk away thinking she was nothing more than a friend.
A temporary thing. When she was everything.
The rain picks up, harder now, drumming on the tin roof like it’s trying to drown out my thoughts.
I drive another nail—straight this time—and feel the ache in my chest spread.
I fucked up. I really fucked up. And I don’t know if I can fix it.
But I know one thing, if she ever comes back, I won’t freeze again. I’ll say it. I’ll say everything.
I remember the night clearly as anything.
It was late—past midnight, the kind of quiet that settles over the ranch when the crickets finally hush and the only sound is the occasional snort from the horses in the barn.
We were on the porch swing, the one Dad built for Mom years ago.
The chains creaked soft every time we rocked.
Layla was curled against my side, legs tucked under her, head on my shoulder.
She smelled like vanilla and the mint shampoo she’d borrowed from Maggie.
Her hair was still damp from the shower, a few strands sticking to my neck.
I had my arm around her, thumb tracing slow circles on her upper arm, mindless, just needing to feel her there.
We’d been talking for hours, about nothing and everything.
She’d asked about the ranch, about growing up here, about the horses.
I’d told her stories I hadn’t told anyone in years.
The way Mom used to sing off-key while she gardened.
The way Dad pretended not to notice when she snuck me extra cookies.
The way she’d sit on this very swing every evening, watching the sunset paint the fields gold, and say, “One day, Cole, you’ll find someone who makes the quiet feel full, Like I did with your father. ”
Layla had gone quiet after that. Just listening. Then she asked—soft, careful—“What was she like? Your mom, I mean. Not the stories. The real her.”
I didn’t answer right away. The swing kept rocking, chains creaking, crickets starting up again in the dark. I stared out at the pasture, black except for the faint silver of moonlight on the grass and felt the old ache rise up, the one I usually shoved down deep.
“She was… steady,” I finally said. “Didn’t raise her voice much, but when she did, you listened.
Loved hard. Laughed easily. She’d hug you so tight you thought your ribs would crack, then let go like nothing happened.
She saw people—the real them, not the mask they wore.
And she never judged. Not even when I screwed up. ”
Layla’s fingers traced slow patterns on my hand. “She sounds like she loved you a lot.”
“She did.” My voice came out rougher than I meant. “Miss her every damn day. Some days it’s quiet. Some days it’s loud. Tonight it’s… loud.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute. Just kept those slow circles, like she was soothing something wild inside me. Then she lifted her head, looked up at me, those big brown eyes catching the porch light, soft and steady.
“I wish I could’ve met her,” she said. “ I wonder if she would’ve liked me.”
I huffed a small laugh—more breath than sound. “She would’ve loved you.”
Layla’s brows lifted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I shifted, turning so I could see her face better.
“She’d have seen you walk in here—city girl in heels, asking about the horses like you weren’t scared of them at all—and she’d have smiled that smile she saved for people she knew were special.
She’d have dragged you into the kitchen, made you help with biscuits, teased you about your fancy coffee order.
Then she’d have sat you down on this swing and asked you every question she could think of, because she’d want to know the girl who made her son smile again. ”
Layla’s eyes went glassy. She blinked fast, but one tear slipped free anyway. I caught it with my thumb—slow, gentle—brushing it across her cheek.
“She’d have loved the way you talk to Shadow like he’s people,” I went on, voice dropping lower. “The way you laugh at Luke’s dumb jokes even when they’re not funny. The way you light up when you talk about your stories.”
Layla swallowed hard. “I wish I could’ve known her.”
“Me too.” I leaned in, pressed my forehead to hers.
Layla laughed—wet, shaky—then buried her face in my neck. I wrapped both arms around her, pulled her closer, and felt her heartbeat against my chest. The swing creaked soft beneath us. The night was cool, but she was warm. Alive. Here.
I didn’t say “I love you” that night. I still couldn’t get the words out. But I held her tighter than I ever had. And in that moment I knew I was in too deep.