Chapter 23
LILY
I sit by the fire, belly too full, cheeks sunburned, enjoying the unfamiliar quiet of the woods.
The crackling flames cast dancing shadows across our campsite, highlighting the two tents standing like sentinels against the darkness—mine and Penny’s on the left, Josh’s on the right.
The physical distance between them mirrors the invisible fences I’ve put up, but that are getting flimsier the longer we’re out here.
I fidget with a long stick, poking at a glowing log that sends a flurry of sparks spiraling upward to join the bright stars.
“Mom, I’m not tired,” Penny insists for the third time, despite the yawn that contradicts her statement. She’s wrapped in her purple hoodie, hair wild, eyes heavy-lidded with the exhaustion only fresh air and adventure bring.
“Your body disagrees,” I point out, standing up as she yawns again. “Come on.”
Penny sighs exaggeratedly—everything with her is dramatic these days—but stands, resigned to her fate. “Fine.”
Instead of following me, Penny turns toward Josh. “Will you stay by my tent until I fall asleep? It’s dark, and there might be bears.”
Josh’s eyes find mine across the fire, questioning, careful, always so attentive to our boundaries. That invisible line I drew weeks ago that we don’t mention anymore but constantly dance around. He waits for my nod, for my permission, before answering her.
“There are no bears,” I assure Penny with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder.
“But if there were,” Josh adds, “they’d be more scared of you than you are of them.”
Penny looks unconvinced. “Please?”
I nod at Josh, grateful for his constant awareness of my comfort level, for never overstepping. “I’ll get her settled,” I tell him. “Just give us a few minutes.”
Inside the tent, I help Penny into her sleeping bag, watching as she clings to her stuffed bunny. Her eyes are already drooping as I zip the bag up to her chin.
“Mom?” she whispers, voice thick with approaching sleep.
“Hmm?”
“Josh is nice, isn’t he?”
My heart misfires, a regular occurrence lately. “Yes, he is.”
“Like Daddy was?”
The question steals my breath. Penny never made comparisons. I’m the one constantly drawing parallels in my head, measuring Josh against Daniel’s memories. I swallow past the dilemma of how to answer.
“No person is the same, honey,” I say carefully. “But yes, they’re both kind, brave men.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. “G’night, Mom.”
“Night, sweetheart.” I kiss her forehead and slip out of the tent.
Josh is waiting outside, leaning against a nearby tree. “All set?”
“She’s already half asleep,” I tell him. “But if you could sit out here for a few minutes, it would make her feel better.”
“No problem.” He smiles—that easy, genuine smile that makes it impossible not to grin back. “I’ve got this covered.”
I return to the pit, reclaiming my camp chair and the stick I was fidgeting with earlier. The flames have died down to a steady glow, the wood shifting with pops and hisses. I poke at a burning log, watching as the fire burns through it.
Am I about to get consumed too? Is the closeness to Josh going to incinerate me? It feels like that sometimes. Like every smile, or shared joke, and moment we spend together pushes me closer to the one thing I swore I’d never do again: love a man who runs into danger while everyone else flees away.
Josh’s footsteps crunch on the pine needles as he returns from Penny’s tent. “She’s out like a light,” he reports, settling into the camp chair next to mine.
Warmth blooms in my chest despite the night chill. “Thanks for being so patient with her today.”
“Are you kidding? I had a blast.” His smile is bright in the firelight. “She makes even complaints entertaining.”
“Penny the Grumble-Bee.” I chuckle.
“I never asked.” He frowns. “Is Penny short for Penelope?”
Oh. A simple question, but he’s unknowingly poked at a bruised spot in my heart, the kind that never heals. I shake my head, eyes fixed on the fire. “No, it’s not short for anything. Just Penny.”
Josh nods, accepting my reply without pushing.
But then he shifts in his seat, angling his body toward mine.
He’s sitting closer than he was earlier when we kept to opposite sides of the fire—at a safe distance.
Now he’s near enough that I can smell the wood smoke clinging to his clothes, see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes reflecting the flames.
His proximity turns my skin electric, nerves buzzing with awareness.
“Why Penny?” he prompts.
Ah. He always knows when I’m not telling him something. But the story of Penny’s name is so intertwined with Daniel, with our love, with everything I lost, that sharing it feels like reaching into my chest with bare hands and pulling, not caring what tears on the way out.
We lapse into silence, both staring at the dancing flames.
The blanket of night wraps around us, the distant hooting of an owl the only interruption.
I appreciate that he never pushes. He offers the space and lets me decide whether to fill it.
Josh makes room for my grief, my hesitation, my limits, without making me feel broken for having them.
“Daniel called me ‘Lucky,’” I whisper above the crackle of the fire. “Lucky Penny.”
I know Josh hears me because he turns his face toward me, but I keep staring at the fire.
“He’d found a penny on the sidewalk the morning we met,” I explain. “And after that, the universe sent us more pennies whenever things were hard.”
I poke at the fire again, sending more sparks into the night. “Daniel kept them in a jar by our bed, one for every time I ‘brought him home.’ When he was lost, he used to say I’d find him, that I was his real-life lucky penny.”
My throat tightens, but I push on. “That’s why we named our daughter Penny, because Daniel and I both believed in tiny signs and the magic of feeling lucky with the people you love.”
I glance past the flames into the woods. “It sounds silly now, but we wanted Penny to have the same sense of being found if she ever got lost.”
As I finish, the air becomes heavier with what I’m not adding—how Daniel’s luck eventually ran out.
Josh must be thinking the same thing because he reaches for my hand, offering comfort without words.
His palm is warm against mine, callused from work but gentle in how it cradles my fingers.
The touch sends a steady current up my arm that both soothes and terrifies me.
It makes me want to hold on forever and let go as fast as I can.
But tonight, I let myself have the contact. At least for a bit.
Josh squeezes my hand. “It’s a beautiful name, with a beautiful story.”
“Yeah.”
After a stretch of weighty stillness, I make myself break the connection, pulling my hand from Josh’s as I get up. He stands too, and for a second we’re standing too close, nearly chest to chest, the fire’s glow flickering across his face.
Josh hesitates, lifting his hand as if he’s about to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, or cup my cheek, but he catches himself, letting his arm fall to his side. Our eyes hold for a beat too long—charged, uncertain, and hungry.
I am starving, but I can’t allow myself even a small taste, or I might not stop. “We should get some sleep.”
Josh nods, but doesn’t move. I’m the one to step away, every nerve jangling. As I zip up my tent, I hear him sigh—a frustrated, longing sound—and know I’ll lie awake for hours, painfully aware of every what-if the night holds.