Chapter 51 #2
“Penelope Shea, you listen to me now.” Something fierce flashed in Holly’s eyes, and she braced her forearm on the table, leaning toward me.
“You are one of the most gifted, dedicated, compassionate librarians I have ever had the privilege of working with. The programs you’ve built have transformed our community.
Children light up when they see you. Their parents tell me—regularly—that you’re the reason their kids love reading. ”
She held my gaze with an intensity that left zero room for argument.
“If you think for one second the words you write on your own time, on your own terms, with your own amazing talent diminish any of that? Well, you’re just plain wrong, and I’m not afraid to tell you so.
You are not two separate people, sweetheart.
You’re one extraordinary woman who happens to contain multitudes. Just like the rest of us.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand as I caught my bottom lip between my teeth to try to hide the tremble.
“And if a single parent or board member or anyone in this town has a problem with you sharing your beautiful words with the world while also being the best damn librarian Starlight Cove has ever seen?” She sat back and lifted her chin. “They can take it up with me.”
A broken laugh escaped me because I had no doubt she meant every word. Holly would go to war for me without a second thought. And that knowledge settled deep in my bones, soothing a wound that had never really healed.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” she said, sitting back and taking a sip of her tea. “Is your worry over your job what brought you over here in the first place?”
Just like that, the temporary shelter of her fierce protectiveness crumbled, and the real reason I was sitting in her kitchen with mascara on my cheeks and a death grip on her World’s Best Mom mug crashed over me all over again.
Dread pooled in my stomach, and I shook my head. “No.”
I tightened my grip on the cup, the ceramic warm against my palms while everything inside me went cold. I didn’t want to say it out loud. Because that meant hearing how it sounded. And I already knew how it would sound—ugly and unfair and nothing like the woman I wanted to be.
“You can tell me anything, sweetheart. I mean that.”
I met her gaze, read the sincerity in her eyes, and decided it was time to be brave.
“Declan was the only person I ever told. And when I found out someone else knew…I thought— I thought he—” I tried to swallow down the lump in my throat, but it was still there, swelling and making my words tight. “I accused him of being the one who—”
My throat closed around the rest of the sentence.
I couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say aloud what I’d done to the man who’d memorized my tea preferences down to the steeping time and never once complained about Darcy sharing a bed with us and carved his art into my skin so I could hold him with me forever.
The man who’d told me about his father—something I knew he didn’t share with anyone—and trusted me not to use it against him.
And what had I done? I’d thrown that trust back in his face without even pausing to ask myself if there could be another explanation.
Holly was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was gentle. No judgment to be found. “And what did he do?”
“He— He just—” I shook my head, swiping at the free-falling tears with the backs of my hands.
“He didn’t yell or argue or try to defend himself.
He just looked at me like I’d— Like I’d—” My voice cracked as I recalled how he’d looked standing there in the living room, his gaze on me. Devastated and wrecked and…resigned.
“He looked at me like I’d just affirmed something about himself that he’d always been afraid of.”
Holly made a quiet sound in the back of her throat. A small acknowledgment from a woman who knew her son well. Who’d had to sit by for twenty years and watch as he’d built walls around himself because of what his father had done.
“You’re not the only one who’s been let down by life, sweetheart.” She patted my hand again, a loving touch I wasn’t sure I deserved. “If he pulled away, maybe he’s not punishing you. Maybe he’s protecting himself, just like you were.”
“I thought he’d never hurt me,” I whispered.
A beat of silence passed, then another.
Finally, Holly smoothed her thumb over my knuckles before meeting my eyes with a steadiness that told me whatever came next was going to hurt—and she cared for me enough to say it anyway. “Then maybe ask yourself why you assumed he did.”
The words settled over me, burrowing through every layer of defense I had until they seeped straight into my bones. I knew exactly why I’d assumed the worst. And it had nothing to do with Declan and everything to do with my past.
Declan hadn’t hurt me. Hadn’t done anything except exactly what he’d promised. And instead of trusting that—trusting him—I’d let my old wounds make the decision for me. Turned what we had into something it wasn’t.
I’d treated him like every other person in my life who’d ever let me down. Like the family who’d forgotten to set a place for me at the table. Like the ex who’d found my writing and used it, not to hold me up but to tear me down.
I’d aimed one of my deep-seated fears at the one person who’d never earned it. And the worst part was, I’d known it was wrong. Even as the words had left my mouth, some hidden, quiet part of me had known Declan wouldn’t do that to me. To anyone.
But fear didn’t wait for logic. Mine certainly never had. It just detonated and let me sort through the wreckage after.
“I love him, Holly.” The confession poured out before I could stop it, the words broken but honest. “I love him so much, and I think I just destroyed what we had before it had a chance to become something real.”
“Oh, sweetheart. It’s already real, and it has been for much longer than either of you wants to admit.”
She reached across the table and took my hands in hers, her grip warm and steady and sure. An anchor in the middle of a storm I’d created.
“I know trust is hard,” she said quietly. “Especially when you’ve been hurt in the past. But sometimes loving someone means believing in them. Even when your fear tries to be louder than your faith.”
My chin wobbled as I held back tears. Her words rang true in a bone-deep way. Like she’d held a mirror up in front of me and gently forced me to take a long, hard look at myself.
Holly stood from her chair and pulled me into her arms, wrapping me in her embrace.
I buried my face in her shoulder, breathing in her warm scent.
She held me the way I imagined my mom would’ve if she’d still been alive.
Tight and unhurried, her hands smoothing over my hair and down my back with the kind of care only a mother could give.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” I whispered into her sweater.
“Yes, you do.” She pressed a kiss to the side of my head and held me at arm’s length. “Go home, Penelope. He’s still there, waiting for you.”
“How do you know?”
The smile she gave me was small and sad and full of so much love it nearly stole my breath. “Because my son has spent his entire adult life being the man his father wasn’t. And that man doesn’t leave.”