Chapter Four
MAGIC ERASER ANYONE?
LOUISIANA
At first, I think I’m home.
The morning light is soft, golden—familiar. The kind that used to creep through the old lace curtains in my bedroom, back before everything cracked wide open. For one stupid, half-asleep second, I let myself believe I’ve woken up to the comfort of childhood.
Then I sit up.
And everything tilts sideways.
This damn sure isn’t my room.
But I know this place. The plain walls, the worn wood floors, the way the air always smells faintly like old soap and cinnamon.
I used to sleep here, back when life didn’t give me much of a choice.
When Daddy worked nights at the mill and Mama had already run off to wherever women like her disappear to.
I can still see her walking out the front door like we were nothing to her—not a single glance back, not a hint of regret. Like she’d never even bothered to remember we existed. I can still feel the hot sting of that, the way it punched me in the gut.
I grabbed Soph by the hand, her little face streaked with tears, and marched across the yard without a second thought.
To the loud house with the three Wilder boys—always getting into trouble, always doing something they shouldn’t.
I knocked on that door with my heart in my throat, forcing myself not to cry, clutching my sister’s hand like it was my lifeline.
I wasn’t about to break down right there, not in front of anyone.
Then Magnolia Wilder opened the door.
The porch light buzzed above her, casting a soft, golden halo around her figure.
She looked half-asleep, hair tousled, robe cinched tight at the waist, and bare feet peeking from worn slippers.
But her eyes—warm, wide, and full of quiet understanding—were the only thing in that moment that didn’t feel like it was splintering me to pieces.
Only then did I let my self lose it.
The tears came fast, ugly, and loud, the kind that stole the breath right from my lungs. My knees gave out on the welcome mat as I stammered through telling her how our mother had just walked out. My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, but every word sliced open something inside me.
Maggie didn’t ask questions. She just opened her arms.
She pulled us in without hesitation, wrapping us in the scent of lavender and warm laundry and sleep, like the whole world hadn’t just fallen apart.
Her arms were firm, steady, pressing our trembling bodies against hers.
I could feel her heartbeat thudding strong through her robe, the only steady sound in a night that had gone deafeningly still.
Inside, the house was dim. The only light came from the kitchen—a soft glow spilling down the hallway like a path—and there they were.
The Wilder boys.
Just standing there in the middle of the hall in their underwear, blinking blearily like they weren’t sure if they were dreaming.
One had his hair sticking up in a wild halo, clutching a plastic toy sword like he might have to fight off whatever monster had come through the door.
The other leaned against the wall, feet pigeon-toed, thumb stuck halfway to his mouth, watching us with wide, uncertain eyes.
They didn’t get it. How could they?
To them, we were just two little girls in pink pajamas, crying like the world had ended—and it had. Just not in a way they’d understand.
But Maggie did.
She pulled us into the living room, sank to the floor with us in her lap, her hand stroking my hair, voice low and warm like the hush of a lullaby. “Oh, precious babies. I got you. You hear me? I got you.”
Even though my chest still ached and my world had gone silent and strange, I believed her.
Because that night, in a stranger’s house, surrounded by confused boys in their underwear and a woman who smelled like sugar cookies and safety, Maggie Wilder became the only thing that made sense in a world that didn’t anymore.
No, this house isn’t mine, but it is still home all the same.
Sparse, clean, and masculine. No frills. Boots by the door, a sheriff’s badge catching the light from the dresser. A rush of memories from the night before hits me—me, showing up to Bangers in my pajamas, drinks flowing, and Henry. I’d insisted on staying. Here. With him.
I curse under my breath, pushing the blanket off. My head throbs. My mouth is drier than hell. My pride is feeling even worse.
I stand slowly, bare feet sinking into the cool hardwood, trying to drown out the distant echo of Sophie’s laugh bouncing down the hallway—light, careless, like nothing could touch her.
Magnolia’s voice cuts through next, sharp and teasing, calling after me to use the water-based paint if I was dead set on slathering color over every damn thing and everyone.
Then I see him.
Laid out on the couch like it is no big thing. Blanket half-kicked off, mouth parted in sleep, chest rising and falling like he didn’t have the weight of this whole damn county on him. Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
It irritates the hell out of me.
Maybe it’s because I still see the boy who took on the weight of the world—not because he had to, but because that’s who he is.
Like it is stitched into his bones, the kind of man who carries everyone else’s pain without ever asking for relief.
He never complains, never pauses, even when exhaustion shadows his every move, because giving up just isn’t in his blood.
Hell, I’ve always wished I could be more like him in that way—steady, unbreakable, strong enough to hold everything without falling apart.
Or maybe it is just me.
Sitting in that too-quiet room, feeling eighteen all over again—raw and aching, perched on the cracked edge of the porcelain tub.
Knees pulled tight to my chest, cold linoleum pressing through the thin fabric of my pajamas.
The bitter sting of bile and cheap whiskey sharp at the back of my throat.
Grief so heavy it felt like concrete settling in my bones, and still, I wouldn’t let myself cry. Not yet.
We’d buried my daddy that morning.
Then that night, Henry Wilder buried himself in me—desperate, frantic, like he was clawing his way out of his own ruin through me.
Bruised hands, ragged breath, kisses that tasted more like goodbyes than anything else.
I let him. Because he was the only thing that ever made me feel alive when everything else was dead inside.
I was grasping—clawing for that spark, for something real to remind me I still existed beneath the pain.
For one fleeting second, I felt it.
Then he looked at me—stone cold, jaw clenched tight, eyes full of every wound he refused to name—and called me a fucking mistake.
Like I hadn’t just given him the last piece of myself I hadn’t already buried beside my daddy.
I shake those thoughts loose like dust falling from my clothes and stalk into the kitchen. The cold hardwood presses against my bare feet as I grab a glass, filling it with ice-cold water—each clink of the ice like a promise of sharp relief. The chill seeps through the glass, biting into my skin.
I turn back toward him, moving slowly, deliberately—like I own every inch of this place. Like the old ghosts pressing against my ribs don’t exist.
“Consider yourself lucky I didn’t use the hose,” I say, my voice low and steady. Then I dump the glass, ice and water crashing over his face.
He moves like lightning.
One second he’s out cold, the next I’m slammed to the floor, breath ripped from my lungs.
His full weight crushes me, pressing me into the rough wood beneath.
His hand clamps tight around my throat—hard and unrelenting.
His eyes blaze wild, glassy and unfocused, not seeing me, not seeing anything. Just raw instinct and threat.
I freeze. My heart hammers against his grip, a frantic drum against my ribcage. Air is a cruel tease—thin and scarce—I can barely draw a single breath. Panic coils tight in my stomach, hot and sharp.
Then, just like that, he blinks.
His gaze sharpens, piercing through the fog. Reality crashes down on him like a second, brutal impact. He loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go.
“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” he says, voice low and ragged, rough like gravel scraping skin. “I could’ve hurt you, wildflower.”
The nickname slices through me—unexpected and raw—scraping against something deep and fragile inside.
“Get off me,” I snap, my voice cracks, burning with fire.
He moves slowly, almost reluctantly, peeling himself off me and offering a hand—wet and heavy from where I’d just doused him with ice cold water.
I just lay here a moment longer, stunned that he’d folded me like a damn house of cards, breath ragged, chest heaving beneath the tight ache. Maybe this wasn’t my brightest idea, but hell if I’m going to admit that aloud.
I glare at his outstretched hand and slap it away, stubborn and prideful as hell.
I stagger to my feet on my own, throat raw, every breath scraping. My fingers instinctively press against the sore spot at my neck, dull pain blooming beneath my skin. I force myself to keep it together—no cracks, no weakness.
“What the hell am I doing here?” The words come sharp, slicing the silence like a knife.
He shoves his wet hands deep into the pockets of his soaked pajama pants, jaw clenched tight, eyes heavy with exhaustion that feels carved into his bones. “You insisted on staying.”
I stare at him, deadpan. “I asked to stay here? With you?”
“Yep.” No bitterness. Just that raw, worn-out honesty in his voice.
I don’t say anything about how he’d just had his hand around my throat like he didn’t recognize me. The silence tastes like rust, thick and bitter, but I let it sit between us.
My eyes roam over him—skin warm and taut under the dim light, the ink etched there like a map I’ve traced in my mind a thousand times. It’s familiar and raw, like inhaling the sharp scent of rain before the storm breaks.
I follow the lines of his tattoos, half out of habit, half out of a quiet fury. Then I stop.
A bouquet of wildflowers sits right over his heart.
Delicate petals curling in intricate detail, soft and achingly familiar. The same wildflowers that grew wild behind Maggie’s porch—the ones he used to sneak behind my ear when no one was looking, those stolen moments that felt like our secret language.
My chest tightens with a sudden pang, like my ribs are squeezing inward. “Get rid of it.”
His eyes meet mine—hazel, shifting between warm amber and deep forest green—clouded with confusion, like sunlight filtering through thick leaves, uncertain and hesitant.
“What?”
“Get rid of it. You don’t get to walk around with pieces of me etched on you like that.”
His smile is wrecked, a raw, devastating thing that twists something deep inside me, squeezing my chest until my breath feels shallow and jagged.
It’s the kind of smile that carries years of unsaid apologies and haunted memories—something only Henry Wilder could wear with such brutal honesty, like a wound laid bare.
He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, slow and dangerous, wrapping around me like a wildfire on the edge of control.
His fingers brush softly against my cheek—feather-light, like a whisper—but it scorches, setting fire to the skin beneath his fingertips.
The faint scent of old leather and rain clings to him, sharp and familiar, pulling me deeper into this fragile moment.
His voice drops, low and rough like gravel scraping across broken glass, thick with all the shit we never said. "Not etched, little viper. Burned." Those words hang heavy between us, like smoke choking a fire that won’t die.
His thumb drags across my jaw—slow, hard, fucking reverent—and I feel it deep, like an electric jolt knocking me off balance. My pulse drums loud as hell in my ears, the world narrowing down to that moment, that touch. The air crackles with everything we buried deep, with all the shit we survived.
"You fucking marked me when we were just kids, with something that…" His voice breaks, rough and raw, heavy with pain and maybe a little God damn hope. "That can never fucking be erased."
The silence hits like a storm breaking—thick with grief, rage, and a brutal kind of love that could tear us apart or hold us together. And for a second, I want to believe those scars aren’t just damage—they’re proof. Proof that we’re still here. Proof that some bonds don’t fucking die.