Chapter 52
J ericho
I step back, allowing her into my kitchen. When I first heard her knocking, I froze. Ever since I spoke to Cheryl, I’ve been prepping myself on what I should say, but all rehearsed words left my mind the moment I heard her voice.
So naturally, when I opened the back door, I stood there, looking dumb and not knowing what to do.
“You can set those down,” I say, nodding toward the counter. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too controlled, too empty, and I give myself a mental kick to my ass.
She places the pies carefully on the counter, then stands there awkwardly, clutching her purse strap. I notice the dark circles under her eyes, the way she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear. She looks as exhausted as I feel.
“I tried to come by yesterday,” she says. “You weren’t here.”
“I needed to keep busy.” I don’t tell her I drove for hours, aimless, all through the night, just to avoid being in this house with all its memories of her.
She nods, eyes darting around the kitchen, landing anywhere but on me. “I understand if you don’t want to talk to me. But I’m hoping you’ll listen. It’s okay if you don’t but I ho?—”
“I’ll listen,” I blurt out before she even finishes her sentence. When her big, beautiful eyes loud with the unspoken pain focus on mine, I try softening my voice. “I am ready to listen, Nora. If you are ready to talk.”
She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders like she’s bracing for the worst. “I’m sorry. For running away. For not letting you explain. For judging you without knowing the whole story.”
The apology catches me off guard. I’d expected explanations, maybe accusations. Not this.
“Why now?” I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. Even though I know it’s my fault for keeping it from her, her reaction hurt. “What changed?”
“I did.” Her eyes finally meet mine, steady and clear. “Or maybe I remembered who I want to be. Someone who doesn’t judge. Someone who tries to understand.”
I look away, uncomfortable with the intensity of her gaze, with the hope it stirs in me. “Understanding might not change anything. It definitely can’t change the past.” This shame of lying to her will follow me the rest of my days.
“No,” she agrees softly. “But it might change how I see it. If you tell me.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. I take a sip of my coffee, now lukewarm, just to have something to do with my hands.
“I had a plan,” she continues when I don’t speak. “I was going to come here, apologize, and ask you to tell me everything. But now I’m thinking maybe I should go first.”
I raise an eyebrow, curious despite myself .
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” she says, her voice dropping. “Something that happened in Boston. Something that might help explain why I reacted the way I did.”
I gesture toward the living room. “Let’s go.”
She follows me, perching on the edge of the sofa while I take the armchair across from her. The distance between us feels both necessary and unbearable.
She starts talking, her voice soft but steady. About Boston. About an alley late at night. About a man beating another man against a wall, the sound of skull against concrete.
About watching someone nearly killing another person in front of her eyes and the nightmares she still has. About her father’s death from a similar attack years before. About her fear of violence that’s haunted her ever since.
And I remember Cheryl’s words about how Nora’s whole life has been shaped around that accident.
As she speaks, I feel something shift inside me—hurt giving way to understanding. I see now why my past would terrify her, why she’d run from me. Her hands tremble in her lap as she finishes, and I resist the urge to reach for them.
“So that’s why,” she concludes, her voice barely above a whisper, “when I heard what you’d done, all I could see was that alley. All I could think about was my dad. The way that night destroyed our family. And I was scared.”
“Not of me?” I say or ask, I’m not sure.
“No. Maybe,” she admits. “Of what you represented. Of the violence I’ve spent years trying to forget.”
I nod, letting her words sink in. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Her eyes search mine. “Because I need you to know it wasn’t about not trusting you. Or it was.” She sighs. “I don’t know. I got scared and ran away. I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
I stand, needing to move, to process. The floor creaks beneath my feet as I pace to the window and back. “My turn, I guess. ”
She waits, patient, giving me space to find the words.
“I’m innocent.” The words sit between us like a punchline. Her brow lifts with a silent snarky remark. “I guess every con man says that, doesn’t he?” I can’t help myself and laugh, a quick burst that surprises even me.
She laughs too, the sound warming the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.
I haven’t told anyone else in my life the truth, but things are changing since I came to Big Love, it seems. She’s about to become one of the few people who know. I trust her enough to keep it locked down, to not put my family in the line of fire. “I took the fall for my brother.”
Her eyes widen, disbelief mingled with curiosity. “Jethro?”
I nod, watching the gears turn in her mind.
“That jokester beat someone up?”
“He’s a lot different than you think,” I say, thinking of Jethro’s easy smile, how he uses it to hide. How he used it to get by back then. “He was in a dark place.”
“What happened?”
A dry lump forms in my throat. Her eyes hold mine, unwavering, urging me to continue. She wants to know. She really wants to know, and I find myself telling her everything.
At the end of the story, her eyes turn misty.
“So you took the blame.” Her voice is soft, filled with something that feels like admiration. I see the understanding in her eyes, the way she pieces it all together.
I nod, relieved that she understands, that she can see beyond the headlines and the mugshot.
“Jethro was a mess back then,” I explain, the memories still raw. “He was barely holding it together.”
“So when he got into that fight…”
“He would have lost much more than I did.” The words come out harder than I intended.
Nora stands, crossing the space between us. She stops just short of touching me. “You did it for your brother? Four years in jail?”
A short nod.
“Does Junie know?”
I shake my head. “No, and it will remain that way.”
The weight of that trust hangs between us. I see her processing it, the enormity of what I’ve shared.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “For telling me.”
“I should have told you sooner.”
Her hand reaches for mine, hesitant at first, then more certain. Her fingers are warm against my skin. “We both kept things hidden. Things that shaped us.”
I look down at our joined hands, marveling at how natural it feels, even now, even after everything. “Where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I’d like to find out. If you’re willing.”
The honesty in her eyes is almost too much to bear. I’ve spent so long expecting rejection, preparing for it, that acceptance feels foreign, dangerous even.
“I’m not good at this,” I warn her. “At letting people in.”
“So you keep saying.” A small smile plays on her lips. “Luckily, I’m stubborn.”
I can’t help but smile back. “Luckily for me.”
She steps closer, her free hand coming up to rest on my chest, just over my heart. “I’m not asking for promises, Jericho. Just… try. With me.”
The last of my resistance crumbles. I pull her to me, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in. She wraps her arms around my waist, holding on like she’s afraid I might vanish.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I murmur against her temple.
“I’m sorry I ran.”
We stand like that for a long time, just holding each other, the silence between us comfortable now, healing. When she finally pulls back, her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
“So,” she says, her voice lighter.
“About that pie,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “Think it’s still good?”
Her laugh is warm, relieved. “I just made it this morning. It’d better be. But I have to warn you, I’ve been told my baking is a bit much, and I haven’t done it in ages.”
We move to the kitchen, the tension between us dissolving with each step.
I pull plates from the cabinet while she cuts generous slices of both pies, insisting I try each.
The domestic simplicity of sharing dessert in my kitchen—her moving around my space like she belongs here—settles something restless inside me.
“This is good,” I say after the first bite of apple pie, the cinnamon warming my tongue.
“Really?” Her face brightens with pure hope.
I take another bite, larger this time—there are spices I can’t identify that dance between lines of strange and delicious, and my taste buds can’t decide which is more pleasurable.
“Best pie I’ve ever had,” I amend, and her smile makes me want to say it again and again, just to keep that light in her eyes. “So good.”
“So,” she says, pushing her own pie around her plate, suddenly serious again. “Where do we go from here?”
I consider the question, weighing my words carefully. “Forward, I guess. Together, if that’s what you want.”
“I do.” She reaches across the counter to touch my hand. “But I think we need to promise each other something.”
“What’s that?”
“No more secrets. No more hiding the hard parts.” Her eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “We tell each other everything, even when it’s difficult. Especially then.”
I nod, the weight of the promise settling on my shoulders. It won’t be easy—opening up has never come naturally to me—but for her, I’ll try.
“Deal,” I say, turning my hand to clasp hers.
She smiles, and something inside me shifts, locks into place. Like the final piece of a machine clicking home, making everything run smoother.
“There’s something else I should probably tell you,” she says, her expression turning mischievous.
“Another deep dark secret?”
“Not exactly.” She bites her lip, suppressing a smile. “It’s about the rooster.”
I groan, already knowing this can’t be good. “What about him?”
“He’s not actually feral.” She winces slightly. “He’s… mine, I guess.”
I stare at her, processing this revelation. “Yours? As in, you own that feathered menace?”
“Technically Grandma does. Though I don’t know about ‘owning him.’ I think he’s the freest creature on this planet.
But Grandma seems to think he’s hers. So does that make him mine too?
You know, technically?” The hope in her voice makes me chuckle—I was totally right when I suspected she was upset when the rooster was seen in town and she thought he abandoned us.
“Yes,” I give up with a loud sigh. “The chicken is yours.”
“Rooster,” she corrects, grinning now. “Our Reginald the Free Spirit.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I can’t help it—I laugh. A real laugh, deep and genuine, the kind that comes from somewhere long untouched. She joins in, her giggles mixing with mine until we’re both breathless.
When the laughter subsides, I reach for her, pulling her around the counter and into my arms. She comes willingly, fitting against me like she was made for this space .
“Any other confessions you need to make?” I ask, my voice low near her ear.
She pretends to think about it, her head tilted. “I may have left out another tiny secret.”
“What’s that?”
Her smile becomes shy. The globes of her cheeks pinken a little as she watches me from under her lashes. “I love you.”
The pink on her face intensifies into bright red as my throat closes. I open my mouth to breathe but can’t. It takes me a while to get myself back on track so I can ask, “What did you say?”
She presses her face into my chest, hiding it. “I said I love you.”
“Shit!”
“What?” She pulls away quickly, dropping her hands. “That’s not the reaction I expected.” Her eyes widen with mortification.
“That came out wrong. I just meant that you said it first. I was supposed to be the one who said it first.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
She’s looking up at me patiently, and when I look back at her, she quirks a brow. “Well?”
“What?”
“You still haven’t said it.”
I start laughing. “Told you I’m no good at this.”
“You were probably right.”
I grab her face in my hands. When I’m sure her attention is focused on me, I lean closer and say in a firm voice, “I love you, Nora Moon. I think I’ve loved you from the first time I met you, my crazy witch.”
Her smile is big and beautiful. “I think I might have known that for a while.”
My eyes open slowly to early morning light. Nora and I lie tangled in my sheets, her head still on my chest as she sleeps soundly. I look around and notice for the second time that I’ve slept through the night with the lights off.
“How about that,” I say, my voice hushed in the quiet room.
“Mm?” She stirs slightly, angling her chin up at me. “What is it?”
“The lights,” I say. “I slept with them off again.” I gesture vaguely at the ceiling. “I guess I should tell you. It’s something you’ve mentioned but I brushed it off. Now, with everything in the open, I want to explain. Why I keep them on at night.”
She props herself up on one elbow to look at me, eyes full of curiosity. She’s noticed, of course she has, but she’s never pried. Just one more thing we’ve danced around.
“Prison,” I explain, the word still bitter on my tongue. “It was never completely dark there. Always some light. When I got out, I couldn’t sleep in the dark anymore. Too quiet. Too… empty.”
She nods, her fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw. “That makes sense.”
“But,” I continue, “when we fell asleep to the fire, even after the fire died out I didn’t turn the lights back on. I didn’t even think of it.” I take a deep breath. “And I slept fine.”
“What do you think that means?” she asks, her voice soft with wonder.
I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair. “I think it means I’m moving on. With you.”
A loud cry outside breaks the moment—the rooster is at his job again. I fall back onto the pillow. “When will you make me rooster soup?”
“When we catch the bastard.”
“So probably never. ”
“Probably not,” she chuckles, draping her body over mine.
I wrap my arms around her and flip her onto her back; the damn rooster can wait, we’ve got other business to attend to.