Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
MYA
I f heaven had a zip code, it would be this spa.
I’m wrapped in a white robe so plush it could double as a cloud, lying back in a velvet chaise with a mimosa in hand and the distant echo of trickling water lulling my brain into static. The Ritz-Carlton Dallas, Las Colinas, isn’t just luxury—it’s obscene. Even the air smells expensive. Like eucalyptus and tax brackets.
Reese is beside me, her feet tucked under her like she owns the place, one perfectly sculpted brow raised like she’s about to interrogate me on a witness stand instead of a spa lounge chair.
“So…” she drawls, fingers swirling the condensation around her glass. “How are things with Fletch?”
I freeze mid-sip. The citrus hits the back of my throat like guilt dressed in orange. “They’re…fine.”
Reese snorts. “You say that like someone describing a first date with a guy who brought his mom.”
I sigh, slumping into the chaise like it might absorb my confusion if I sink low enough. “It’s been a little weird,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “We visit the boys every day, he heads to the studio after, and then at night…”
“You sleep beside each other in your shared grief and unspoken maybe-love?” she finishes for me, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp.
My mouth quirks up in a grim sort of smile. “Something like that.”
She’s not wrong. There’s a weight in the air between us every night. A liminal space I don’t know how to cross. I thought I’d moved on—really thought it, believed it. But the moment I saw him again, the real him, the one who stayed, who never left my side even when I couldn’t speak his name…
I exhale shakily. “It’s hard. I think I told myself I let go of him while I was in the coma. Like I had to. I thought if I just survived, if I started over, it would mean I’d moved on.”
“And?” Reese’s voice is soft now. Careful.
I stare into the golden fizz of my mimosa like it might offer answers. “Being with him again… it’s like realizing you never actually exhaled. Like the breath was just caught there the whole time, waiting.”
Reese reaches over and laces her fingers through mine. “You still love him.”
“Maybe more now,” I whisper. “After everything. After knowing he stayed. After hearing all the things I wasn’t supposed to hear while I was sleeping.”
The silence settles like a warm blanket over us, thick with unsaid things and overdue truths. Somewhere behind us, the sound of a bell rings—the signal that our mani-pedis are ready. But neither of us moves just yet.
Reese squeezes my hand. “You’re allowed to love him, Mya. And you’re allowed to be scared of what that means.”
“I don’t know how to navigate it,” I murmur. “We’re not where we used to be, but we’re not strangers either. It’s the in-between that kills me.”
“No,” she says with a small smile, standing and tugging me with her. “It’s the in-between that makes it real.”
We’re led into the treatment room like royalty in fuzzy slippers.
The lighting is soft and golden, the kind that makes your skin look better than it has any right to. Scented candles flicker from every corner, smelling of vanilla, lavender, and forgiveness. Gentle music plays in the background—some sort of ambient piano thing that sounds like it was composed specifically to help people forget their trauma and their taxes.
Reese gives me a knowing smirk as she slips off her robe and climbs onto the table next to mine, covered in crisp white linens. “Hot stone massage first,” she says, like it’s a love language.
I ease onto my stomach, the heated table beneath me drawing a sigh from my chest like it’s been held in too long. The massage therapist starts at my shoulders, her hands firm but not punishing, and I melt. Fully. Completely. Like butter on a July sidewalk.
My thoughts blur into sensation—kneading, warmth, the subtle clink of the stones as they’re set in place down my spine. Each one feels like it’s ironing out some tangled part of me. My doubts. My fears. My ache for the babies I can’t bring home yet. The way my body hasn’t quite felt like mine since I woke up. Since I broke open and kept bleeding love I didn’t know I still had.
“I forgot what it feels like to not have knots in my soul,” I murmur, my cheek smooshed against the headrest.
Reese snorts into her massage table. “That’s because you carry guilt like it’s a designer purse.”
“Am I at least pulling it off?”
“Babe, you’re practically strutting the runway of repressed emotion.”
I let out a half-laugh, half-sob sound, and she doesn’t comment on it. Just lets me exist in the moment without fixing it. That’s Reese’s gift. Knowing when to push and when to just be.
By the time we’re ushered to the nail room, I feel like my bones have been replaced with warm honey. My legs don’t entirely work, but I shuffle into the plush chair like a woman who’s been reborn. The massage chair starts humming behind me, and a warm foot soak nearly undoes me.
The nail tech lifts my hand and gives me a soft smile. “You want something simple or something fun?”
I blink down at my fingers, the tiny scars still healing along my knuckles. So much of me has changed. But here, in this chair, with my best friend beside me and my hands submerged in rose-scented water—I finally feel like maybe I can be more than what I’ve survived.
“Something soft,” I say. “But a little sparkly.”
Reese grins across the table at me. “That’s my girl.”
While we sip new mimosas and let ourselves be pampered, the conversation shifts. Easy, floating from one subject to the next like clouds passing in front of the sun.
We talk about Eli’s latest obsession with pancakes and the fact that Thorin has been secretly recording lullabies in his free time. About Carson’s new tattoo and the band’s upcoming album. About how Reese’s dad and Thorin’s mom have become some kind of unstoppable babysitting dream team.
But mostly, we talk about nothing.
Because sometimes, nothing is the most beautiful luxury of all—when you’re used to everything hurting.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a fractured version of who I used to be.
I just feel like…me.
By the time we make it to Aurum, the spa has worked its magic. My limbs are liquid. My brain is mush. And my heart—still a little cracked, still carrying shadows—is beating steady for the first time in weeks.
The hostess leads us to a booth tucked against a massive window framed in gold trim. Outside, the city shimmers in soft focus—busy and bold and somehow so far removed from everything that’s been our reality lately. It feels like stepping into another life. One where our babies aren’t in incubators and the world doesn’t revolve around NICU monitors and hospital-grade hand sanitizer.
Reese slides into the booth like she owns the damn place and waves off the wine list before the server can even offer it.
“We’ll have two of whatever fruity cocktail your bartender’s most proud of and the duck tacos to start,” she says with a wink. “And if you don’t bring bread, I will stage a scene.”
The waiter—God bless him—laughs like she didn’t just lowkey threaten a carbohydrate-based protest, and hurries off.
I can’t help but grin. “You know we just got buffed and scrubbed and plucked like rotisserie chickens, right?”
“Exactly. Which means we’ve earned the right to inhale carbs and tequila like women who’ve been through hell and back.”
Fair.
We sit in comfortable silence for a minute, the kind you only get with someone who knows every version of you—pre-trauma, mid-chaos, post-baby-shaped plot twist.
Then Reese looks over at me, her smile softer now. “You know they’ll be home soon.”
My throat tightens immediately. “I know.”
And I do. Imani said it yesterday—if Kingston and Kody keep gaining weight and breathing strong on their own, they could be discharged in a matter of weeks. Just thinking about it makes my chest ache with a kind of happiness I forgot was even allowed.
“I bought them onesies,” I confess, like it’s some kind of secret. “I didn’t mean to. I was supposed to be grabbing shampoo.”
Reese’s face lights up. “Tell me everything.”
“They’re white. With tiny little guitars and music notes. I figured it was fitting, considering who their dad is.” My voice cracks at the edges, but I push through. “I just saw them and—I could picture it. Them. Home. Wearing those. Taking up space in our lives instead of behind hospital glass.”
Reese reaches across the table and laces her fingers with mine. “You’re going to be amazing, you know that?”
“I don’t know anything,” I whisper. “Except that I want it. All of it. The bottles. The sleepless nights. The crying. The spit-up. All of it.”
“You’ve already fought so hard for them,” she says, her eyes glassy now. “And you’re still here. You made it. And now you get to bring them home.”
A waiter interrupts with a tray of duck tacos and two gorgeous drinks in vintage glasses with flower petals floating on top. Reese releases my hand, and we pretend for a second that we’re just two regular women having a regular lunch in a regular city.
But under the table, I press my palm to my stomach.
It’s flat now. Empty. But not hollow.
Because soon… they’ll be home.
When we turn onto the gravel path that leads to the studio, I can already hear the chaos.
Drums—badly played. Laughter—loud and unhinged. Someone (probably Benji) yelling “THAT WAS ART, YOU PHILISTINE!” like this is a Broadway rehearsal and not a recording session.
Reese doesn’t even flinch. “Three guesses who’s lost his mind and none of them are Carson.”
I grin. “Honestly, I’m just impressed it took this long.”
We reach the barn just as a high-pitched falsetto pierces the air, followed by a dramatic piano flourish and what sounds like a dying goose trying to hit a high note. I push open the heavy door—and yep. Benji’s standing on the couch with a mic in hand, doing what I think is a sexy lounge-singer impression. Carson’s at the soundboard, head in his hands, mumbling something about how he went to Juilliard for this.
Fletch is in the corner, strumming a guitar with a lazy grin on his face, like he’s just letting the madness wash over him. And Thorin?
Thorin sees Reese—and drops to his knees.
“MY QUEEN,” he bellows, arms spread wide like he’s just returned from war. “YOU’RE BACK.”
Reese blinks. “It’s been five hours.”
“Too long,” he says solemnly, crawling toward her on his hands and knees. “I almost wrote you a power ballad called ‘Pedicure Without You.’”
Reese snorts and steps over him like he’s a speed bump. “You are so ridiculous. You missed your calling as a dramatic arts major with too much time and not enough self-respect.”
Thorin flops onto his back and sighs. “God, I missed you.”
“Clearly.”
Fletch sets the guitar down and walks over to me, his eyes softening the second he sees my face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my cheek. “You look relaxed.”
“I am,” I say, smiling up at him. “It was… good. Weirdly good. Like I forgot what it feels like to not be in survival mode.”
His thumb skims the inside of my wrist, lingering for a beat. “You deserve that every day.”
I don’t know what to say to that—so I just let the warmth of his words sink in.
Carson swivels in his chair, glaring at Benji like he’s the ghost of every off-key note ever sung. “If I hear one more spontaneous rendition of Let It Go, I will walk into traffic.”
Benji throws a throw pillow at him. “You’re just mad because you felt something.”
“I felt secondhand embarrassment,” Carson deadpans.
“Same thing,” Benji mutters.
Thorin climbs to his feet, dusts off his jeans, and glances between the five of us. “Okay. Proposal.”
Reese eyes him. “If it’s another musical number, I’m out.”
“No.” He waves a hand. “We’re all here. Maggie and Walker still have Eli. The boys are locked in the studio, and I’m starving. Let’s go get dinner in town. My treat.”
Carson raises a brow. “You buying dinner?”
“I said my treat, not my bank account. There’s a difference. I’m making Fletch pay.”
Fletch sighs. “Naturally.”
Benji’s already halfway to the door. “If we leave now, we can hit that burger place with the truffle fries and the milkshakes the size of my dignity.”
“Which is tiny,” Carson says, grabbing his jacket.
I glance at Reese. She shrugs. “Truffle fries and good company? Count me in.”
Fletch turns to me, lips tugging into a quiet grin. “You up for it?”
I nod, the weight in my chest feeling lighter than it has in days. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I really am.”
And as we step out into the dusky Texas twilight, surrounded by music, laughter, and the people who never stopped showing up—I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to feel joy again.
The place Thorin leads us to is called Charlie’s Smokehouse & Grill, but it might as well be called Holy Hell That Smells Amazing. The moment we walk through the front doors, we’re hit with the thick, smoky perfume of hickory, caramelized onions, and whatever meat wizardry is happening in the kitchen.
Benji inhales dramatically. “I want to bottle this and bathe in it.”
Carson wrinkles his nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“And yet accurate,” Reese murmurs, slipping her arm through Thorin’s as he practically floats toward the hostess stand like it’s the pearly gates.
The waitress seats us in a big corner booth near the back—warm wood, leather cushions, and low lighting that makes everyone look ten percent hotter. Which is rude, because Fletch is already pushing ninety percent and I am trying not to be in love with him right now.
He slides in beside me, his thigh brushing mine under the table, casual and easy. But it sets off a small firework in my chest anyway.
Menus are passed around. Thorin immediately points to the brisket platter like it personally insulted him. “I want this. With a side of that. And two extra cornbreads.”
Reese snatches the menu out of his hand. “You haven’t even looked at the rest of the options.”
“I don’t need to. I have a spiritual connection with brisket.”
“You have a spiritual connection with your stomach,” Carson mutters, flipping his own menu like he’s deciding whether to eat or critique the typography.
Benji, naturally, orders the messiest thing available—ribs with extra sauce and fries and jalapeno poppers “for the table,” which we all know means for him.
When the server leaves with a scrawled list of enough food to feed a hockey team—and honestly, that’s not far off—the conversation finally settles into something quieter.
Reese sips her sweet tea, then leans forward with that glint in her eye that says she’s about to stir the pot. “Okay. New rule. No one talks about the studio, the NICU, or deadlines tonight.”
Benji fake gasps. “What can we talk about then?”
“Feelings,” Reese deadpans. “And how your tattoo is actually terrible.”
Benji clutches his chest. “You said it was badass!”
“I said it was a bad decision. You just heard what you wanted.”
Laughter ripples around the table, and suddenly I feel it—the warmth of belonging. Of sitting with people who don’t just see you, but get you. Who make space for your grief and still pull you back into the light.
Fletch leans in, his voice just low enough for me to feel it in my neck. “You good?”
I glance at him, at the way his fingers rest lightly on the table between us, like he wants to reach for mine but won’t unless I ask.
“I am,” I say honestly. “Today helped.”
He smiles—soft and a little crooked. “You look lighter.”
“Is that your way of saying I was a moody nightmare before?”
His eyes spark with mischief. “No. That’s my way of saying I like seeing you like this.”
And yeah… I’m a goner.
Just then, the food arrives—massive platters of slow-cooked heaven and more side dishes than anyone needs. The table becomes a battlefield of forks and “pass the cornbread” and “wait, whose brisket is this?” while Carson solemnly declares war on a pile of mac and cheese.
Reese feeds Thorin a bite of her mashed potatoes and then fake-gags when he moans dramatically.
“I swear,” she mutters. “You’re one slow motion camera pan away from being a soap opera character.”
“I contain multitudes,” he says, lips still shining with butter.
Fletch laughs beside me, low and warm, and I think?—
Maybe this is what healing looks like.
Not always loud or grand or dramatic.
Sometimes it’s just ribs and sweet tea and people who love you anyway.