Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MYA
N ow that the band is home for good—and not just home, but really home, with guitars in the studio and plans scrawled across whiteboards and Alex screaming at people who don’t meet deadlines—they’ve started building something that feels solid. Permanent. They’re creating their own label from scratch, carving out a space in the world that’s entirely theirs. And I’m proud of them. Proud to be part of the machine humming to life behind it all.
But while they’re dreaming forward, I’m going back.
The cemetery is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your bones feel hollow. That eerie, impossible stillness where even the wind holds its breath. Like the earth is pausing to let you grieve.
I shift in the back seat of the car, fingers twisting the edge of my sleeve. I shouldn’t be this nervous. But I am. Because today is the first time I’ve come to visit Kingston’s grave since he died. Since we were eighteen. Since he was my whole world, and then suddenly… wasn’t.
The Uber pulls to a stop, tires crunching softly on gravel. I swallow past the lump in my throat as I reach for the door handle. My dad’s already standing there, waiting for me with a weathered look on his face and hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He doesn’t say anything when I step out. Just offers a small nod like he knows this is something I need to do on my own—but not alone.
“Hey,” I say, my voice tight.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He opens his arms without a word, and I fold into them, letting the familiar weight of his presence anchor me for a moment. “You sure about this?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s time.”
We walk in silence through the rows of headstones. The sun is out, but it’s a watery kind of light, the kind that makes everything look faded around the edges. I spot Kingston’s name before we reach him. Like his grave has been calling to me ever since I stepped foot in Newton.
I stop in front of the polished granite. The letters of his name seem too sharp. Too final. My breath hitches.
Kingston Maddox
March 3, 1999 – October 18, 2017
“You were golden.”
I fall to my knees, fingers brushing the edge of the stone. “Hey, King.”
There’s a tremble in my voice I can’t quite hide. “Sorry it’s taken me so long. I wasn’t ready before. But I think… I think I am now.”
My dad steps back, giving me space, even though I know he’s still close enough if I need him.
For a long time, I just breathe.
And then I tell him everything.
“I saw you,” I whisper. “When I was unconscious. When I was in that coma, I saw you, King. You were there.”
I blink through the sting in my eyes, remembering the dream with unbearable clarity. “You had that crooked smile. The one that always got you out of trouble. And you were holding my hand like you never let go in the first place. And for a while, it felt like… like maybe none of it ever happened. Like I didn’t lose you. Like I could stay there, with you.”
I glance over my shoulder, and my dad gives me a gentle nod, eyes glossy with emotion.
“You saved me,” I whisper, turning back to the gravestone. “In the weirdest, most impossible way… you saved my life.”
I don’t know what’s real and what’s cosmic or divine or just some last-ditch effort from my brain to keep me tethered. But I know this much:
The love I felt for Kingston was real. It was young and messy and bright like a firework that burned out too soon—but it was real. And it led me here. To Fletch. To the twins. To a love that came after the storm, solid and steady and soul-deep.
“I love you,” I say softly. “And I always will. But I don’t ache the way I used to. Not like before.”
The wind stirs through the trees like it’s exhaling.
“I think part of me held on so tightly because I didn’t know if I’d ever feel whole again without you,” I admit. “But I do. Because of Fletch. Because of Kingston and Kody. Because of Reese and Thorin and the guys. I have a family now. I have more.”
A tear rolls down my cheek, but this time, it’s not sharp. It doesn’t feel like shattering. It feels like soft release.
My dad crouches beside me, placing a small white lily at the base of the stone. “She had a breakdown, you know,” he says quietly. “Your mom. When Fletch called… when we found out what happened.”
I look at him, startled.
“She didn’t know how to cope,” he continues. “She still doesn’t, most days. But she’s trying now. It’s better. We’re talking again.”
“Is she… okay?” I ask, unsure what answer I even want.
“She’s… human,” he says. “And she’s sorry. Even if she doesn’t know how to say it out loud.”
I let that settle in my chest. It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t erase the years. But it’s a start.
I glance back at Kingston’s grave, something unspoken clicking into place.
“You were my beginning,” I whisper, fingertips grazing the letters of his name like I’m trying to memorize them by touch alone. “But you’re not my end.”
The words catch on my tongue, not because they aren’t true—but because they are. So deeply true it makes my chest ache.
“You were the first person who ever saw me,” I murmur. “The first boy who made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just this walking shadow with too many scars and not enough light. You gave me that—Kingston. You made me feel golden, even when everything else was crumbling.”
A tear slips down my cheek, warm against the cool wind. I don’t wipe it away.
“But I’ve lived a whole life since then,” I say, voice barely above the breeze. “A messy, chaotic, beautiful life you didn’t get to see. One where I got knocked down harder than I ever thought possible. One where I stopped believing I deserved anything good. And then… Fletch.”
My chest swells, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips.
“He ruined everything I thought I knew. About safety. About timing. About love. He showed up with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and grief in his eyes and wrecked every defense I built after you.”
I take a breath.
“And then—when I woke up… he was there. He never left. Not once. He held my hand through the dark, King. The same way you did in that dream. Like somehow you passed the torch to him in that weird cosmic handoff between memory and fate.”
I glance down at the small photo I brought. A printout from our first day home from the hospital. Me in Fletch’s hoodie, hair a mess, eyes exhausted, holding one tiny twin in each arm while he sat beside me on the floor like he never wanted to be anywhere else.
“I think you’d like him,” I whisper. “He’s a pain in the ass. He’s stubborn and broody and talks in grunts most days, but he’s good, Kingston. So good. In all the ways you were, and in all the ways that came after.”
I press the photo to the base of the gravestone, tucking it gently beneath a smooth stone. A small offering. A bridge between what was and what is.
“And the boys… God. You’d be obsessed with them,” I say with a quiet laugh. “Kody’s got this fierce little growl when he’s mad, like he’s ready to take on the world. And Kingston—your namesake—he’s so soft. So thoughtful. Already watching the room like he’s reading every person in it.”
My throat tightens. “They saved me too, you know. They made me want to live. Not just survive… live. For every smile. Every sleepless night. Every time Kody spits up on Fletch and he pretends it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, even though I know he loves every second.”
The tears fall freely now, but they’re not sharp or gasping or bitter. They’re soft. Gentle. Honest.
“I love them with every part of me. The same way I loved you back then. But it’s different now. Not smaller. Just… deeper. Rooted. Real in a way it couldn’t be at seventeen.”
I press a kiss to my fingers and lay them against the stone one last time.
“You were my beginning,” I whisper again. “But you’re not my end.”
And for the first time in almost ten years, I believe it.
Not because I’ve stopped loving Kingston.
But because love doesn’t always mean holding on.
Sometimes, it means knowing when to let go—so you can finally move forward.
And I swear, for a second, I feel the warmth of sunlight break through the clouds and land right on my skin like a yes.
We stay a little longer. Me and my dad. Me and Kingston.
And when we finally leave, I don’t look back.
Because some ghosts don’t need haunting.
Some ghosts just need to know you made it.
I stay kneeling in front of the headstone a little longer, feeling the pull of goodbye tug gently at my ribs. It’s not sharp anymore. Not jagged. Just a soft ache, like a song you loved once that you haven’t heard in years.
When I finally stand, brushing my hands against the worn denim of my jeans, my dad shifts beside me. There’s something weighted in the way he glances over, like he’s carrying one more thing he’s not sure how to set down.
He clears his throat. “Your mom knows you’re here,” he says quietly. “I… I couldn’t keep it from her.”
I nod slowly, the breeze teasing loose strands of hair across my cheek.
“She wants to see you,” he adds. “If you’re up for it.”
There’s no sting of anger when he says it. No old wound ripping back open.
Just… a slow, steady breath pushing through my lungs.
Because the truth is, we already did the hard part.
When I came home from the hospital—broken and stitched back together in ways nobody could see—she came to Texas. She showed up. And for the first time in years, we faced each other without all the old armor. Without pretending we hadn’t hurt each other
We talked. We cried. We forgave, in the messy, imperfect way people do when they’re tired of carrying too much weight alone.
But that was months ago. A lifetime ago. And since then, life swept us both back into our own worlds—me into sleepless nights and first smiles, her back into the life she built without me.
We haven’t seen each other since.
And standing here now, with the boys waiting for me at home, with Fletch’s laugh still tucked somewhere in my pocket like a promise, I realize I’m not angry anymore.
Not even a little bit.
How could I be, when I look at my sons and know how easily life can slip sideways? How even love, the strongest thing in the world, can get lost under the weight of pride and fear and mistakes?
If there was ever a rift between me and Kingston or Kody someday—no matter whose fault it was—I know, without a doubt, that nothing would matter more to me than finding my way back to them.
Loving them would always matter more than being right.
And maybe that’s what growing up really is.
Not pretending the past didn’t happen.
But deciding it doesn’t get to write the ending.
I blink up at my dad, the sunlight catching in his silver hair, and I offer a small smile. “Yeah,” I say, voice steady. “I want to see her.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the second he brought it up.
“She’s at the coffee shop,” he says. “Your sisters are with her.”
The mention of my sisters makes my heart squeeze tight.
There are still gaps between us—awkward silences where history doesn’t quite know how to catch up—but maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time to stop being a ghost in their lives. To stop being a scar they don’t know how to talk about.
Maybe it’s time to start something instead of letting the past be the only thing we share.
We head back toward the car, the wheels crunching slowly over the gravel as my dad pulls away from the cemetery.
I twist my fingers together in my lap, feeling the slow, steady thud of my own heartbeat. Not fear. Not anger.
Just hope.
Hope for second chances. For small beginnings that can turn into something stronger, steadier, real.
Because if there’s one thing Kingston taught me, if there’s one thing the twins have carved into my bones, it’s this:
Love isn’t perfect.
It’s choosing to show up, even when it’s messy.
It’s reaching out, even when you’re scared.
It’s building something new, even when you know it could break.
I glance out the window, the town blurring past, and press my palm to the tiny place just above my heart.
I’m ready now.
The bell over the door jingles when Dad and I step inside the coffee shop.
It’s a small place, cozy and humming with low conversation and the sharp, comforting scent of fresh espresso. There’s a fireplace crackling in the far corner, casting a buttery glow over the tables and chairs scattered haphazardly like old friends pulling close.
I spot them immediately.
They’re seated near the back, a corner booth tucked just out of the way. My mom, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Isabel, polished and perfect in that effortless way she’s always had, her wedding ring catching the light when she brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. And Sofia—wide-eyed and fresh-faced, her college sweatshirt drowning her shoulders, looking somehow both grown up and impossibly young all at once.
They look up as the bell jingles.
The air shifts.
For half a second, none of us move.
And then my mom stands, tentative, hope flickering across her face like she’s afraid it’ll be snuffed out before she reaches me.
I cross the room before I can overthink it. My boots are too loud against the hardwood floor, my heart louder still.
“Hi,” I say, my voice small but steady.
My mom’s smile wobbles. “Hi, baby.”
The word hits me right in the center of my chest. I haven’t been her baby for a long, long time. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a weapon today. It just feels… soft. Hopeful.
I step into her hug.
She smells the same. Like vanilla hand cream and the faintest trace of her favorite perfume. For a second, my knees wobble under the weight of it—under the weight of everything we lost and everything we’re still trying to rebuild.
“I’m glad you came,” she whispers against my hair.
“Me too,” I breathe back.
When we pull apart, Isabel is already sliding out of the booth. She smiles at me—tight at the edges, like she’s not sure how much she’s allowed to show—but it’s there. Real. Honest.
“Hey, stranger,” she says lightly.
I let out a half-laugh, half-sob and pull her into a hug. She’s solid and warm and smells like new leather and whatever expensive perfume her husband probably bought her for their anniversary.
And then there’s Sofia.
She hesitates just for a beat—long enough to make my throat close up—before she launches herself at me.
“I missed you,” she says fiercely, her arms wrapping around my waist like she’s afraid I might disappear again.
“I missed you too,” I choke out, squeezing her tight.
I hold on for an extra beat before finally sliding into the booth with them, feeling the kind of awkward, tentative hope that only exists when you’re building something from the ashes.
The conversation starts slow. Careful. Like we’re all testing the ice to see if it’ll hold.
My mom asks about the twins, and when I pull out my phone to show them pictures, something breaks open in the best possible way.
Isabel leans over, cooing at a photo of Kody yawning so wide he looks like he might actually dislocate his jaw.
“Oh my god, look at that little face,” she says, genuine laughter bubbling up like we’re sisters again instead of strangers pretending.
And Sofia—God, Sofia—grins so hard she practically vibrates in her seat. “I’m stealing them. Both of them. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
I laugh, and it feels good. It feels earned.
I tell them about life back in Texas. About Fletch and the band and Reese and Thorin and the way it feels to be tethered to people who know how to stay.
And for the first time in a long time, I realize I’m not talking to ghosts. I’m not trying to patch up a story that’s already ended.
I’m writing a new one.
With them.
With all the mess and awkwardness and stubborn hope that comes with trying again when you don’t have to—but you want to.
Later, when I step outside into the crisp afternoon air, the sun is breaking clean through the clouds, washing everything in gold.
I tilt my face up to it and close my eyes, letting it soak in.
I don’t know what comes next.
I don’t know if it’ll be easy.
But for the first time, I’m not afraid.
I have room in my heart for all of it.
The old loves.
The new ones.
The family I chose.
And the family I’m choosing to love again.
One imperfect, beautiful day at a time.