Six
Byron
I ’ve spent the last hour watching Lyra dig through boxes of old vinyl records while pretending I’m catching up with work on my phone. The truth is, I haven’t processed a single email.
My eyes keep straying to her. How is it possible that she grew so much more beautiful over the years? Even in the last few days, she’s taken on a glow that’s difficult to explain.
“I can’t believe Gran kept all of these.” She pulls another stack of albums from a dusty box I brought down for her from the attic. “Look at this one―the handwriting on the sleeve says it’s from the Valentine’s party in 1972.”
I set my phone aside, grateful for the excuse to move closer. She’s been avoiding my eyes all morning, probably still processing our conversation from last night. The one where I forced her to think about choosing between the resort and the inn.
The one where I watched her start to see things differently.
It’s a slippery slope, one I never thought I’d be sliding down, but dang . It’s really hard to be here again, remembering how it used to be. Wondering how it could be now if she could step out of the shadow of her father and reach for my hand.
It’s a pipe dream. But one that has gained a little more clarity than I would have expected.
“Your grandmother kept everything,” I say, careful to keep my tone light despite the voice in my head telling me to hold up a mirror because I’m one to talk about keeping things.
The thin silver filagree pendant in my pocket weighs as much as a garbage truck.
I’ve carried it with me every day since I arrived. I’m still not sure why. At first, it was like a talisman or a good luck charm. A reminder that I had something wonderful once and could possibly again.
Last night, I envisioned actually giving it to Lyra. After all this time, just…here’s this piece of jewelry that represents everything I feel about you but can’t say.
And now I can’t stop thinking about doing exactly that.
“Oh, my goodness.” Lyra’s voice changes, and I know before I look. “Remember this one?”
The album in her hands might as well be a time machine. It’s the Righteous Brothers, which of course came out before either of us was born, so it could have all sorts of associations for a multitude of people from countless generations.
But it only has one association for me and Lyra. One glimpse of the cover and I’m seventeen again, dancing with her at the winter ball, Unchained Melody swelling over the speakers.
“I can’t quite recall it,” I say and her laugh warms places inside that I’m only starting to understand have been cold for quite some time.
Since that night I ended things.
“Liar.” She slides the record from its sleeve. “You used to say it was our song.”
I did. That song inspired the words on the Valentine she still hasn’t found. My heart kicks against my ribs, but the innocence in my expression would hold up under hours of interrogation. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe you should play it.”
She rolls her eyes but heads for the ancient turntable on the library shelf. I shouldn’t watch her. Shouldn’t notice how her hair falls forward when she bends to set the needle. Shouldn’t remember how soft that hair felt against my fingers.
The first unmistakable notes fill the room, and suddenly I can’t breathe.
“See?” She turns, triumph plastered all over her expression. “You do remember.”
The words die as our gazes lock. The world falls away and it’s only us. The music wraps around us like a tangible thing and you can taste the tension in the air.
I should break the moment. Make a joke about teenagers dancing to moldy songs instead of Paramore or Beyonce.
Instead, I hold out my hand.
She stares at it for a long moment. “Byron—”
“Dance with me.” The words sound like sandpaper in my throat. “For old times’ sake.”
“We’re supposed to be finding music for the party.”
But she takes my hand anyway.
“I think you mean we found a song for the party,” I tell her as whatever magic Lyra holds inside her pours into my body. “What’s wrong with this one? It’s already pre-vetted and highly danceable.”
I draw her closer, careful to maintain my distance, which is probably closer than I have any right to get, but much further than I’d like to be. We’re not together anymore. I’m not allowed to settle her against me the way I used to. The way I want to more than anything.
But then she rests her head on my shoulder, and something inside me shatters.
“I love this song,” she whispers.
I love you, I think but don’t say out loud. Can’t say. Not without explaining everything. Especially the part where I never stopped and never breathed a word about my feelings.
We sway together, and I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between us. Her hand in mine. Her cheek against my shoulder. The whisper of eternity that shimmers between us, filmy and insubstantial, poised to vanish if I reached out to grab it.
The pendant in my pocket burns my skin.
I bought it before everything fell apart. Before her father called me into his office and explained exactly why I needed to end things with his daughter. Before I broke both our hearts trying to do the right thing.
Keeping it all these years probably makes me pathetic. Carrying it now definitely does.
But as Lyra relaxes against me, singing the words softly, I realize I don’t care. I’m tired of pretending. Of being forced to. I pull her closer and she doesn’t protest.
“Lyra.” My voice sounds strange in my own ears.
She lifts her head, and suddenly we’re too close. Her eyes search mine, and for a moment I think about telling her everything. About the Valentine hidden in my messenger bag. About her father’s ultimatum. About how every decision I’ve made since that day has been aimed at proving myself worthy of her without any expectation that she’d ever know if I hit that goal.
Instead, I reach into my pocket.
“I have something for you.”
Her brow furrows as I step back just enough to pull out the small velvet drawstring bag. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
She does, and her soft gasp cuts straight through me. “This is—I pointed this out in the window of Douglas Jewelry that Christmas. Our senior year.”
I can’t look at her. Can’t bear to see the moment she realizes what this means. “You said it reminded you of the stars over the lake.”
“You bought it?” Her voice cracks. “Back then?”
“Yes.” My voice is raw with truth that I hadn’t meant to confess.
“And you kept it? All this time?”
Now I do look at her because I need her to understand this much at least. “I kept a lot of things, Lyra.”
The music plays on, but we’re not dancing anymore. She stares at the silver pendant―a constellation of tiny stars arranged in a cascade―emotions chasing across her face. Confusion. Understanding.
Something that feels dangerously like anticipation unfurls in me.
“Why are you giving it to me now?” she asks.
Because watching her fight for this inn makes me think about things I gave up in pursuit of what I thought was best for everyone. She makes me think about my choices and what my life has become without her in it.
Cold.
But first and foremost, because the pendant is the anti-Valentine’s Day card. It doesn’t prove anything one way or the other. There are no incriminating phrases scrawled across it. It’s only what she makes of it.
“It was always meant to be yours,” I say instead of everything else clawing to be free of my throat. “Think of it as a late graduation present.”
She lifts the pendant from its bag with trembling fingers. “Will you help me?”
“Turn around.”
She does, gathering her hair to one side. I fasten the delicate chain around her neck, and no, I’m not quite as ham-handed as I pretend to be, but missing this opportunity to let my fingers brush across her skin is not happening.
When she faces me again, the stars sparkle at her throat.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Because the pendant looks exactly like I imagined it would all those years ago. Because she’s looking at me the way she used to―like I’m worth something.
And because I know this moment can’t last.
The song ends, the needle lifting with a soft click that breaks the spell. Lyra steps back, one hand going to the pendant.
“We should get back to work,” she says. “The other songs aren’t going to pick themselves.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Party planning is life.”
She moves to switch off the turntable, and I retrieve my phone, desperate for a distraction. But I can’t focus on email or a playlist or anything on my agenda any better now than I could an hour ago.
Not when she’s standing there with starlight around her throat, her fingers touching the pendant like she’s afraid it might disappear.
Not gonna lie, I thought she might not accept it. Or she would take it and toss it straight into the nearest trash can.
The fact that she’s wearing it tromps all over my insides like a leprechaun wearing spiked boots.
“Remember when we used to sneak in here late at night?” she asks suddenly. “After your shift at Kilt Valley Café?”
My heart lurches. That’s like asking the thunderclouds if they remember how to make rain. “You mean when you used to convince me to break into the inn?”
“I had a key.” But her smile is pure mischief. “Besides, Gran knew. She left cookies for us sometimes.”
“I always wondered about that.” I lean against the table, watching her. “If I’d have known it was a sanctioned activity, I would have broken the rules a lot more.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not breaking the rules if it’s sanctioned, silly.”
No. And I’m not a rule breaker at heart. Or we’d be in a much different situation than the current one.
My lungs squeeze as I envision what our lives might have been like if I hadn’t left.
The fallout with her family would have been brutal. She’d have been forced to live in squalor if she’d chosen me—and I’d never gone to college or law school.
I made the right choice. What if I told her and she finds it in her heart to agree it was the right thing for me to walk away back then? What if she can forgive me? What would our future look like?
Because here’s the thing about futures—they always start right this minute.
She bites her lip, then turns to dig through her purse pulling out her wallet. “Since we’re apparently sharing ancient history, here’s a blast from the past.”
It’s a photo. From the Winter Ball, my arms around her waist, her head thrown back laughing at something I’d said. I remember that night like it was yesterday. Hard to forget when it’s on constant replay in your head.
“You kept this? All this time?”
She tucks the photo away, her eyes meeting mine. “Some things you don’t get over just because you’re supposed to.”
The air between us crackles with something I can’t bring myself to name. Because that’s an admission in her voice. A truth I never expected to hear.
“Lyra―”
“We should probably finish the playlist.” But she doesn’t move away.
I don’t move either. “We should.”
“I’m glad you gave me this.” She touches the pendant again. “It’s nice to know that we both have a hard time letting go.”
Whatever she’s trying to accomplish by using present tense in that sentence can’t be the same thing my heart wants it to be. That’s when I step back. I have to. My will is only so strong.
Especially when I can still feel her in my arms. And she’s wearing my pendant like she accepts the promise I had no right to make.
Plus, if I don’t step back, I’m going to kiss her.
I nearly crowd back in again, just to get a small taste. But that wouldn’t be fair to anyone, especially me.
I’ve never been good at denying myself, which is why I left and rarely come back to Kilt Valley. The forces Lachlan set in motion by deciding to sell the inn and asking me to work with Lyra to sell it can’t be undone, though.
I held more than Lyra in my arms tonight. The other thing vying for attention? Hope.
Because I’m not the only one who kept pieces of us.