Chapter 11 #3
From the outside, it was unremarkable—dark, quiet, a place you’d assume belonged to a man who kept to himself.
But inside? It was alive with light. The setting sun poured in through windows and glass doors, but more than that, there was an atrium.
Nettie had stopped short at the sight of it—a tree growing right in the middle of the house, stretching up toward the skylights, surrounded by a neat ring of greenery.
A birdbath stood beneath the branches, gleaming with water, and a feeder hung nearby, proof that Tate welcomed visitors with feathers and wings.
The kitchen glimmered with white granite veined in deep grays and blacks, the counters polished smooth.
The cabinets were works of art themselves, whitewashed wood carved and woodburned with scenes of cowboys, wild horses, and longhorns—the very essence of Texas etched into everyday life.
The fireplace stood pristine, untouched, its Austin stone gleaming pale and unblemished, as though it had never known ash or flame.
Everywhere she turned, there was something unexpected.
Something that didn’t fit the quiet, gruff Tate she remembered.
But it was the hallway that stopped her breath.
Rows of books stretched along both walls, spines worn, titles varied.
Fiction. History. Poetry. Self-improvement books.
He had always seemed so private, so cut off, yet here was a man who filled his silence with words.
Nettie’s hand brushed the edges of the shelves as she drifted down the hallway until her gaze snagged on a desk tucked against the far wall.
A single frame rested on it. Tilted forward.
Without thinking, she reached out and straightened it.
And froze.
It was a photo—one she hadn’t seen in years. The three of them. Tate, Gina, and her, all teenagers at Christmastime. She gasped softly, her stomach flipping in disbelief as she recognized not just the image, but the frame itself.
That Christmas.
They had decided to exchange homemade gifts, and everyone had agreed on picture frames.
Tate had grumbled endlessly, muttering about hot glue burns and how stupid the whole idea was.
Gina had gone the simple route, painting hers with cheerful colors.
Nettie still had the painted frame at home, tucked away.
She remembered Tate giving his handmade one to his sister, never sparing a thought for hers.
But here it was.
Tate had kept it.
All these years, Tate had kept that silly, clumsy little 5x7 frame she had made. It was decorated with tumbled rocks awkwardly glued into place. And inside it—a frozen moment of joy. She and Gina were laughing, heads thrown back, eyes alight with the unfiltered happiness of youth. And Tate—
“Oh my gosh…” Nettie breathed, her chest tightening.
Because Tate wasn’t looking at both of them.
He was looking at her.
The realization crashed into her like a wave, stealing her breath, filling her with questions that scraped like broken glass. Why would he keep this? Why display it so openly in his home? Why look at her like that—when his words had been the opposite?
Her throat closed.
Her thoughts tangled.
He had cut her down, again and again, over the years.
Do better for yourself…
Try harder, Nettie…
Why aren’t you putting in an effort?
Don’t you want more out of life?
Every word was still sharp, still raw, even after all these years. He had broken her, crushed her, made her feel small, unworthy, insignificant. And yet… this frame said something different. That photo whispered another truth entirely.
She set the frame down, her fingers trembling as she stepped back. Her pulse thundered in her ears. None of it made sense. None of it fit the man she had convinced herself he was.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted the answers.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…?
Her lips parted, the words catching as her throat clogged with tears she refused to shed.
“Shame on me,” she whispered aloud, her voice breaking as she reached for her purse.
The walls of his home felt like they were closing in with ideas, thoughts, and feelings that she had buried long ago – and to be honest, it freaked her out completely.
I shouldn’t be here, she thought wildly, spiraling.
Seeing that single frame, that photo, that possibility had her spinning, feeling out of control, as every barrier she put into place, every emotion, was suddenly raw and bared. The frantic and protective urge to run was overwhelming.
“I’ve gotta get out of here… now,” she breathed, her pulse racing.
It was time to leave. Time to get out before the pieces of her heart she had so carefully glued back together began to crack again. This time, she wasn’t waiting around, wasn’t hoping, wasn’t wondering.
If Tate wanted her—truly wanted her—then he was going to have to prove it. He was going to have to tear down the walls he had built and fight for her because Nettie wasn’t going to hand him her fragile heart just to watch him smash it again.
Not this time.