CHAPTER TWO
NINE YEARS OLD
· · ·
My parents, Claire and Daniel Hayes, were high school sweethearts.
Their love for each other — and for me — showed in everything. Every word, every look, every small thoughtless gesture that people who love each other do without knowing they’re doing it.
They struggled to get pregnant for years before they had me.
I was their miracle.
And they treated me like one.
I was cherished.
Our house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac — four bedrooms, a movie room, a pool out back. Red brick, clean lines. The kind of place that felt permanent. Like it had always been there and always would be.
My mom’s garden was her pride and joy.
Her third love, after me and dad.
Daisies of every color stretched across the backyard, weaving behind the pool in messy, beautiful rows.
A clean mess.
Full of life.
The definition of us.
· · ·
Cassian would pick one sometimes.
A blue one.
I think he always knew it was my favorite color.
But I wonder if he knew why.
· · ·
As a stay-at-home mom she was always doing something — cooking, cleaning, tending to the garden — but she never felt busy.
She felt present.
My dad made sure of that.
Every spare second, he was with us.
· · ·
To other people it might’ve been a little much.
The way they held hands at dinner.
The way his eyes softened when he looked at her.
But I wanted that.
I already wanted a love that looked like that.
At eight years old.
Because I’d never seen how dark love could be. How high and low it could take you.
All I had ever seen was the fairy tale and thought it was the standard.
· · ·
“Yuck,” Cassian said, rolling his eyes as my parents kissed just beyond the sliding glass door.
I laughed and splashed water at him.
He’d told me most people called him Cass.
I didn’t.
I called him Cassian.
I don’t know why exactly.
I just knew I didn’t want to share him. Even in name.
It felt like something that belonged to me.
· · ·
We spent most of our time at my house.
Especially in the summers.
Cassian would stay until he physically couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.
He hated going home.
I loved it.
It meant I got to keep him longer.
· · ·
We’d dry off and lay a towel out on the grass, side by side, staring up at the stars.
Sometimes I got nervous around him.
Which didn’t make sense.
He was my other half. My best friend.
But there were moments — quiet ones — where something shifted.
He’d reach for my hand.
Our fingers laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I knew it was different.
I just didn’t have a word for it yet.
· · ·
Eventually, around nine, when it started getting too dark, my parents would walk him home.
Cassian didn’t talk much about his family.
I knew his mom was home during the day. His dad worked a lot.
That was it.
He kept everything else locked up tight.
Their house was the same model as ours.
But somehow it never felt the same. Even from outside.
· · ·
I was the opposite.
Every thought, every feeling, every piece of me — I gave it freely, openly.
I didn’t know how to hold anything back.
I just wanted to know everything about him.
So I gave him all of myself.
And in return he gave me nothing.
Except I didn’t notice that for a long time.
· · ·
There was this one afternoon.
One of the older kids from the end of the street had pushed me off my bike — shoved me from behind for no reason, called me and Cassian names I didn’t fully understand.
I came home with gravel in my knee trying not to cry because I didn’t want my mom to find out what happened.
Cassian saw.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t make it into a thing.
He just sat down on the curb next to me and took my hand and waited while I got it together.
Didn’t leave until I was ready to go inside.
But apparently he went back later and then beat the kid up with his own bike.
I’ve thought about that a lot over the years.
How he didn’t say a single word.
How he took care of me in his own way.
There were a lot of moments like that with Cassian.
Quiet moments where so much was said with silence.
I filled in that silence with my own naive hopes.
I know better now.