Chapter 31
BECCA
Idrive down the familiar road to my old home, Sam’s truck following close behind.
My stomach twists with nerves and something that feels dangerously like hope.
From the front, the house looks mostly the same, but when I pull into a spot near the garage, unsure where I even park now, something new catches my eye.
A porch swing.
I step out and walk up the three wooden steps to the deck, my fingers drifting reverently across the smooth grain of the swing’s frame.
It isn’t large, but it’s wide enough to fit two adults, maybe even a small child nestled between them.
The back tilts enough to relax without feeling like you’re reclining too far. It’s perfect.
Sam watches me from the top step, arms crossed loosely, waiting.
“I built that in hopes of one day sitting out here with you, enjoying a cup of coffee before work or snuggled in a blanket in the evenings,” he explains unabashedly.
When I glance up, he moves toward the front door and taps in the passcode.
Trying to lighten the heavy air, I playfully question, “I could’ve punched that in myself. Or did you already change the locks on me?”
Sam opens the door with a sheepish smile. “Never changed the locks. Didn’t see the point when you still had the key to everything that mattered.”
I stare at him, another layer of ice cracking in my chest.
We walk inside. The house is tidy. I’m not surprised. Before we lived together, I assumed he was a typical guy; messy, with take-out containers scattered everywhere. But Sam kept his place like his workshop. Everything had a spot, and it always went back where it belonged.
“I’ll just grab a few things and be out of your hair,” he supplies.
I expect him to head toward the main bedroom, but he veers toward the hall instead.
“Why are you going into the guest room?” I ask.
“Because I haven’t been able to sleep in our room without you,” he responds without turning around, already busy packing.
I let the words settle, holding them like they are fragile. Then I glance around the space, seeing something new.
A bookcase. Taller than me. Solid oak with wide, deep shelves.
He’s tried to organize it as I would. First by genre: romance, thriller, fantasy, nonfiction, and personal growth.
Then by subcategories: mafia romance, paranormal.
My nonfiction is divided into finance, gardening, and even my brief homesteading obsession.
On the top shelf, there’s a framed photo of us from our wedding day. The frame is beautifully constructed. I recognize Sam’s craftsmanship instantly.
My throat tightens as I turn away before I cry over some pieces of wood.
That’s when I see the desk. It’s beautiful.
Set beneath the large dining room window, sunlight pours over the smooth, rounded-corner wood surface.
Pencils and folders are already tucked neatly into the trays.
My trays. The ones I bought on clearance in a rush of inspiration months ago.
I run my fingers along the curved edge, heart stuttering as I feel Sam step behind me. His chest just touches my back, and I go still.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Why the rounded edges?”
He laughs, low and familiar. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of a klutz. You bump into everything and bruise like a peach.”
I huff a laugh, shoulders shaking. “You’re not wrong.”
He leans in, warm breath brushing my ear. "And the only time I want this desk giving you bruises is when I'm bending you over it."
My breath catches, and I turn slightly, just enough that we are almost face to face, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body.
"Is that so?" I say, and I hate how breathless it sounds.
His eyes drop to my mouth. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me closer, but still too far, keeping the space.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That's so."
For a second, neither of us moves, savoring the moment. The air between us is thick, charged. Before I can lean in, Sam takes a small step back.
He presses a kiss to my forehead softly, a promise rather than a period.
"Alright," he says, voice slightly rougher than before. "I've got what I need. I might stop by the shop now and then, but I won’t come inside. I’ll call if I have to grab something. Grocery staples are stocked.” He pauses, looking at me directly before continuing. “Please, call if you need anything.”
His arms are around my waist as he stares into my face. “It’s good to see you back home where you belong.” Then he kisses me once, soft and too quick.
Sam hesitates at the door, as if he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. He smiles and shuts it softly behind him.
I stand there, alone in this familiar house, the one we built with so much love. And yet, with him gone, it feels like someone turned down the brightness.
I shake it off and step outside to the backyard. I tell myself it’s to check the garden, but truthfully, I need air. I expect chaos: overgrown beds, limp tomato vines, flowers half-dead in the sun.
Instead, all four raised beds are neatly tended. One’s full of cucumbers and zucchinis that fall heavy on the vines. Another’s got tomatoes staked in careful rows. The third is packed with herbs: basil, mint, and parsley are all thriving. The last one is wild with flowers, chaotic but beautiful.
The garden isn’t just surviving; it’s thriving. Sam’s been taking care of it. Not the bare basics, but tending it as I would.
I walk through the garden, letting my fingers trail over the leaves like I used to. The zucchini’s ready, so I tug one free then gather a few ripe tomatoes, sprigs of basil, and a generous handful of parsley.
Inside, I find ground turkey in the freezer, reminding me of one of the first garden hauls I had here.
"You were born to gather," Sam teases, watching me come in with arms full of greens. "Guess I'd better step up my hunting game if I want to keep up."
I push the memory away and get to work prepping a quick meal. Chopping the vegetables from the garden, browning the turkey, and adding in the parsley and basil. I love the cabin, but I won’t miss cooking all my meals in that tiny kitchen.
After I clean up the dishes, I still feel restless, unsettled in a way I can’t quite shake. I head to the couch and put in my comfort movie, Never Been Kissed.
It’s not a cinematic masterpiece, but it’s familiar.
I bought it from a bargain DVD bin at a big-box store that went out of business years ago.
This was always my go-to at home in the trailer.
The predictability of it always soothes me.
I often throw it on at the start of my period, which happens to be today—the familiar movie keeps my mind off my cramps, along with some chocolate.
I can’t count how many times I’ve lain on this couch, head in Sam’s lap, making him watch this movie.
He always had something to say about the ending.
My favorite scene, when Josie stands on the pitcher’s mound, laying her heart bare in front of the whole crowd, used to spark the same reaction every time.
“Sure, I get it,” Sam says. “She’s owning up to everything. That’s great. But on the pitcher’s mound? Right before a championship game? That’s sacred space! The coach and pitcher should be checking out the mound, not watching a couple make-out on home plate.”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “You really missed the point.”
But he didn’t, not really. I smile now at the memory, pulling a blanket tighter around my waist. He wasn’t wrong, but his version didn’t make for good TV.
As if my thoughts summon him, my phone buzzes beside me.
Sam
Hey, baby, I know what time of the month it is. Just wanted you to know I restocked your dark chocolate stash a few weeks back when I saw it was low, in case I got you home again.
My chest tightens as I get up to grab the dark chocolate squares that I swear have healing properties. I grab my pillow and hug it a little tighter and decide to put myself out there, as Josie did.
Thank you, it’s good to be home
As I lay there watching the movie progress, I receive another text. Looking down, I assume it’s Sam’s reply until I stop in my tracks.
Unknown
I hope that Lily Drive property deal was worth it for you and Sam. You didn’t just cut me out; you complicated a few things on his side too.
My first instinct is to handle it myself; it always has been. But this time … I don’t.