Chapter 24
When we pull into the driveway, the truck rolls to a slow stop between our houses. For a second, neither of us moves, the engine ticking quietly as the silence settles after the drive.
We step out at the same time, doors closing almost in sync. The afternoon sun feels a little warmer now, but the ocean breeze feels cool against my skin.
He walks around to the back of the truck, glancing at the stacked crates.
“I’ll start unloading,” he says, already reaching for the tailgate.
“I’m gonna let the dogs out,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to help.”
He looks over at me and nods. “No rush.”
I smile, grabbing my bag before heading toward my door, still feeling that light, recharged energy buzzing quietly inside me.
The second I unlock my door, Neptune and Skye are on me, tails wagging, bodies bumping into my legs like they haven’t seen me in days instead of hours.
“Okay, okay,” I laugh, dropping my bag onto the counter. “I missed you too.”
I walk toward the back door with both dogs circling my feet, talking to them like they understand every word.
“You guys would’ve loved it,” I say, unlocking the door. “Big fields, lots of smells, way too many berries.”
The moment the door opens, they burst outside, racing into the yard. Skye takes off first, Neptune right behind her, until he slows near his favorite bush, lifting his leg with complete seriousness.
I giggle, leaning against the doorframe.
I pull my phone from my tights pocket and unlock it, realizing I haven’t looked at it since early this morning.
Notifications flood the screen.
The first message at the top is from Finn.
A small jolt moves through me when I see his name.
I tap the thread.
9:00 A.M.:
Finn:
Good morning beautiful
It’s well past noon now.
I stare at the message for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say this many hours later. Nothing feels right—not rushed, not thoughtful enough—so I close the thread and tell myself I’ll answer later.
The next thread is the ongoing chat I have with my sisters.
There are several unread messages, all from April.
8:00 A.M.:
April:
Wakey wakey, Cinderella, what happened last night?
8:45 A.M.:
April:
Hello?
9:30 A.M.:
April:
May, you’re lucky you’re still sharing your location or I’d be calling the local authorities. I see you are at a blueberry farm, according to Google Maps, and I remember you said you were going with your fireman boyfriend. Please let me know you’re alive at your earliest convenience.
10:15 A.M.:
April:
Juney girl, if you don’t answer your phone, I will be calling your boss.
I laugh under my breath.
Me:
I am so sorry, I’ve had a very busy morning. I’m okay, I’m safe, I am back home.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
April:
Oh thank God
A second later,
April:
How did it go?
Me:
The farm was beautiful. I had a great time. What are you up to today? Besides stalking your sisters, of course
April:
On my way to a shoot right now. What are you doing the rest of the day?
Me:
We’re making jam and sourdough bread.
April:
Wow. Wholesome.
Another message pops in.
April:
How did it go last night with the Coastie?
I hesitate for a second before answering.
Me:
It was good. He was ever the gentleman.
April:
So what’s the verdict? Are you choosing one? Or keeping both?
I roll my eyes, smiling.
Me:
I’m not choosing or keeping. I’m just living.
I pause, then type again.
Me:
Have you heard from June?
The typing bubble comes back.
April:
She’s in New Mexico. They have a game this afternoon, and she is going to call me after.
Me:
Is everything okay?
April:
I’ll let you know once I hear from her.
Another message appears right after.
April:
I have to go, girl, I’m here, and I’m two minutes late. I’ll message you later.
I send a thumbs up and lock the phone again, slipping it back into my pocket as the dogs run circles through the yard.
The afternoon sun feels warm against my shoulders, and somewhere across the fence, I hear Aiden moving crates, the steady rhythm of things getting done.
“Come on, kids.” I clap my hands lightly. “Let’s go help Aiden.”
Both dogs trot toward me immediately, tails wagging as I open the door and let them back inside. We cross through the house together, nails clicking across the floor. I pause briefly in front of the hallway mirror, pulling my hat off and twisting my hair up into a messy bun. Good enough.
I grab my keys, head back out, and lock the door behind me. The dogs take off toward Aiden’s place, already knowing where we’re going.
When I turn toward his house, the first thing I see is a large black dog coming straight for me — long legs, shiny coat, ears flopping with every step. He slows as he reaches me, stopping politely as if he’s waiting for permission.
“You must be Houston.” Smiling, I crouch slightly and reach for him.
He leans his head into my palm right away, warm and heavy, looking at me with calm, knowing eyes.
“Oh, you are special, aren’t you?”
His tongue hangs out to the side, making me giggle.
The second thing I notice is Aiden.
He’s standing in the bed of his truck, jeans low on his hips, backwards hat still on — shirtless, back turned toward me. Sunlight catches along the broad line of his shoulders, sweat glinting across his skin as he lifts another crate.
Heat creeps up my neck before I force my gaze away.
A tall, fit man steps out of the garage wearing a Houston Astros T-shirt and basketball shorts. His dirty blonde hair is pulled into a neat man bun. He moves easily toward the truck, taking a crate from Aiden and carrying it back into the garage.
All three dogs start circling each other, tails wagging wildly.
Aiden looks over his shoulder, spots me, and waves.
“May, come meet Nathan.”
I walk closer, trying very hard to look normal.
“Nathan, this is May. May, this is Nathan. He’s our neighbor, he lives two houses down.”
“Hello,” Nathan says with an easy nod.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.”
He smiles briefly, already grabbing another crate and carrying it into the garage, where I can see stacks forming neatly against the wall.
“Did you meet Houston?” Aiden asks.
“Yeah.” I glance toward the dogs again. “He’s beautiful. What is he?”
Nathan answers as he comes back out. “According to the DNA test, seventy-five percent vizsla, twenty percent German shepherd, five percent rottweiler.”
“He looks like a vizsla.”
“And sheds like a German shepherd,” Nathan adds.
I laugh.
“How old is he?”
“Eight. But he thinks he’s about three.”
As if hearing his name, Houston trots back over and settles beside me, looking up with those same soulful eyes.
“You’re so pretty,” I tell him.
“He knows,” Nathan says dryly. “My wife tells him every day.”
I smile.
“That’s why he loves her more than me.” He grabs another crate and disappears into the garage.
I glance back toward Aiden.
He’s standing by the truck now, typing something into his phone, attention focused. I can’t help noticing the definition in his arms, the line of muscle disappearing into his jeans.
Focus, May. You’re here to help, not stare.
Nathan grabs the last crate, and Aiden jumps down from the truck, finishing whatever he’s typing. He slips the phone into his pocket and looks at me.
“Sorry. Had to do some math. Figuring out how many extra containers we’ll need since we’ve got peaches too. Some of the guys from the station will bring more later.”
“Great. What should I do?”
“We’ll start by cleaning the berries.” He motions toward the garage. “I set everything up in there. Once we finish cleaning, we’ll start the jam inside. It’s easy.”
“I’m good at following recipes.”
He winks. “Yeah. I knew you’d be a great help.”
The garage is set up like a small production line.
Bins, bowls, and towels are spread neatly across the table. Everything has a place, and everything already looks halfway ready before we even start.
I watch Aiden move through it, realizing he clearly has a method. Nothing rushed, nothing messy—just steady, organized motion.
“First, we wash the blueberries,” he says, sliding a large bowl toward me. “I’ll show you.”
He fills it with water, adds a splash of white vinegar, a little baking soda, and gently lowers the berries in.
“Let them soak for 10 minutes,” he explains. “Then rinse well and transfer to clean bowls.”
I follow along, copying his movements. He works carefully without being fussy, and I find myself watching the way he handles everything with so much care.
Once the berries are clean and set aside, we move inside.
The kitchen feels warmer than before, sunlight spilling through the windows. Aiden opens the back door, and the dogs settle outside, stretched out side by side, while Uncle Mike disappears upstairs for a nap.
Aiden pulls out a notebook from a drawer and opens it carefully. Handwritten recipes fill the pages — neat, perfect cursive.
He turns the book toward me, tapping one line.
“Follow this one,” he says. “While you get started, I’m gonna begin the bread dough. Biggest trick is stirring continuously so it doesn’t burn. Other than that, it’s pretty simple.”
“Got it,” I say.
I read through the recipe once, then start measuring.
Blueberries. Sugar. Lemon juice. Lemon zest. A pinch of salt.
Easy enough.
I work slowly, following the recipe exactly, while Aiden moves around the kitchen beside me. Cabinets open and close. Bowls clink softly.
From the corner of my eye, I see him pull out a large glass container from a cabinet that looks suspiciously like my own hidden bread cabinet.
Inside, the dough is bubbling slowly.
“Is that your starter?” I ask.
He grins a full, boyish smile, and brings it over so I can see.
“May,” he says dramatically, “meet Danny Doughvito.”
I stare at the container, then back at him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
We both burst out laughing.
“Are you serious?”