Chapter 38
Late spring had crept in quietly, soft green brushing across the fields and trees, the last edges of winter finally loosening its grip. But inside me, winter hadn’t fully left.
I still felt its claws embedded deep within me.
Nights were the worst. I’d fall asleep with my laptop open, journals scattered, only to wake gasping from half-dreams that weren’t dreams at all.
The memories were relentless. Andrew’s voice in my ear, his hand over my mouth.
The way his eyes had burned like I was his to claim.
The way they shifted from kind to cruel.
I tried to write through it, to funnel it into the story I was building, but sometimes the words locked up, and I’d sit staring at the screen until dawn, stomach clenched, fingers aching.
Some mornings, I wouldn't even realize I had spent the night wrapped in a blanket, rocking while staring at the screen. Not until the sound of my family's morning routine reached my ears snapping me out of the memory fog I was stuck in.
Marin’s emails stacked in my inbox, her encouragement threaded with urgency.
We were close to finalizing a contract. The team loved my writing, believed in my voice.
And yet, every time I tried to write the scene where Andrew’s lies unravelled, where I saw the truth about him, my chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe.
And I hadn't even attempted to write the scene where he... where he tried to take more than I was willing to give.
I knew writing our story would be difficult, but I hadn't expected it to be this hard. To stir up so many emotions. The suffocating feeling of the weight of what we actually were.
So that morning, I walked.
The Morgan land stretched forever, stitched with old trails I’d known since childhood.
The sun was warm on my back, but my thoughts stayed tangled, heavy.
Were the charges against Andrew enough? Would the Brooks family find another way to twist it, another connection to lean on, another cop to look the other way?
The whispers in town hadn’t fully stopped.
Some days, I felt like I was healing. Others, like I was one whisper away from being broken all over again.
By the time I crested the hill at the far edge of our property, sweat dampened my shirt, and the ache in my legs had dulled my thoughts. That’s when I saw it, the clearing.
It opened like a secret: a wide stretch of meadow, grasses already high and swaying, rimmed by tall trees catching the light. Beyond it, I could just make out the Palmers’ barns. This must be the property line.
It hit me all at once.
This. Here.
The words slipped out before I could stop them, my breath catching in my throat. “I’m going to build my home here.”
“Funny,” a voice said behind me.
I startled so hard I nearly tripped, spinning around with my heart hammering in my ears. My fists clenched, ready to defend myself, before my brain caught up, before my eyes found him.
Brody.
He stood a few paces back, hands in his pockets, hair pushed back under a backwards baseball cap, but still a little unruly; his was well-worn, frayed at the edges. But his eyes… they were steady, watching me with something I couldn’t name.
“Jesus, you scared me,” I snapped, breath rushing out too fast. “What are you doing out here?”
One side of his mouth tugged up. “I was about to ask you the same thing. You look like you just staked a claim.”
“I did,” I said before I could stop myself, turning back toward the clearing. My voice came out softer, steadier. “I’m going to build my home here.”
Silence stretched. Then his laugh, low and warm.
I frowned, whipping back toward him. “What’s so funny?”
He walked closer, his boots sinking into the soft ground, until he was beside me, looking out at the meadow. “Because you picked the one piece of land my family never sold, but have listed for sale. This is ours.”
For a moment, embarrassment flushed hot under my skin. Of course it was. Of course, the Palmers still owned the one spot that felt like mine. I shook my head, huffing out a bitter laugh. “Figures.”
But when I looked back at him, he wasn’t teasing anymore. His face was serious, softened around the edges. “You really want to build here?”
I nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I do. It feels… safe. Like I could finally breathe here.”
His gaze held mine, intense and unflinching. The world seemed to narrow, just the two of us standing in the quiet green, the air thick with things unsaid. Things still unknown.
“You want help?” he asked finally. His voice was low, but it vibrated through me, deeper than the words themselves.
I let out a shaky breath, searching his face, the earnestness there, the steadiness.
“Maybe I do,” I whispered.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The breeze rippled the grass, birds calling from the treeline. It was almost too much, standing there with him, seeing something in his eyes that went deeper than just land or timing.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to my parents. See what they say. Maybe you can finally come to dinner instead of avoiding us.”
I glanced at him sharply. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”
He raised a brow. “No?”
I folded my arms, heat creeping up my neck. “I’ve been writing. And…” I hesitated.
“And?” he pressed gently.
“It’s been… some of it’s easy. Cathartic even. But some of it…” I exhaled shakily. “It feels like ripping open old wounds. Some moments I get lost in and have to claw my way back out of. I haven’t been avoiding you, Brody. I’ve been trying to heal. To survive the journey.”
He studied me quietly, something unreadable in his eyes. Finally, he said, “As long as you’re not avoiding me, Cass. That’s all I needed to know.”
The rough edge in his voice nearly undid me.
“I’m in no rush,” he added softly. “No pressure. The other night, I just needed you to know. But I’m here. Whatever you need. However long it takes.”
My chest ached, but it was different this time. Not broken, full.
I nodded, unable to speak.
We stood there together, side by side in the clearing that felt like a beginning, the world bending quietly around us.
I walked back slowly, the field still etched in my mind like a dream I wasn’t ready to wake from.
My boots crunched over patches of thawing snow, the air cool against my face, sharp with the smell of wet earth and cedar.
For once, I didn’t feel like I was running from something.
I felt like I was walking toward something, toward myself.
By the time the house came into view, I was lighter, my chest uncoiling with every step. I pushed open the back door, shaking snow from my coat, and heard low voices from the kitchen.
Not just my mom’s.
Another. Deeper. Steadier.
I frowned, set my boots aside, and followed the sound.
Our lawyer, Mr. Novak, sat at the table, coffee in hand, posture professional but too at home in our kitchen. My mom looked up the second I stepped in, her expression tight with worry.
“Cassidy,” she said softly, like she’d been rehearsing it.
The lawyer’s gaze turned to me. “Good. You’re here.”
Something cold rippled through me. I slid into a chair, my fingers curling around the edge of the wood. “What’s going on?”
He folded his hands, his tone measured. “The Crown has decided to proceed. Andrew will face the full charges. There will be a trial.”
The word hit like ice water over the lingering warmth from the meadow. Trial.
He kept speaking, about process, about statements, about how, if he were Andrew’s counsel, he’d be urging him to plead guilty before it ever reached the courtroom. About how the evidence, the testimonies, would crush him under the weight of his own lies.
But all I heard was trial. The echo of it filled my ears until I thought I might be sick.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to, my throat too tight to manage more than one word. “Okay.”
He rose after a while, polite, professional, and left my mom hovering by the door. I stayed at the table, staring at my hands braced against the wood. They trembled, and I pressed my nails into my palms until I felt the sting.
I should have felt relief. Andrew wouldn’t get to walk away with what he did. But the thought of a courtroom, of revealing it all again under those lights, of the whispers sharpening into something louder...
It felt like drowning.
Still, under the weight of it, something stubborn flickered. If this were the road in front of me, then I’d walk it.
Just not today.
The weight of it all pressed down, heavier than I could carry right now. I pushed away from the table, my legs moving on autopilot as I made my way upstairs.
By the time I reached my room, the exhaustion I’d been outrunning for months hit me all at once. My bones ached with it, my head heavy, my chest hollow. I didn’t even bother changing, just crawled under the blankets and let them swallow me whole.
I closed my eyes and forced my mind away from the memories I couldn't write, trial and lawyers and whispers. Instead, I focused on the field, the meadow, the place I’d found today that felt like mine.
I pictured the way the sun had hit the tree line, soft and golden, and imagined how it would look in the fall when the leaves burned bright, in winter when snow turned it into something hushed and clean.
I let myself breathe into that vision until my body loosened, until the ache eased.
And then, as sleep pulled me under, I heard it, his laugh, low and warm, curling around me like a promise. I felt his presence, imagined his arms cocooning me, solid and steady, keeping me safe.
Brody wasn’t here. But in that moment, in the fragile space between waking and dreaming, it didn’t matter. I let myself believe he was.
And finally, I slept