Chapter Ten
Gideon
I stand outside in the whipping snow, arms crossed, staring at the ridiculous little red car half-buried in the snowbank.
Wind cuts through my jacket like ice, but my skin runs hot enough that the flakes melt on contact.
The storm's only getting worse. The visibility is down to maybe ten feet, roads turning treacherous.
No chance I'm getting that delicate city car out tonight.
Not with these conditions. Not with those thin tires.
The front end is completely buried, steam still rising from under the hood where it kissed the snowbank at speed. I circle the vehicle, noting the way the back wheels don’t even touch the ground. Even if I could dig it out, this car isn't driving anywhere without serious mechanical attention.
Which means Lucia is stuck here. With me. Tonight.
The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, and I have to clench my fists to keep my hands steady. After everything that happened, the prospect of being trapped with Lucia feels like walking into a minefield.
I walk away from Lucia’s car and back toward the house, then stomp snow from my boots and step back into the warmth of the kitchen.
The familiar scents of home wrap around me, spices, and the lingering aroma of Martha's herbal tea.
But underneath it all is something new, something that makes my chest tighten with recognition.
Vanilla and jasmine. Lucia's perfume, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
She sits at the old oak table with Martha, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of chamomile tea.
Cinnamon is curled in her lap, his little head upside down on her thigh like he’s been there forever.
Her laugh drifts across the room, soft and genuine, her posture relaxed in a way I haven't seen since we were teenagers.
The sight stops me cold in the doorway, snow melting off my shoulders and pooling at my feet.
She looks like she belongs here, chatting with my mother, petting my cat. She looks like she’s always belonged here, nestled in the heart of my home.
Like this is meant to be.
Her dark hair falls in waves over her shoulder, catching the warm light from the copper pendant lamp Martha installed last spring.
She's shed her coat, revealing a cream-colored sweater that hugs her curves and makes her skin glow like honey.
When she tips her head back to laugh at something my mother said, the line of her throat makes my mouth go dry.
Ten years. Ten years of imagining what it would be like to have her here again, in this kitchen where we used to do homework and steal cookies from Martha's cooling racks. The reality is so much more intense than any fantasy I've allowed myself.
"Well?" Martha asks, her gray eyes sparkling with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction. "What's the verdict?"
I clear my throat, forcing myself to look away from Lucia's face. "Car's not going anywhere tonight. Roads are getting worse, and that little sports car wasn't built for Maine blizzards."
I pause, meeting Lucia's gaze directly. "I can drive you home in my truck once the storm passes."
"No one is driving anywhere in this weather," Martha declares with the kind of maternal authority that brooks no argument. She rises from her chair, already moving toward the cabinets like she's planning a siege. "Lucia, you'll stay the night. I'll make up the guest room."
I brace for Lucia's protest, her insistence on independence, the sharp words that will remind me exactly how unwelcome I am in her life. Instead, she simply nods, her shoulders sagging with what looks like relief.
"Thank you, Mrs. Flintman. I really appreciate it."
Martha beams like she's just been handed the moon.
"Of course, dear. You're family."
Once upon a time, that's exactly what Lucia was to us. Family. What I thought she always would be.
Lucia makes a pained face, then pulls out her phone from her purse, set up on the chair next to her.
Disturbed from his sleep by her motion, Cinnamon jumps down from Lucia’s lap and makes a beeline for Martha, who immediately picks him up and starts fussing.
The feline purrs loud enough to make the beams shake, reveling in the attention.
“The girls will be so disappointed!” Lucia shakes her head and concentrates on her device. “Tonight was their Christmas concert.”
A few moments pass where she frowns, then mutters to herself as her fingers move over the screen, then finally nods before looking up.
“I texted Mateo and explained the whole situation. He assures me that it’s okay if I make it up to them tomorrow at the library.”
The words hang in the air between us. Did Lucia just tell her family she’s spending the night over here?
Martha fusses around the kitchen with Cinnamon for a few more minutes, refreshing Lucia's tea and pressing leftover apple crumble on both of us despite our protests. Then she pats Lucia's hand and suddenly declares she has a splitting headache.
"I think I'll retire early," she announces, though she looks perfectly fine to me. "Long day of volunteering, you know how it is." She kisses my cheek, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, "This is your chance."
Then she's gone, disappearing upstairs with suspicious speed. I suspect this headache is pure manipulation designed to leave us alone together.
The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Lucia traces the rim of her mug with one finger, not looking at me, and I don't know what to do with my hands, my voice, my massive frame that suddenly feels too big for the space.
"This place looks exactly the same," she says quietly, glancing around at the hand-hewn granite countertops, the copper pots hanging from wrought iron hooks, the windows that glow warmly against the storm outside.
I chuckle, softer than I mean to. "Never saw the point in changing what works. Everything here has been built to last."
Something flickers across her expression. I’m not sure if it’s pain, maybe, or sadness. She knows I'm not just talking about the kitchen.
"I need a drink,” I declare, desperate to fill the silence that's stretching between us like a taut wire. "I’m going to get a whiskey. Want one?"
She considers this, then nods. "Whiskey sounds perfect."
I retrieve two glasses, pouring the good stuff from the bottle that my father left behind, aged longer than Lucia and I have been apart. My hands don't shake as I hand her the crystal tumbler, but it's a near thing.
"Living room?" I suggest, because standing here in the kitchen feels too intimate, too much like the old days when we'd sit at this table planning our futures like we had all the time in the world.
She follows me into the living room, where the fire crackles bright in the massive stone hearth my dad built with his own hands. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, turning everything warm and golden. We settle on opposite ends of the worn leather sofa.
The room is soaked in memories. Childhood nights building pillow forts in front of this fireplace.
Teenage afternoons sharing secrets and dreams. That last perfect summer before everything shattered, when she'd curl up against my side and I'd trace patterns on her skin while she read her romance novels aloud.
"So," I say carefully, swirling the whiskey in my glass. "Tell me about New York. About your life there."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When she speaks, her voice is thoughtful, measured.
"It's good. Different than I expected, but good." She sips her whiskey, the crystal catching the firelight. "I have a nice apartment in Queens. Nothing fancy but it's mine. The publishing world is… competitive. Cutthroat, really. But I've been lucky."
I listen to her talk about book signings and author events, about the small community of writers she's found, about the satisfaction of seeing her stories in bookstores across the country. There's pride in her voice, accomplishment, but underneath it all, I hear something else.
Loneliness.
"Is there someone?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Someone waiting for you to come home?"
The question hangs between us, and I see her jaw tighten slightly.
"There was. Daniel. We dated for almost a year, but…" She shrugs, trying to appear casual but falling short. "It didn't work out."
Relief floods through me so intense it's almost painful. It’s selfish of me. I have no right to care. But the thought of her with someone else, building a life with another man, has been eating at me for years.
"What about you?" she asks, turning the question back on me. "Anyone special in your life?"
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. How do I explain that I’ve loved no one but her since we were both kids? That from the moment I recognized her as mine, the idea of being with anyone else became not just impossible but physically repulsive?
"No," I say simply. "There's no one."
She nods, looking unsurprised, and takes another sip of her whiskey. The silence that falls between us isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it's heavy.
"The writing," I venture. "Is it still bringing you joy?"
Her face clouds over, and she sets her glass down on the coffee.
"It used to," she says with an expression close to longing, her voice tight.
"I used to get in my own world. I used to be able to feel my characters like old friends, whispering to me. Then I made money, obligations piled up. I lost that, little by little, so slowly I didn’t even notice at first. Then one day, my brain was just blank. "
The pain in her voice makes my chest ache. I remember how she used to light up when she talked about her stories, how she'd pace around my bedroom reading me passages while I did homework, her whole body animated with excitement.
"You'll find it again," I say with quiet certainty. "The passion, the stories. It's still there, just buried under everything else."