Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
TUCKER
I was heading home, the last place I wanted to be, when I got a text.
Most Annoying Sister: Why are you driving around at one in the morning?
Me: Why are you stalking my dot?
Most Annoying Sister: Because your dot looks sad. If you got a booty call and her name isn’t Hazel, you’re dead to me.
Most Annoying Sister: Okay, fine. That was dramatic. But I’m the one who accidentally spilled the Seattle beans, so I get to check in. You okay? But also, the twins woke me up and now I’m making French toast sticks like a damn hero. Come over. I’ll save you some.
I went, but just to kiss the wild wolf pups and grab a plate of French toast sticks. I refused to stay, heading out while dodging Kiera’s questions like I was going for gold in avoidance.
Halfway to the fire station, she texted again.
Most Annoying Sister: You can run, but you can’t hide.
The family motto.
Hazel used to say that too, back when we were kids and she’d ditch school. I’d go after her—we always went after each other. Until one day, we hadn’t.
My fault.
My shift didn’t start for a few hours, so I took the couch in the main room and closed my eyes. Which was not the same thing as sleeping. There was none of that to be had.
I stared up at the ceiling, pretending not to hear the sounds of the building settling or the way my heart had learned to echo in the spaces Hazel had filled. I could still smell her on my hoodie, something warm and clean—and a dash of sawdust—that made my chest ache.
I’d told myself I was going to be fine.
Liar.
The couch had accepted me as one of its own and dipped beneath me like it always did. I sank into it like I was falling. Not asleep. Just…down.
The thing about loving someone that hard?
When they left, they took gravity with them.
At some point I must’ve drifted, because I woke to Jayden flipping sausages and eggs like he’d been born a diner short-order cook.
Tessa and Harlow were having a push-up competition in front of the couch.
And Marcus was singing “Pink Pony Club” like he was onstage in Santa Monica and the headliner had no shame.
I groaned and threw a pillow at him. “Some of us are sleeping, asshole.”
“Like you need the beauty sleep,” he shot back. “You’ve got the broody-firefighter look locked down.”
“Broody’s all I got left.”
Marcus just winked and kept singing, purposely off-key and adding his own stripper flair.
The fire alarm went off before I could throw anything else at his face, and we were off and running on what would prove to be a brutal forty-eight-hour shift.
When I finally dragged my sorry ass home two days later, the house was quiet as a stone.
Still.
Hollow.
I walked through each room, my heart sinking more with every step.
Hazel’s things were gone.
Her lotions and cosmetics had vanished from the bathroom counter, along with her toothbrush—the one I’d pretended not to notice when it first showed up.
Her work boots, always parked just inside the front door, gone.
Her clothes, which had somehow ended up in both the guest room and mine, also gone.
And the clincher—my ratty sweatshirt, the one she loved so much, the one that looked sexy as hell falling off her shoulder and hitting her mid-thigh…
Also gone.
Even her pink flamingo coffee mug with Boss Bitch on it was missing from the sink.
The only thing left of her was the grocery list in her handwriting stuck to the fridge with marshmallows, duct tape, champagne.
Somehow this pierced me even more than her missing stuff.
“Mew.”
Her Fluffiness trotted up like she’d been waiting for this moment. I crouched to stroke her soft fur, but even the rumble of her purr didn’t manage to lift the tight ache in my chest.
That’s when I noticed the folded paper tucked into her collar like a message from a secret agent of heartbreak. I was in no way ready to read it, but…
Dear Tucker,
I didn’t know how to deliver this apology, so I outsourced it to the only creature in this town more emotionally unavailable than I am.
You asked me why I didn’t tell you about the job, and it took me a while to figure it out.
It’s the same reason I didn’t tell you about the pregnancy.
Selfishness, plain and simple. I didn’t tell you because I believed I was alone—emotionally.
I told myself that so many times, my brain took it as fact.
The truth is, you’re right, about a lot. A part of me still doesn’t believe I deserve to belong: not in this town, not anywhere really, and certainly not with you.
Admitting this is nearly as scary as admitting this one last thing—staying scares me more than leaving ever could.
There. There’s my deeply buried, awful, embarrassing truth.
I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. You, Tucker Colburn, are the safest place I’ve ever known.
—Hazel
I stood there, the note trembling in my hand. My vision blurred, just a little, and it took me a second to realize I wasn’t blinking.
I sank down to the floor right where I stood, back against the kitchen cabinets. Her Fluffiness crawled into my lap like she knew exactly what I needed and was reserving judgment until I offered snacks.
“Thanks,” I muttered, scratching behind her ears. “For being here.”
She blinked slowly, then reached over and batted the note with one imperious paw.
I exhaled a shaky laugh. “I’ve already read it.”
She batted it again.
“Fine.” I looked down at Hazel’s words, reading them again. And again. Like maybe if I memorized every syllable, I could stop my heart from breaking wide open.
But then it hit me.
I’d gotten some hits in of my own.
I should’ve told her she was safe sooner. That she never had to run again.
That I wasn’t going anywhere.
I pressed the paper to my chest and let my head fall back against the cabinet.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel numb.
I felt…everything.
And I had no idea what to do next. I didn’t know if she was gone for good. But if she wasn’t—if there was even a sliver of hope—I wasn’t done.
If I got another chance, I was going to fight for it.