Chapter Forty Nine
The Silence Between I Love You
A urora babbles against my chest, her cheek sticky with sweat and sunshine, and I hum the next verse of her favorite song while adjusting her carrier like it’s all second nature.
We’ve just finished feeding the goats, and her little body is heavy against my tired muscles, but she smells like hay and applesauce, and the lotion Georgia rubs on her after every bath, so I don’t give a damn.
“Don’t tell your mama,” I murmur into the top of her head, “but you’re my favorite helper.”
She lets out a squeal and thumps a tiny palm against my sternum like she knows she’s hilarious.
I chuckle and keep walking toward the house, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
“Think Mama’s gonna love this weekend?” I ask her, already picturing Georgia’s face when we pull up to the cabin by the lake. “It’s quiet out there. Real quiet. Just the trees and the water. No work. No phones. Just us.”
Aurora gurgles something close to “Mmm-hmm,” and I grin.
“She’s been workin’ herself to the bone for this Bash. Wanna give her a reason to exhale. She deserves, don’t you think, baby girl?”
The wind kicks up, brushing the sweat from my neck, and I pull Aurora in tighter.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about finally telling her,” I murmur, using my daughter as my sounding board like always.
Everything I read says it’ll help her language skills.
“About her family. The stuff I found out. Thought about holdin’ onto it a while longer, but…
she deserves to know. She deserves the choice, at the very least.”
She shifts against my chest, eyes fluttering sleepily, and I rub her back gently.
“But more than that, I need to tell her I love her.” I swallow hard. “It’s killin’ me to keep it in. I almost say it a hundred times a day. I’m scared to scare her, but damn, sweetheart, how can I not when you two take up my whole heart?”
Aurora tangles her dirty hands in my beard and suckles on air so I slip her pacifier from the pocket of my vest and plop it in her mouth. She latches on and stares up at me with wide, alert eyes, suddenly catching a second wind.
“I love your mama,” I whisper. “So fuckin’ much it hurts. And I know I should’ve told her sooner, but I didn’t wanna scare her off. She’s got this way of runnin’ when things get real. But lately… things have been right. She’s ours. We’re hers. This is it.”
The house comes into view in the distance, warm and familiar in the late afternoon light. I catch sight of Georgia's jeep and feel my chest expand.
“Harvest season’s nearly here,” I mutter, mind flicking through chores I need to take care of. “Already called a guy to price out an outdoor decontamination station so I don’t track wheat into the house. Don’t want her breathing any of that in.”
Aurora smacks my cheek and screams, the sound barely muffled by the paci, and I chuckle.
“I agree. It’s not good for her. Been thinking about booking her a hotel for a week or two just to be safe.” Another scream and I nod, patting her back. “I know she still has her place, but after we went to grab stuff a few weeks back…”
I shake my head.
“Nah. I hate it. That place is too far out. Feels like a ghost town. She didn’t say it, but I could see it in her eyes. She’s scared out there in the middle of nowhere. Used it as an excuse to tell her she should just move in.”
Aurora babbles again and I grimace.
“I know, I should have gone about it differently, but I can’t help it.”
Another hard yank.
“Yeah, baby girl.” I sigh. “But I love your mama, and there’s not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for her.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap the screen, lifting it so Aurora can see the lock screen photo—Georgia holding Rory in the flower field, grinning up at me with that sun-bright smile and wild curls spilling in every direction.
I tug the pacifier free and pause mid-step.
“Can you say it, sweetheart? Say Mama . Mama.”
“Mmmmmmm,” she tries, drooling all over herself while smashing a fist against my phone.
I laugh and tickle her side, kissing her dimpled cheek. “That’s right. Mama.”
Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I hit my long driveway, and I start mentally cataloguing all the things I still need to do this week before we leave.
The flower harvest is nearly wrapped. Sales are lookin’ solid this year—bouquet orders from Serenity Falls and even a few wedding clients lined up.
The honey’s almost gone already, even with Mom stashing boxes for the Bash.
The wheat’ll be ready in a few weeks, and I’ve got extra hands lined up for the heavy lifting, but it’s gonna be tight.
When I reach the house, my brows furrow. Georgia’s Jeep is parked in the drive like always, but the passenger door’s open. I jog the last few steps and shake my head, smiling.
“Frazzled little tornado,” I mutter, moving to close it.
But when I reach it, I go still.
Piled inside are clothes. Not just a bag or some spare laundry, but all her shit.
Shoes. Her laptop. That green dress she wore to Sunday dinner last week. The one that had me damn near feral all night.
I grip the side of the car as my stomach flips violently.
“Comin’ or goin’?” I rasp, mind spinning violently.
But I already know.
The front door creaks open behind me, and a suitcase hits the ground behind her. A pained groan catches in my throat, knees going weak.
Her head jerks up and she freezes.
Georgia’s hair’s a mess. Face blotchy and red. Shoulders hunched like she’s carrying the weight of the world and losing. And even like this, wrecked and breaking, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And I can’t fucking breathe.
“No.” The word snaps from my throat like it’s been lit on fire. “ No .”
She startles like I’ve struck her and tears her eyes away, bolting down the steps. Her hand grips the suitcase handle like it’s the only thing holding her together, but she doesn’t speak or pause or fuckin’ look at me.
“Georgia,” I bark, heart hammering so hard, Aurora stirs. “Stop. What the hell are you doing?”
Why won’t she look at me?
“Please,” she finally chokes. “Please just let me go.”
“No,” I snap again, louder, and my voice cracks. “You don’t get to just walk out on us.”
Aurora shifts against me, confused, and my hands are trembling so badly I can barely comfort her.
“I never should’ve stayed so long,” she says, voice high and shaking. “I knew better. I knew better. I knew better .”
“Stop,” I beg, chasing after her. “Talk to me. What the fuck is going on?”
She’s trying to pull away from me now, but I reach out, gripping her shoulders, desperate and breaking alongside her.
“Please,” she sobs, whipping her head back and forth. “Just let me—”
“I said no!”
The sharpness of it slices through the air like thunder.
Aurora startles in the carrier, letting out a terrified whimper. I look down and she’s staring up at me with wide, scared eyes, her mouth puckered and trembling.
My stomach drops to the fucking ground.
“No,” I whisper, breaking instantly. “No, no, baby girl. I’m sorry.” I press my lips to her forehead, heart shattering. “I’m so sorry. I’m not mad. I’m not mad, sweetheart.”
Georgia makes a noise between a sob and a pained moan. Her hand twitches like she wants to reach for Aurora but can’t.
“She was right,” she chokes out. “You’re so good for her.”
“Georgia,” I rasp, bouncing Aurora, hand rubbing her back gently. “Baby. What happened? What are you talkin’ about? Who?”
She shakes her head, eyes locked on Aurora like she’s drowning in her own guilt.
“I fucked up,” she says, voice cracking. “I read the letter. And I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. Because all it did was prove me right.”
My heart goes still. “What letter?”
“The letter from Marlee,” she whispers, tipping her chin at our daughter. “Her mom.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
My vision tunnels then sways before zeroing back in on her. It’s always on her. On them. My world.
And right now, it’s shattering.
“You’re her mama,” I finally force out. Swallowing hard, I grab her hand and place it against Aurora’s cheek. “You, freckles. You are her mama now. It’s us. You, me, Rory. We’re a family.”
“But we’re not,” she says, smoothing Aurora’s curls like she’s memorizing them.
“I want it so bad, but it’ll never be me.
Every time you look at her, you’ll see her real mom.
You’ll see the woman who came first. The one you built this house for.
The one with her eyes and her smile and her laugh.
The one with the initials in a tree. Your forever and always. ”
She yanks her hand away and steps back, voice breaking.
“And I’ll just be the shadow who tried to take her place.”
“Georgia…”
How did I fuck this up so badly? And how the hell did Marlee get to her from the fuckin’ grave?
“I would’ve stayed, you know,” she whispers, meeting my gaze with tears so heavy, she doesn’t bother erasing them.
“I would’ve stayed forever. But you never said it.
Not once. Not when I was sick. Not when I crawled into your bed.
Not when I was holding your daughter. Not even when I told you I wanted to stay. ”
She laughs bitterly, breath hitching.
“All this time, I thought I was the one too scared to love. But it was you. It’s always been you because you’ve—” Her voice catches on a sob I feel right down to my fucking bones. “Because you’ve always been hers. ”
“No,” I grunt, body trembling, head shaking rapidly. “No, baby. I’m not. Never was. Not like this. Not like you.”
But she’s already turning, dragging the suitcase, climbing into her car and panic turns to something cold and sharp and burning all at once. I throw myself forward, legs damn near buckling beneath me.
“I do love you,” I choke out, blinking through tears. “God, Georgia, I’ve loved you since the moment you stole my fuckin’ hat and rode into the sunset. Baby, I’ve loved you this whole damn time. I was just... scared you'd run the second I said it. But I love you. I do. I love you. I love you .”
She’s sobbing, yanking on her hair, but her Jeep starts anyway. She looks fuckin’ terrified and broken and so small in big SUV and my panic about her leaving me bleeds into something else.
“Darlin’, stop!” I shout. “Stop! Stay! Don’t you dare drive right now!”
Georgia pauses for a minute, hands tight around the wheel, and for a few breaths, I think she might stay. Think she might choose me. Us.
But then she exhales roughly and glances at me through the window, eyes soaked with tears, expression so cold, it guts me.
The mask is back. The one I painstakingly disassembled, brick by fucking brick. It’s back, and she’s running. Just like I knew she would.
“Day by day, Kade. That’s what you said…” Her brows tighten in pain. “That’s all you said.”
I stagger.
She swallows hard, her eyes locked on our daughter.
“The days are up. And the dream?” She closes her eyes and puts the Jeep in drive. “It was never meant to be mine.”
And then she’s gone.
And so is the sun.
“Mama,” Aurora whimpers, ripping the air right from my fuckin’ lungs.
My knees hit the ground a second later, and when my daughter’s first tear falls, I break right along with her.
And this time? I don’t think I’ll ever get back up.