Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
They do have the same eyes.
It’s not just the colour, but also the shape. The way they hold things in. But where Carson’s are deep, unreadable pools, hers are raw, unshielded windows.
She’s already standing when we enter. The lounge throws me. It’s nothing like the cold sterility I braced for. Instead it’s polished wood and sunlight pouring in through tall glass, catching on green and living things tucked into every corner. Rosemary. Lemongrass.
A curated calm if I ever saw one.
His mom isn’t feeling it. Her fingers knot and unknot, her smile flickers, and her eyes dart to me before rushing back to Carson like they can’t stand to drift for long. “Carson.”
He nods once, then steps into her space.
The hug is… polite. A half-formed echo, more muscle memory than emotion. I know what it feels like when he means it; this isn’t that. His hands skim her back and drop too soon, while she clings for a heartbeat longer than he allows.
When she finally lets go, she swallows hard. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. You didn’t the other day…”
The silence that follows is taut, and it doesn’t take long to piece it together. The anniversary.
Carson’s jaw flexes. “Yeah.” Nothing more.
She waits, hope written in the pause, but when nothing else comes, her shoulders hitch and fall.
“I was about to eat lunch. Do you…” her eyes do that thing again, to me then away, “…wanna join me?”
Carson shifts back half a step until our shoulders touch. The brush is light, but hesitation lives in it. Then he decides.
“Mom,” he says. “This is Brielle.” Then, to me, “Brielle, my mom.”
I think she notices it, the way my name soothes the edge in his voice. I don’t know what she’s thinking but her gaze lingers on mine longer than it should, like she’s trying to pass something over without words.
“You can call me Hailey.”
“Hailey,” I repeat softly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
We’re led through a set of doors that open onto a wide terrace. It’s another spread of green, with vines curling up the pergola beams overhead.
Two staff members slip away just as we arrive, leaving three plates already set out on the stone table. Food steams faintly in front of them, cutlery aligned with precision.
It smells… good. Warm bread, roasted herbs, something citrusy in the air. But the air between us doesn’t match the ambience. It’s awkward, taut. And while the terrace is beautiful in its livelihood, it doesn’t fill the silence.
For a while it’s just food to mouth, bite after bite. Then I just go for it. “This place is really nice.” But the words only serve to amp the tension up a notch. I chew, swallow, force another try. “The food’s really good too. I might try making this myself.”
That earns a reaction. Small, but something.
“You cook?” Hailey broaches.
“Yeah.” I nod. Then, since no one else seems willing to carry the conversation, I throw myself into it. “I’ve loved being in the kitchen since I was little. My dad used to make pancakes every Saturday morning. Nothing fancy, but I’d help, standing on a chair just to reach the counter.”
Carson shifts. His fork hasn’t moved, but his eyes aren’t so distant anymore.
“I remember him saying once that you have to eat, so why not make the food taste the best it can. That stuck with me. I became obsessed with the process. Measuring, stirring, all of it. At one point, I was dead set on going into culinary.”
Hailey tilts her head. “What changed?”
My gaze flicks first to Carson, then to his phone lying beside his untouched plate. The truth tangles inside me. “I found something I loved more.” A beat. The kind that feels like stepping off a ledge built on nostalgia. “Photography.”
Hailey nods slowly. “I see.” She cuts a small bite, but her eyes move again between me and Carson. “We can go for a walk after this if you’d like? The grounds are lovely this time of day.” It sounds more plea than suggestion, like she’s hoping a change of scenery might do something more.
“Sure.”
The rest of the meal passes in fragments of half-formed glances and words that never take root. By the time the table’s cleared, the strain is thick enough to chew.
We drift down a winding path lined by manicured hedges, and I fall back a step without meaning to.
Tall. Small. Mother and son move side by side, but not together.
Carson’s shoulders are locked, his focus trained on the ground ahead, while his mom’s pace falters here and there like she wants to do something but doesn’t know how.
It feels like a mirror of me. Of my parents. Together, but fractured. Close enough to touch, yet somehow miles apart.
I’ve felt it so many times in Carson, that thread of pain, like he’s carrying wounds shaped like mine. And now, I know I was right.
He glances back, just briefly, but whatever he sees turns impassivity into something softer, something questioning. I answer the only way I know how, stepping in and brushing my fingers against his. It’s meant to be fleeting, but he closes his hand around mine, needing more than I give.
We pass raised beds of rosemary, courtyards lined with neat rows of kale, and then, further down, the lavender. Entire rows of it, purple blooms tall and swaying in the breeze.
The scent hits me before I’m ready. Sweet. Sharp. Grounding and undoing me at once. A memory claws its way up. For a moment all I can do is stand, staring.
Hailey plucks a sprig as we pass and rolls it between her fingers until oils release. “The smell helps with cravings,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Then her gaze lifts to mine. I can’t school my face fast enough, can’t mask what cracked open inside me.
She sees it, but Carson doesn’t. A staff member approaches, and he’s pulled to the side to converse with her.
Leaving us together.
We head toward a shaded alcove where a bulletin board covered in scraps of paper is fixed against brick. No, not scraps.
Hailey’s lips move as she reads under her breath.
Today I’ll stay one hour longer.
I want to forgive myself.
Hope. It’s hope scrawled in shaky hands.
There are dozens of them, each one blurring into a chorus of longing.
After a minute, her voice threads through the silence. “You’re a good friend of Carson’s.”
I wet my lips. “Yeah. I am. He’s… he’s really good.”
“He is.”
Her gaze stays fixed on a slip of paper as she smooths the edges flat like she’s coaxing the message to stay. “He has a big heart. Gets it from his father.”
My chest pulls tight, and the words, words I hate hearing myself, slip out for some reason. “I’m sorry for your loss.” That’s when she looks at me. And in her eyes I catch another difference from Carson’s. Hers are sad.
“I see it in you, you know.” The air stills. I stare back at her. “The same thing I feel.”
My stomach drops, and in that one second lag, I’ve confirmed it. She looks across the path to where Carson’s still talking, even if he’s trained our way. “Does he know?”
I barely manage a shake of my head.
The way she’s watching me now, it’s not scrutiny. It’s something gentler, maternal, like she knows exactly what it means to hurt like this.
“My boy will never push for more. Never.” She brushes her bare ring finger. “When he was little, I used to cry sometimes. He’d come into my room and lie there. Didn’t say a word. Just waited it out with me.” A pause. A sad smile. “He’ll never push.”
I can’t answer. My eyes fall instead to one note pinned crooked on the board, the one note that calls to me the most.
Today, I’m going to open up.