Chapter 44
Hello, So Long.
Hoboken in April is all false starts and small miracles. Trees bristling with new buds, flowers pushing their way up and out of window boxes, the whole street pretending spring is a sure thing.
The Jones brownstone is still a steady beacon on the block, the porch light pooling on the steps, grapevines webbing up the facade in dark green veins. As Samuel and I climb the brick steps, a murmur of voices and laughter reaches us, as if it’s slipping through the seams of the old front door. I know I’m wanted in that house—the easy warmth waiting just beyond the door. Once, that warmth was unquestioned. The kind you walk into without knocking, without wondering if you still belong there.
I hesitate on the top step. The house hasn’t changed—but the shape of my place inside it has. Because I’ve learned the hard way that new beginnings don’t guarantee safety. Sometimes they just teach you how easily hope can grow roots in a place that might not keep you.
Samuel shifts beside me on the step, close enough that I feel the warmth of him through his jacket.
Somehow, in the months since everything fell apart and reassembled into something quieter, Samuel and I decided to be friends. Real friends. Late-night texts, smart jokes, long talks that make my loneliness feel, well, less lonely. When I mentioned I didn’t have a date for Jared’s engagement party, he didn’t hesitate. He said he was in New York for a literary panel anyway. And he showed up. Like that was normal.
As we reach the stoop, the scent hits.
Chocolate. Butter. A bright flare of bourbon under the sweetness. If Pigs Could Fly Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding.
For a second, the memory is warm. Patricia in her kitchen, a towel over her shoulder, humming as she pulls croissant bread pudding from the oven at Christmas. And then the scent tilts, and … I’m back in Gavin’s kitchen on Orcas Island, all those months ago, the air heavy with sugar and possibility. Gavin’s hands on my waist, his mouth against mine, the bread pudding cooling in the background like it knew it didn’t stand a chance.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I murmur.
I glance over. Samuel’s adjusting his collar. “Then we’ll pretend you are until it’s true.”
I nod, trying not to fidget. The dress is emerald-green silk, cut low in the back—a little riskier than I usually go for. If I’m being totally honest, I didn’t dress for Gavin, but maybe I wouldn’t mind if he noticed. The air’s cool against my skin, and I can’t decide if I feel beautiful or just exposed.
Samuel looks unfairly handsome. Black wool peacoat, blonde hair curling at his collar, his tattoo hiding just under the cuff of his sleeve, black ink on olive skin.
It shouldn’t do anything to me, but it does.
He catches me looking and his mouth tilts, amused. “If you’re about to say something nice,” he warns, “I don’t do well with compliments.”
“You’re a literary thirst trap,” I say.
He exhales a laugh. “That’s either the worst compliment I’ve ever received or the best insult.”
I laugh, and it loosens something in my ribs.
Samuel tips his head toward the door. “I’m happy to be your emotional support person. But you do have to actually enter the building at some point.”
Before I can answer, the door opens.
Patricia is there, cheeks flushed, hair pinned back in a way that always makes her look younger than she has any right to look. She takes one look at me, and her whole face transforms: warmth first, then relief, then the particular brightness she gets when she’s decided someone she loves is safe.
“Ava,” she says, pulling me in before I can say anything, arms firm around my shoulders, the scent of flowers and citrus comforting me.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers.
“I’m early,” I say. “I came to help.”
“That’s my girl,” she murmurs, kissing my temple the way she did when I was twenty-two and crying in her kitchen.
Then Patricia’s attention slides to Samuel, her smile blooming into delighted mischief.
“And this must be the writer everyone keeps gossiping about.”
Samuel tips his head down politely. “Only regionally scandalous, I promise.”
Patricia’s eyes brighten. “Liam told me you were just nominated for not one, but two literary prizes.”
Samuel’s face does that quiet, attractive thing, half wince, half humility. “I’m still waiting for the follow-up emails that start with ‘Apologies—wrong Samuel.’”
Patricia laughs like she’s already decided she likes him. “Come in, both of you—I want a minute before everyone else gets to you.”
The hallway is exactly as I remember it, framed photographs running up the walls like a timeline you can touch. Jared’s gap-toothed grins. Him blowing out candles on a birthday cake. School photos where he’s trying to look serious and failing. Then Gavin: shoulders already squared, a serious expression, as if he’s been appointed guardian of each moment. Cari everywhere, glittering even in childhood, caught mid-laugh, mid-dance, mid-something loud and joyful. Patricia and Liam thread through it all in different seasons of their lives: holidays, vacations, ordinary days made worth saving, and on their first road trip in the Beetle.
I stop, my breath catching on something small and ridiculous. There I am, scattered in the margins: an arm slung around Jared, a blurry New Year’s kiss on Cari’s cheek, my face tilted toward the camera like I’m surprised to be included. A family photo of all of us in Mexico grinning. Except Gavin who stands off to the side with a scowl.
They didn’t remove me from the family wall.
Samuel’s gaze flicks over the photos once, then he turns his attention elsewhere, giving me the moment without asking me to explain it.
When my breath turns shaky, he’s there again, close enough to steady me, not so close I have to perform okayness.
He’s the type of man who knows when to stand beside you and when to pretend not to notice you’re breaking.
His being here with me tonight—showing up like this, steady as a pulse—does something to my body that my brain did not approve.
It makes me wonder: What if the easy choice is the right choice?
Patricia touches my elbow, sensing the shift. “Come on,” she says, voice brisk but kind. “Before I put you to work, I want you to see something.”
She leads us into the open plan dining and living room. The furniture has been rearranged for flow, a long wooden table set up with linens and candles. A few of the culinary crew, two women in black aprons and a man with a chef’s knife who looks like he could fillet a salmon with his eyes closed, move in and out of the space under Patricia’s quiet command.
“Jared and John wanted their engagement party here. In the house. Not some venue.” She smiles. “They said this is where they learned what family looks like.”
My eyes sting.
“And,” she adds, softer, “they said they wanted you in the room when they started theirs.”
I swallow the ache down like a horse-pill-sized multivitamin. It’s good for me, but it doesn’t go down easy.
“I’m here,” I say.
“I know,” Patricia says, and squeezes my hand like she’s proud of me for simply existing.
Cari barrels into the room, eyes alight, dress glittering, mouth already in motion.
“You made it!” she squeals, pulling me into a hug. “Oh my God, you look like Ava 2.0.”
Max follows—tall, soft-eyed, steady in that way that makes you trust him with sharp objects and secrets.
He spots Samuel and his face brightens with genuine, nerdy delight. “Samuel Gailey,” he says, offering a hand. “Okay, I’ve read all your books. I force-fed Deep Winter to my freshmen class.”
Samuel’s face shifts, genuinely pleased, a little embarrassed.
“Then I owe you hazard pay, and your students, my condolences.”
Max laughs and lifts his glass. “To being the plus ones tonight.”
Samuel clinks back, easy, amused. “Ready and willing to be humbled,” he says. “And fully prepared to be outshined.”
As they drift into easy conversation, Cari hooks her arm through mine, tugging me toward the kitchen.
“Just us girls for a second,” she says.
She waits until we’re away from them before dropping her voice.
“How are you,” she asks, “actually?”
I try for light. “I’m upright.”
“Ava,” she says, and the way she says my name is a gentle threat.
I exhale. “I’m doing my best not to throw up on your mother’s antique runner.”
Cari’s mouth twists, sympathy and humor colliding. “Okay. Valid.”
Then her eyes sharpen. “I know I’m not supposed to mention his name, but Gavin’s here.”
“I assumed,” I say. “He’s family and the best man.”
Cari watches my face as she grabs an olive from a grazing board. “Do you want me to run interference?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Maybe,” I admit. “I don’t know.”
She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to be brave.”
Patricia claps once. Soft, not sharp, but it quiets the room anyway. “Okay,” she says, scanning. “I need Ava here in the kitchen with me, and I need Jared’s sister, to stop flirting with the grazing board.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” Cari says, mock-offended.
“You were,” Max says.
“I need you,” Patricia tells her, “to find Jared and John and make sure they eat something that isn’t champagne.”
“Yes, Chef,” she salutes and drags Max away with purpose.
The kitchen smells like butter and citrus and sugar and that bread pudding—rich and intimate.
I take my post at the counter and start prepping crudités, because it’s easier to be useful than to be emotional.
Samuel slides in beside me and rolls his sleeves, the Twin Peaks ink peeking again. His elbow brushes mine, accidental, and my body reacts like it’s been waiting for a reason.
He leans in, voice low. “You okay?”
“If I start crying, you’re allowed to pretend you don’t know me.”
“I can do that,” he says. “I have an extremely believable face.”
“And if I start punching someone?”
“Then I’ll write about it later,” he replies, “with great tenderness and minimal legal exposure.”
A laugh breaks out of me. Then the air changes.