Chapter 17 #2
"Because I wanted to do it alone. Because I thought I needed to prove something." The microwave beeped. She ignored it. "Because I'm still not used to having someone I can lean on."
"And how did that work out?"
"Terribly." She almost laughed. "I sat in a federal building and listened to a prosecutor tell me exactly how my father was murdered, and then I drove to his grave and told him everything, and then I came here and you weren't home and I stood in your kitchen feeling sorry for myself because I'd pushed away the one person who would have made all of it easier. "
Ronan crossed the kitchen in three strides, pulled her against his chest, and held on.
He smelled like motor oil and sweat. His shirt was rough against her cheek. His heart beat steadily under her ear.
"I would have come," he said into her hair. "If you'd asked."
“I’m aware.”
"I would have sat in that waiting room for hours. I would have driven you there and back. I would have held your hand while she told you things you already knew but needed to hear anyway."
"I know that too." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "That's the problem. You would have done all of that, and I still tried to do it alone."
He pulled back enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, searching. "Why is that a problem?"
"Because I don't know how to stop. A lifetime of doing everything alone, trusting no one, keeping everyone at arm's length. It's not a habit. It's who I am now. And I don't know how to be someone different."
"You don't have to be someone different." He cupped her face in his hands. His palms were rough, calloused. "You just have to let me in sometimes. Not every time. Not even most times. Just sometimes."
"What if I forget?"
"Then I'll remind you."
"What if I push you away?"
"Then I'll wait until you're ready to pull me back."
"What if—"
"Lila." His thumbs brushed her cheekbones.
"I spent twelve years in a job that required me to trust no one.
I know what it's like to build walls so high you forget there's anything on the other side.
And I understand it won't disappear simply because you wish it would.
He pressed his forehead to hers. "We'll figure it out. Together. One day at a time."
She closed her eyes. Let herself breathe.
"They poisoned his coffee," she said. "At a town council meeting. He probably shook hands with the person who did it. Smiled at them. Talked about the weather."
Ronan didn't say anything. Just held her.
"Warren is going to spend the rest of his life in prison.
And I know that's supposed to feel like justice, but right now it just feels like—" She searched for the word.
"Arithmetic. Like I'm trying to balance an equation that can't be balanced.
My father's life on one side. A prison sentence on the other. The numbers don't add up."
"They never do."
"Then what's the point?"
"The point is that he can't do it to anyone else.
The point is that the truth is finally on the record.
The point is that you didn't let them get away with it.
" He pulled back to look at her. "The point isn't closure, Lila.
It's just—the next chapter. A different story than the one they wanted to tell. "
The microwave had long since stopped beeping. The pasta was probably cold. Outside, the darkness had settled in completely, the stars emerging one by one above the tree line.
"I went to his grave," she said. "First time since the funeral."
"How was it?"
"Hard. Good. Both." She stepped back, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I told him about you."
Ronan's expression flickered. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer. "What did you tell him?"
"That you're complicated. That he'd have questions about your past. That you're good in the ways that matter."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's generous."
"It's true."
"It's the version of me you want to see."
"It's the version of you that's standing in this kitchen." She reached up and touched his face. The stubble on his jaw. The faint scar along his cheekbone. "The other versions—the ones from before—they're part of you. But they're not all of you. Not anymore."
He turned his head and kissed her palm. A small gesture. Quiet. The kind of intimacy that didn't need words.
"The pasta's cold," she said.
"I'll make more."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then we won't eat." He took her hand and led her toward the screened porch. "Come sit with me. Watch the stars come out. Tell me about your father if you want. Or don't talk at all. Whatever you need."
They settled onto the porch swing, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. The string lights cast soft shadows. The frogs sang. The inlet stretched out before them, dark and still and patient.
She didn't talk about her father. She didn't talk about anything. She just sat there, letting the silence hold her, letting Ronan's warmth anchor her to the present moment.
Tomorrow, she would call Delia and tell her the truth. She would go back to work and process permit applications and pretend everything was normal. She would start preparing for the trial, for the testimony, for the public reckoning that was still months away.
But tonight, she would just be here. In this cottage with its new dock and its string lights and its man who smelled like motor oil and kept leftover pasta in the fridge.
It wasn't a fairy tale ending. It wasn't closure. It wasn't the tidy resolution that stories promised, and life rarely delivered.
It was just a Tuesday in December. A woman on a porch swing. A future that was uncertain and terrifying and somehow, against all odds, worth showing up for.
Lila closed her eyes and let herself rest.