Chapter 22
Fight Like You Mean It
Remi
Ididn’t plan it. Not exactly.
But after a few days of the girls retreating again, and the heaviness in the house settling like a fog none of us could shake, I knew we needed out.
They needed out.
Not just of the house—but of the weight they carried. Of the fear that someone loving them meant they’d be left behind again. They needed proof that not everyone leaves. That when people stay, it’s something beautiful. Something rare.
So I loaded them into the car and took them to the one place I knew love had always lived.
My parents’ house.
I pull into the driveway slower than usual, my hands tight on the wheel.
The girls haven’t said much since we left the house.
Payton’s staring out the window, sketchpad closed in her lap like she doesn’t trust herself to use it here.
Paige has been messing with the strap on her seatbelt, eyes bouncing between the neighborhood and me like she’s waiting for a reason to back out.
“This is where your mom and dad live?” Paige asked, her voice small.
I nodded. “Yep. And they’re dying to meet you.”
Payton raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
That question hurt more than it should’ve. But I kept my smile soft. “Because anyone who matters to me matters to them.”
My mom opened the front door before we even made it to the porch. She was in one of her floral aprons, the same kind she’d worn since I was a kid. Her hair was pinned up in a messy bun, and her grin was wide enough to hurt her cheeks.
“There you are!” she called out, pulling me into a hug before turning to the girls. “And these must be the famous twins. I’ve heard so much about you both.”
Paige offered a shy smile. Payton stared down at her shoes.
“Come in, come in,” Mom waved them in like they were old friends, “I was just getting ready to bake cupcakes for Oliver’s birthday tomorrow.”
The girls follow behind me slowly. Warily.
Inside, the house hums with soft jazz playing from the old radio, and something sweet baking already. The girls hang close to me at first, watching as my mom starts pulling out mixing bowls and laying them on the counter.
“I was going to do this solo,” she says casually, “but baking’s a two-girl job minimum.”
Paige eyes the sprinkles. “What kind of cupcakes?”
“Chocolate with ganache in the middle.”
“He’s turning twenty-six and still insists on cupcakes with fancy filling.”
That’s when the back door bursts open and in walks Oliver himself—grease on his jeans, baseball cap backward, and a crooked grin already in place.
“Did someone say my name?” he asks, winking at the girls. “Better not be embarrassing me, Ma.”
My mom swats at him with a towel. “You embarrass yourself just fine, thank you.”
Oliver walks over and flicks a sprinkle at Paige. “You must be one of the twins. I’m guessing you’re the one who still thinks sprinkles are a food group?”
Paige’s eyes go wide. Then she snorts.
The tension breaks like a bubble popping.
Payton’s still stiff, but even she watches Oliver with mild curiosity as he snatches a cupcake from a cooling rack and ducks away from Mom’s glare.
“Don’t mind him,” I tell them. “He’s the middle child. Needs constant attention.”
“Hey, I heard that,” Oliver yells from the hallway.
My dad, who is reading the paper at the dining room table, looked up with a slow smile. “You the artist?”
Payton looked panicked. “I’m not— I just draw stuff. It’s not good.”
Dad stood, brushing crumbs from his hands. “Well, the good thing is art doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be yours.”
That made her glance up.
He held out a hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I watched them disappear down the hall to his workshop, a space that always smelled like cedar and motor oil. It used to be my hideout growing up. Now it was Payton’s.
Paige is already helping pour flour into a bowl, standing on a chair next to Mom. Her hands are tentative, but she’s smiling.
I lean against the counter, taking it all in.
The music. The laughter. The way my dad’s voice carries in from the back room as he tells Payton about the different woods he works with. The way my mom corrects Paige’s measuring with patience and praise instead of scolding.
It’s the kind of love that never raises its voice to be heard.
I’ve always known my parents’ love was something rare. My dad still leaves sticky notes on the bathroom mirror when he knows she’s having a rough day. My mom still saves the corner piece of cake because it’s his favorite. They fight, but never ugly. Never to wound.
They were the first example I ever had that love could last.
That it could be soft and solid and still feel like magic.
And now they’re giving the girls a glimpse of that too.
They’re showing them that staying doesn’t have to come with conditions. That love doesn’t have to hurt to be real.
I glance toward the hallway where Payton disappeared. I hear my dad’s voice again—low and steady—and then Payton’s, higher but still quiet, answering back.
Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
The clatter of measuring cups. Paige’s delighted squeals when my mom let her crack an egg. It was the most sound I’d heard from her since they got back from Stella’s.
And then I heard my dad’s voice—calm and curious.
“What’d you make here?”
Payton’s answer was soft but clear. “It’s a heart. But split down the middle.”
“Why?” he asked gently.
“So I can paint them different colors. Like me and Paige. We’re different... but we’re still one heart.”
I had to turn away for a second. Press my fist to my chest and breathe.
This is what staying looks like. What safety can create when it’s allowed to grow roots.
I didn’t know what the rest of today would bring. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Today, they saw what it meant to be loved. Completely. Quietly. Without condition.
It’s been a week since I took the girls to my parents’ house.
A week since something shifted.
Not just in them—in Coleman too.
He’s still quiet. Still reserved. Still that strong, still-line man who carries the weight of the world like it’s stitched into his spine. But now, there’s softness. There’s warmth. There’s a flicker of something that glows in the space between us and lingers just a second longer than it should.
It’s in the way his hand brushes mine when he passes the salt at dinner, knuckles grazing like a whisper and not quite pulling away. It’s in the way his eyes track me when I move through a room, like he’s watching something precious. Like he’s not sure if I’m real.
It’s in the board games on the kitchen table—the ones he pulls out after dinner and insists we all play, even when Payton pretends she’d rather do anything else. It’s in the soft laughter I catch when Paige snorts soda out of her nose because Coleman made some dry joke that caught her off guard.
It’s in the pasta he made three nights ago—my favorite—and the way he stood behind me while I stirred the sauce, one hand light on the small of my back, like he couldn’t help himself.
It’s driving me insane.
And I think he knows it.
But today? Today is different.
Today, the girls are quiet again.
Paige has been biting her nail since breakfast, and Payton hasn’t picked up her sketchpad all day. They both keep glancing at the clock like they’re waiting on a countdown they don’t want to reach.
Because today… they go back to Stella’s.
I hate it. Hate how it tightens the air in the house. How it steals the joy we spent two whole weeks rebuilding. I hate what it does to them—to him. And I hate that there’s nothing I can do to fix it.
Coleman doesn’t talk much during lunch. He watches the girls instead, eyes tracking every nervous tick, every tight grip on the edge of their plates. I don’t miss the way his jaw flexes when Payton asks if he packed her headphones.
I sit beside Paige on the couch as she ties her shoes. Her fingers tremble just a little, so I reach over and still them.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” I whisper. “Sunday night. Just like I promised.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. Then—without a word—she throws her arms around me and hugs me hard.
It nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.
“I’ll miss you,” she mumbles into my shirt.
My fingers wind into her hair. “I’ll miss you too, Button.”
When she pulls back, I glance toward Payton. She’s standing by the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder, arms folded tight across her chest.
“I meant it, Pay,” I tell her gently. “I’ll be here.”
She doesn’t respond. But her eyes stay locked on mine a second longer than usual before she turns and heads for the car.
I stand in the doorway, watching as they climb in. Paige waves through the window. Payton doesn’t look back.
Coleman rounds the car, keys in hand, but pauses when he sees me still standing there.
“I was thinking,” he says, voice low, “maybe… you could stay here this weekend.”
I blink. “What?”
“While they’re gone,” he clarifies. “You don’t have to. I just… I’d like it. If you did.”
It guts me to say no.
“I think it’s better if I don’t,” I say softly. “Just for a couple days. I need to be in my space. Clear my head.”
He nods slowly, like he already knew I’d say that. But I see it—the flicker of disappointment, the quiet ache behind his eyes.
“Right,” he murmurs. “Of course.”
He takes a small step closer, and I brace myself.
Then he leans in, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, and lingers there longer than he should.
“See you Sunday night, Remi.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a promise.
I nod. “See you Sunday.”
And then I watch him drive away with the girls, wishing—for the hundredth time—that I could keep them locked up in this house forever.
I’m curled up on my couch in pajama shorts and a threadbare hoodie, the kind that’s soft from too many washes and carries the faintest smell of home.
Matthew’s been blowing up my phone trying to get me to go out, but I already told him no twice.
I’m not making the same mistake I did last time—drinking too much and texting Coleman like I was some desperate girl waiting on a man.
I sigh and toss my phone to the other side of the couch.
Quiet. That’s what I need tonight. Just me, a blanket, and overpriced Thai food I don’t have to share with anyone. I pull up the delivery tracker just as my phone rings again.
Unknown number.
I almost don’t answer.
But something about it… makes my stomach turn.
“Hello?”
There’s a beat of silence, then hushed breathing. “Remi?”
It’s Payton.
Every part of me goes still. “Payton, what’s wrong?”
“I tried calling Dad, but he’s not answering. I think he’s showing a house.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper, like she’s trying not to be heard. Panic flickers in my chest.
“Okay. That’s okay,” I say, trying to stay calm. “You did the right thing calling me. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
I hear a soft sob in the background. Paige.
“We’re in our room. Mom has a man over. They’re drinking and started yelling. He threw something, and then they went quiet, but we got scared.”
I’m already grabbing my keys. “You and Paige are okay?”
“Yeah,” she whispers, “but Paige keeps crying. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I’m on my way.”
I don’t hang up. I keep her on the line while I rush to the door, shoving my feet into the nearest shoes. My heart is beating so fast it’s hard to breathe.
When I get to Stella’s, the yelling is loud enough I don’t even need to knock to know what’s happening. Still, I bang on the door like I’m trying to take it off the hinges.
No answer.
The yelling keeps going.
“Payton,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear. “I’m outside. Get your sister and come out the front door. Right now.”
Thirty seconds later, the door swings open, and both girls come rushing out. Paige’s cheeks are red and blotchy. Payton’s holding her sister’s hand so tight their knuckles are white.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out, wrapping my arms around them. “Come on. Let’s go.”
We’re halfway down the steps when Stella appears.
Drunk. Eyes wild. Hair a mess.
“You can’t take them!” she slurs, grabbing Payton’s arm.
Everything inside me snaps.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” I growl, stepping between them. “They’re not yours. You don’t get to be their mom just because you gave birth to them. You’re a disaster.”
She lunges again.
And I don’t even think.
I remember what my brothers taught me—how to fight like I mean it, how to protect myself when I’m the smallest person in the room. My foot slams into her knee hard. She crumples halfway down, gasping in pain.
Then I headbutt her.
Hard.
She hits the porch rail with a cry, and I pull both girls behind me, shielding them with my body as I lead them down the stairs.
“Don’t look back,” I whisper. “Just get in the car.”
We don’t speak on the ride back.
Paige falls asleep within minutes. Payton stares out the window, her jaw tight. My hand shakes as I dial Coleman.
Straight to voicemail.
“Hey… I have the girls. Something happened at Stella’s. They’re safe, but I need you to come home as soon as you can. Please.”
I hang up.
And then I call the only other person I trust to help.
Callum Rizzoli.
Because tonight just became a war.
And I’m not losing. Not when it comes to these girls. And I am pretty sure I am going to need a lawyer.