Chapter 34
Ella
The sun slips through the windows in fractured patterns, flickering across the dashboard like nervous fingers tapping out a code.
Finally, Ashton reaches forward, turns the music down, and glances sideways at me.
“Okay, so he is coming today, right?”
I nod at her, hoping it’s true.
Ashton shifts in the driver’s seat, twisting halfway around toward me. “So… I did another thing.”
I sigh. “If this is about the letter, I’m begging you — don’t.”
“It’s not,” she says. “Well. Not exactly. I just— like with Taylor Pierce — I looked up Maddison.”
“Ashton.”
“What? I was curious.”
“You’re always curious about things that aren’t your business.”
“I couldn’t find anything,” she continues anyway. “No socials, nothing. But I did find a LinkedIn. Turns out she’s a lawyer.”
My phone buzzes in my lap.
“I sent the photo.”
I don’t reach for it.
“Ella,” she presses, “just look. Don’t you want to know who wrote that letter?”
I exhale and open the message. The headshot fills the screen — neutral background, professional smile. Something about her face tugs at the back of my mind. She looks familiar. I frown slightly, then shake it off.
Everyone looks familiar.
I lock the screen and drop the phone back into my lap. “Happy?” I say. “Now, please stop stalking strangers.”
Ashton scoffs. “Research is not stalking.”
“It is when I didn’t ask for it.”
“Ok, fair, but…are we going to talk about this letter?” she finally asks, her tone deceptively casual but edged with curiosity.
“Who is Maddison? What are those keys for? And why does he keep getting all those texts from a private investigator? I mean, seriously, Ella, why doesn’t he ever open up? At least share a little?”
Her words came rapid-fire, each question a pebble hitting water, rippling through me. Before I can respond, she leans back, letting theories spill in a thoughtful stream.
“Maybe Maddison’s an old flame. Or maybe the keys go to some secret safety deposit box. The investigator could be—”
“Ashton, enough.” The sharpness in my voice surprises even me.
I let out an exhale, softening but staying firm.
“It’s not my place to be digging through his personal business.
When Nathan’s ready to tell me, he will…
if we even make it that far. Enough about me.
What about you? Are you ever going to pull the trigger on Bishop? ”
A smirk tugs at her lips. “We’ll see. Until I graduate, I don’t think I have time for someone.”
I give her a look, half stern, half amused. “You always have time for someone. You just have to start letting more people in than just me.”
She turns, eyes catching mine for a beat before darting back to the road, a small smile spreading across her face.
“Do I, though?” she teases, as if the question didn’t require an answer.
She glances back at me.
“I never say this stuff out loud, but…” She sighs. “Thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For everything,” she says, shrugging. “For giving me the job when I was drowning in student loans. For being the one person who didn’t make me feel like a screwup when I changed my major three times before finally landing on law.”
Her voice softens in a way I don’t hear often. “You’re my best friend, Ella. And even if you’re currently sleeping with a human cryptic crossword puzzle, I’m thankful for you.”
I smile, warmth blooming in my chest. “You’re welcome. Even for the unsolicited Nathan shade.”
“Oh, that was absolutely solicited.”
We laugh the rest of the way there.
My mom’s house looks like a Pinterest board came to life. String lights already hang across the backyard. Mason jars with wildflowers. A chalkboard sign on the porch that says “Welcome, Fam Jam 2026” in swoopy cursive I know she practiced.
As soon as we pull up, the front door bursts open.
“GIRLS!” my mom squeals, arms wide as she propels herself onto the porch. “You brought cupcakes!”
“I also brought myself,” I say, getting hugged within an inch of my life.
“You brought the mystery man, too?”
I pause. “He’s… on his way.”
Technically not a lie. Not yet.
We unload the car—baked goods galore—cupcakes, cookies, mini pies. Ashton already has one in her mouth before we’ve even reached the back yard.
About ten people are mingling, cousins, uncles, random plus-ones. The smell of barbecue is in the air. It’s all perfect except for the anxious buzzing in my chest that won’t go away.
At exactly 4:59 PM, my phone buzzes.
Nathan: I can’t make it today. I’m sorry, Ella.
I stare at the screen.
Of course, my first instinct is disappointment. I’d been looking forward to tonight more than I realized.
But the words don’t feel careless. They don’t feel dismissive.
They feel… heavy.
Something tight settles in my chest, not because I think he’s blowing me off—but because I get the sense that whatever pulled him away is bigger than this.
Bigger than me.
I don’t know what he’s carrying. But I know he’s carrying something.
And for the first time, the thought doesn’t make me feel rejected.
It makes me… worried.
I don’t have time to react because from the porch I hear someone say, “Scarlett’s here!”
I turn just as she walks in—poised, effortless, timeless—and beside her is a little girl.
No older than seven. Light brown curls. Delicate blue dress. One hand gripping Scarlett’s and the other clutching a tiny stuffed lion.
“Ella.” Scarlett smiles. “This is my daughter, Aurora.”
Daughter.
My eyes go wide. “Oh, my goodness… hi, sweetheart.”
Aurora steps forward and shyly hugs my leg.
And then I see her eyes. One brown. One blue. Striking. Rare. Beautiful.
“You have the most beautiful eyes,” I whisper.
She giggles and hides behind Scarlett’s leg. I want to ask a hundred questions, but instead I smile and tell Scarlett it’s good to see her.
Hours pass in a blur of food, laughter, and forced smiles. By the time I’m standing beside my mom at the sink, drying dishes, my feet ache, and my face hurts from pretending everything is fine.
She hands me a plate, then another.
“So,” she says casually. “Tell me about this mystery man.”
My stomach flips. “Who?”
She gives me a look. “The man who was supposed to come today.”
I smile despite myself. “His name’s Nathan.”
“Hmmm, do you like him?” she prompts.
“I… I do,” I admit. The words come out quieter than I expect.
She smiles, soft and warm. “That’s obvious.”
I dry a glass a little too carefully. “He was supposed to come.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Was?”
“Something came up,” I say quickly.
She pauses, then asks gently, “Something more important than you?”
I nod.
She sets the dish down and turns to me fully. “Sweetheart. There is nothing more important than you.”
I laugh under my breath. “Mom. Not everyone is going to think that way.”
She cups my cheek for just a second, the way she used to when I was a kid. “They should. You’re special, Ella. And no one should ever make you feel like you aren’t.”
For a moment, my throat feels too tight to speak.
So, I change the subject.
“Speaking of special,” I say, reaching for another plate. “It looks like Scarlett finally became a mom.
Her face brightens instantly. “Oh, yes. About a year ago, I think.”
“Really?”
“She adopted,” my mom says. “After everything she went through trying to get pregnant… I’ve never seen her this happy. And Aurora is a lucky little girl to have her.”
I smile. “Yeah. It’s amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Scarlett this settled.”
Somewhere behind us, Ashton is loudly arguing about whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich.
The party keeps going.
The drive home is quiet at first.
Then Ashton breaks. “I mean… seriously? Again?” she says, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “First, the dinner. Then, your family thing. At some point, it stops being bad timing and starts being a pattern.”
I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy watching the lights blur past the window.
“I get that he’s going through something,” she continues, softer now, but still frustrated. “I really do. But you can’t keep being the only one who bends.”
“I know,” I say. And I do.
She sighs. “You deserve someone who shows up, Ella. Not just when it’s easy.”
I turn to look at her. “I don’t think he’s doing this because he doesn’t care.”
She glances at me. “Then why is he doing it?”
I think about that for a second. About the way he looks sometimes, like he’s carrying something too heavy for one person. About the way he apologizes like he means it. About the way he keeps reaching and then pulling back.
“I think he’s stuck,” I say finally. “And I don’t think it has anything to do with me.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” she says gently.
“I know. I’m not saying it does.” I swallow. “I’m just saying… until he figures out whatever it is he’s carrying, I don’t think he could really be with anyone. Not the way a person should be.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “That doesn’t mean it hurts less,” she says.
“No,” I admit. “It really doesn’t.”
When we get back to the building, she hugs me and tells me to text her if I need anything. I promise I will.
In the elevator, I stare at the buttons longer than necessary. Then I press six. I’m not angry. But I’m tired of guessing.
His door is slightly ajar when I reach it.
I knock twice. “Nathan?”
No answer.
Louder now. “Nathan, are you in there?”
The door swings open from the force of my third knock.
I hesitate.
Something feels off. Was he robbed? Is he okay?
The air is cold. Stale. The lights are dim. The apartment is…bare. Like no one really lives here. Like it’s a stage set for someone else’s life.
And then I hear it…coughing.
From behind a closed door down the hall.
“Nathan?” I say again, knocking.
More coughing. Raspy. Like he’s been drinking or drowning or both.
I twist the handle. The door creaks open, and I step inside. And then I stop breathing.
It’s not a bedroom. It’s a war zone.
Walls covered in newspaper clippings, maps, scribbled notes, and red string. Dozens of photos. Pins stuck into timelines. And at the center of it all…
A picture of a little girl.
Taped right above a Post-it note that reads: “Find Ivy.”
My jaw drops, and I gasp.
I know that face.
The world tilts.
News segments. Grocery store bulletin boards. Social media feeds flooded for weeks. Candlelight vigils in the rain.
Find Ivy.
My eyes snap to Nathan. Oh, my God.
That’s why he looked familiar. He’s not just some guarded, intense guy from down the hall. He’s her father. My stomach lurches.
Slumped against the wall, bottle of whiskey half-empty, is Nathan.
I rush over. “Nathan! Are you okay?”
His eyes open, dazed.
He sees me.
And something in him snaps. “What are you doing here?” he yells, staggering to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”
“I—I was worried, your door was open, you were passed out—”
“GET OUT.”
“Nathan, please, just talk to—”
“GET. THE HELL. OUT.”
His voice was the kind of tone that says you were never supposed to get this close.
Tears blur my vision.
I turn. I walk. I shut his door behind me.
And when I reach my apartment, I step inside and close the door, then collapse against it, sliding down to the floor, heart in my throat, eyes wide, hands shaking.
The realization of what I just walked in on hits me all at once.