Chapter 20
Kayla
Once the plane touches down in Chicago, I can finally let out the breath I hadn't realized I’d been holding. It’s not relief. It’s something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Like I’m running from something I don’t have the courage to face.
I’d spent all three and a half hours staring out the plane window, watching the clouds blur past and wondering how, in just a few short months, my life had twisted into something unrecognizable.
Two and a half months ago, I was sitting in my room in Chicago searching for a new adventure.
I was ready to discover my place in the world, to carve out a spot that was mine, and only mine.
But somehow, without meaning to, I’d found myself smack dab in the middle of someone else’s story.
It happened so quickly, I hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.
And now, faced with two realities that didn’t belong to me, I’d gone running back to my brother. Literally.
The second I saw him waiting for me at the arrivals gate, I’d broken out into a sprint. His hug was strong and warm and familiar. Nothing felt quite like home as my brother’s hug.
Now, as the sun sets, I’m sitting in the window seat of my brother’s high-rise apartment in downtown Chicago, looking out at Lake Michigan, and trying to fill my lungs with something that feels less heavy.
We’d only walked through the door twenty minutes ago.
Fletch hadn’t even batted an eye as I slipped off my shoes at the front door and tucked them neatly to the side.
He walked into the apartment in his shiny dress shoes, dragging my suitcase to my room while I made myself comfy on the couch, barefoot.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Faith says, setting a mug of hot chocolate beside me.
“This place has been too quiet without you.” It feels like a ridiculous thing to say.
Down on the street, sirens blare, and angry drivers honk their horns.
I never noticed how loud Chicago was until I had something to compare it to.
Is it crazy that I already miss the whistle of the wind and the silence in the meadows of Montana?
“It’s weird to be back,” I answer softly, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. “It feels different, somehow.”
She flops onto the couch, her drink forgotten on the coffee table. “That’s what growing up does. Makes what once was home feel so small and insignificant.”
Or maybe Montana just made me feel that much bigger.
“We’re really glad you’re here,” Fletcher calls from the kitchen. He’s rearranging the fridge to make room for the three takeout containers I insisted on buying. “Even if your last phone call has me mildly concerned for your mental health.”
“My mental health is fine,” I say automatically. It’s not technically a lie. I'm a traumatized survivor of childhood neglect—my brain will never be healthy. But it’s not about my past anymore.
No. It’s about the future. It’s about keeping the two firmly separated. “I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay?”
They don’t ask for details, and I’m sure Faith has coached my brother on how to act already—otherwise, he would have already been trying to break down my walls.
Faith gives me a long look that says, whenever you’re ready, and Fletch just sets a chocolate croissant in front of me before pulling up a stool at the kitchen island. For the first time all week, I feel like someone’s on my side. It’s just not the person I want it to be.
We spend Saturday doing normal things. Lazy brunch where I drink too much coffee and Fletcher warns me of its adverse health risks.
Wandering Lincoln Park, where dogs wear better coats than I do.
Faith drags us to a vintage bookstore that smells like old paper and reminds me of college.
I don’t buy anything for myself, but I find a couple of old kids' books, stories like The Ugly Duckling and Rumpelstiltskin, with hand-drawn pictures. They remind me of the kids. Of Ben.
At lunch, we sit on the rooftop patio of a café, being whipped by the wind and watching people pass like they have somewhere important to be.
Nobody calls out to their neighbor, asking about their day.
It makes me miss the light pace of Montana.
Even when dealing with animals twice their size, nobody seems to ever be in a hurry.
“So,” Faith says casually, after giving me the illusion of space for almost a solid 24 hours. “Want to talk about it?”
I stir the lemon in my iced tea. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Fletch makes a noise, not quite a scoff, but not exactly sympathetic either. “How about the beginning?”
So I tell them. About the dump of an apartment with its hotplate kitchen and sink that doubles as a shower. About how the water didn’t work, and I was too proud to call them for help. About how Colter offered me a room.
Faith and Fletcher exchange a look when I get to that part. “You moved in with a guy you barely know?” Fletcher’s voice is a tightrope stretched too far.
“It’s Castlebrook. The only criminals there are a group of lemon bandits with furry hands.” I reply dryly.
Faith blinks. “I’m sorry—what?”
“It’s not important.” I wave it off. “The point is, it wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a place to stay. But then I started to feel like I belonged. Like I had a place.”
“And then?” Faith prompts gently.
“And then I remembered I didn’t. That I’m a guest. That Colt already has a life, and I’m just passing through. I let myself believe in something that wasn’t mine to believe in.”
“So he hurt you?” Fletcher asks, voice sharp.
“No.” I shake my head. My instinct is to protect Colt from my brother’s ridiculous overprotectiveness, similar to how I once defended Fletcher to Colt back at the wildflower valley.
He’s not even here, but the thought of my brother thinking ill of him has my stomach turning. “I just got lost in the feeling of family, I forgot that I was just a guest. Seriously, I did this to myself. I fantasized about something I couldn't have. I let my heart get ahead of reality.”
They let the silence stretch. And it’s comforting, in a weird way, to be held in it.
“You always did imagine your books coming to life,” Fletcher murmurs.
A gust of wind blows across the rooftop, cold and biting. Chicago smells like exhaust and pavement. I never noticed it before, but I notice it now. I was hoping I’d fall out of love with Castlebrook while I was here. But so far, it’s Castlebrook 2, Chicago 0.
Later that night, after Faith falls asleep halfway through a documentary and Fletcher disappears into his office to finish work he swore he wouldn’t bring home, I find myself scrolling through the photos on my phone.
There’s one of Ben wearing a face mask, another of Colter asleep on the couch with a book open on his chest. I stop at a photo from a few weeks ago—Ben, Colter, Sylvie, and I sitting around the dinner table with cards spread everywhere.
Mandy took the photo, insisting I should be in it. Ben’s laughing so hard he’s blurry.
The ache in my chest expands like a slow balloon.
I thought distance would bring clarity. That if I put a few hundred miles between me and that ranch house, I’d feel more in control.
Instead, I just miss them. Terribly.
On Sunday morning, Fletcher makes pancakes from scratch. Faith plays music on the speaker, something old and soulful, and dances barefoot through the kitchen like she belongs here.
She does.
I used to, too.
I don’t think I do anymore.
I stare down at the email Harry sent me, letting indecision sweep through me. A week ago, I would have been jumping up and down at this email. Today, I’m just confused.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I sigh, dropping my phone face down on the counter.
Faith doesn’t say anything right away. She twirls into the counter, pausing to study me. “I think you do,” she says. “You just don’t like the answer.
I frown.
“You want to be independent, Kayla. That’s not a bad thing.
But independence doesn’t mean isolation.
Everyone needs someone in their corner. You’ve spent so long fearing that you’ll turn into your mother, lonely and unloved.
You keep living in that fear when that’s not your reality. Look around you, Kayla. You’re loved.”
“I know you and Fletch love me, but you both deserve to start your own family now. Without me.” Jealousy shoots through me as I think about the family I thought I had grown back in Montana.
Maybe Faith is wrong, maybe I am like my mother—so desperate for love that I cling to anyone who shows me an inkling of decency.
Isn’t that exactly what I did to Colter and his family?
“Why can’t you have both?” Faith asks, breaking through my depression train of thought. “One day, if we have kids, you’ll be their aunt, and they’ll love you, whether you’re here or in Montana.”
“I don’t have anyone in Montana. Nothing is keeping me there.”
“Maybe not yet,” she shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean you never will. All I know is you’ve spent the whole weekend wishing you were somewhere else.” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Go with your heart, Kayla. I did, and look at the family I got out of it.”
And then my weekend is over.
The flight back to Montana is quiet. My phone stays on airplane mode, even during my three-hour drive from the airport to the ranch. I don’t even turn on the radio. It’s a break from all the voices and decisions shouting at me.
When my tires finally hit the gravel driveway, something inside me settles.
The house is dark, and I know they’re at Ben’s baseball game tonight. I hate that I missed it, but this was the earliest flight I could catch. There was no way I was making it back in time for the game, and even if I did, I’m not sure I would be invited.