Chapter 2
Lucy
Caden,
It's been seven days and seventeen hours since I last saw your face. Not that I'm counting. (Okay, maybe I'm totally counting.)
I've been volunteering more at Oakside, trying to stay busy so no one asks what's wrong, and I don't have to lie. You'd laugh if you saw me trying to wrangle a toolbox while wearing one of Lexi's big maternity aprons.
The world keeps turning like it always does, but it feels different now. Quieter. It’s as if the music's playing in another room, and I can't quite catch the melody without you.
I haven't told anyone. About us. About this.
I think about the river. The cottage. Your hands. The way you whispered Sunshine, like it was sacred. I'm holding onto that, Caden. Holding onto you.
I love you, Caden Mason.
I loved you when you kissed me on the porch. I loved you when you called me Sunshine. And I love you now, even if I have to do it in silence.
Come back to me safe.
Love,
Lucy
The house is too quiet without him.
It's only been a few weeks since Caden deployed, and already the silence feels like a scream pressing into my chest. I carry it everywhere, through the halls of Oakside, through my morning classes in Savannah.
I hold on to the last words he said to me like a lifeline. “When I get back, we’ll tell them. Until then, I want this bubble a little longer.”
Our bubble.
With everything in me, I want to believe we can hold on to it. But then the nausea hits again, sharp and sudden, and I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
When I lift my head, my reflection in the mirror is pale, eyes wide. My heart is pounding.
No. It can't be. I've been on the pill since junior year, and I haven't missed a single day, not once.
In a pharmacy three towns over, I buy a pregnancy test. I wear a hoodie and sunglasses, as if someone will recognize me and tattle to Noah through the grapevine. I wish I were overreacting, but in a small town, it works that way.
So there isn't any evidence at home, I take the test in a fast-food bathroom. It seems like a lifetime as I pace and wait for the test to do its thing.
Two pink lines.
For twenty minutes, I sit frozen in my car, eyes locked on that tiny plastic stick as if sheer willpower could change it.
It doesn't.
I'm pregnant.
And he's gone.
I don't remember driving home, but the next time I look up, I'm sitting on the couch, in the apartment attached to my brother Noah's house.
My fingers tremble as I grab a pen and pull out the stationery I use for my letters to Caden. I write the first draft in a blur, the words coming out messy and cracked, just like my heart.
Caden,
Please don't hate me for not telling you this in person.
I didn't know. Not until after you left.
I'm pregnant, and we’re having a baby. I don't know what this means, nor do I know how we'll make it work or what you'll say when you read this.
But what I do know is that I love you, and this baby is part of both of us.
And lastly, I want you to know that I'm not afraid of loving you. I just hope this doesn’t change everything between us.
Love, Lucy
I fold the letter.
But I don't send it.
The porch creaks beneath me as I curl into the corner swing, knees pulled up to my chest. I've read Caden's last letter four times since breakfast. My stomach churns, but I don't know if it's the hormones or the fear.
Lexi and Grace find me like this. Lexi carries a mason jar full of sweet tea, and Grace has a bag of those sour gummy candies I've been craving like air.
After Lexi hands me the drink, she flops beside me, glancing at the letter in my hands. Grace leans against the railing.
"Oh, thank God," Lexi says dramatically, eyeing my blotchy face. "You're just crying over a boy. I thought it was something serious, like out-of-coffee serious."
Grace snorts. "Or like Noah burned the bacon again."
I laugh, but it breaks halfway through. The sound turns to a sob, and then I can't stop. The words rush out before I can think.
"I'm pregnant."
The porch goes still.
Grace's eyes go wide. "Shit. Okay. That's... big."
Lexi blinks, then sets the tea down slowly. "Whose?"
I give her a look.
Her mouth opens. Then closes. "Caden."
Tears spill down my cheeks as I nod. She saw one of his letters come in and asked me about it. After some convincing, she promised not to tell Noah. Though I might have led her to believe it wasn't as serious as it is.
"I know you’re going to ask, but I don't know how this happened. I've been on birth control for years, and not missed a day," I say.
"Oh, Lucy. When Caden was here, you were on those antibiotics for a sinus infection.
They can make the birth control ineffective for up to a week after you finish them," Lexi says, pulling me into her arms. She says nothing, only wraps her arms around me and lets me fall apart against her shoulder. Grace rubs my back.
When I finally pull away, Lexi brushes my hair from my face.
"Does Noah know?" Lexi asks.
"God, no. Please. Don't tell him. Not yet. I can't, he'll lose it. He'll go straight into the war zone and drag Caden home by the collar."
Lexi gives me a look. "You know he might do that anyway."
"Not if I can keep him in the dark a little longer. Caden and I are serious. We have plans for when he gets home," I whisper.
Grace sits beside me. "So, what are you going to do?"
"Keep going. One day at a time. And I’ll write him. Just... not the baby part. Not yet. He needs to keep a clear head and come home safe."
Lexi nods. "Okay. Then we keep the secret. And we make a plan. You're not doing this alone. Got it?"
I nod and try to believe her.
Sunshine,
God, I needed your letter this week. It came after a hell of a twenty-four-hour shift, sand in my boots, and some dumb kid trying to show off with a grenade. Reading your handwriting grounded me again. I sat on my bunk with my flashlight and read your words over and over like they were gospel.
I think a lot about the porch drawing I sent you.
The one with the white rockers and the wind chimes.
You're there in every version, barefoot, laughing, and a camera around your neck.
I started sketching the floor plan again.
Open concept with the big kitchen you want.
A window over the sink so you can watch the kids play in the yard.
Yeah, I said it. Kids. I don't know when or how, but if it's with you, I'm in.
Stay safe for me. Keep writing. You're the thread holding me together out here.
Always,
Caden
The weeks blur together. I keep writing Caden every day and mail a batch of letters every Sunday night, pouring my heart into the pages.
I don't tell him about the baby, but I tell him everything else.
How I miss his laugh. How I caught Noah trying to fix a broken fence and nearly knocked himself out with a hammer.
How I dream about the farmhouse he sketched and how I imagine rocking chairs and soft blankets and wind chimes.
His letters come back in an uneven rhythm. Sometimes two in one week. Sometimes none for almost ten days. But when they come, they're gold.
Lucy,
You were right about the porch. That's where I imagine us most. You with your camera, barefoot and grinning. Me in a rocking chair with a beer and the dog at our feet. I've been sketching again. Drew out a layout I think you'll like. Open kitchen. Big windows because you said you wanted light.
Sometimes I read your letters more than once. Helps me breathe out here. Keep writing.
Always, C
Caden,
It's storming tonight, and I can't sleep. You always said thunder makes you feel alive. Me? I just wish you were here.
I've been thinking about your homestead sketches. The ones with the loft above the living room. I keep picturing a nursery up there instead, with soft yellow walls, a rocking chair that creaks, and lullabies floating up to the rafters.
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Or maybe this is what love does. Makes us dream things we're not brave enough to say out loud.
I'm still scared, Caden. Every day. But I'm more afraid of a future that doesn't have you in it.
Come home to me.
Yours,
Lucy
I fold all my letters carefully and tuck them away in a shoebox under my bed. Each one is a thread that keeps me tethered to him.
As the weeks pass, my bump starts to show. I wear loose sweaters and oversized hoodies. To throw everyone off, I say I'm stress eating. Grace smirks every time I say it.
The secret grows right along with my belly.
And then, the letters stop.
Nothing comes that week. Or the next.
I check the mail three times a day, fingers trembling as I reach into the box. But it's always empty. No slanted handwriting. No sketches. No Sunshine.
At night, I curl into my bed, holding his last letter tight to my chest.
I read the words again and again, praying that the next envelope will come.
But it doesn't.
Just silence.
And this time, it's louder than ever.