Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
Candace
Rosie's porch light was on when we pulled up to the curb.
Sebastian shifted in his seat, a sharp breath catching as he tried to straighten his leg. The drive left him stiff—his hand sliding to his thigh, fingers pressing once, like he could will the pain away.
"You okay?" I asked, killing the engine.
"Fine." He tried to bend his knee and hissed through his teeth. "Beatrice is just being dramatic."
"Beatrice needs to stop pushing herself so hard."
"Beatrice doesn't take orders from anyone," he tried to tease, but his voice was strained.
The front door swung open before I could respond. Rosie stepped onto the porch, warm light spilling out behind her.
"There you are!" she called, already descending the steps. "I was starting to worry."
"It's only ten-thirty, Mom."
She reached the car as Sebastian hauled himself out, his boot clunking against the pavement.
Her gaze swept over him with the practiced efficiency of a woman who'd spent decades cataloging her children's injuries. "How's the leg?"
"Fine."
"Liar." She turned to me, expression softening. "Candace, sweetheart, don't you dare drive off. I made pork cutlets for lunch and I made you a doggy bag."
I blinked. "You didn't have to—"
"Nonsense. You're skin and bones, honey. A strong wind could carry you off." She was already waving me toward the house. "Come inside. I'll only be a minute."
Skin and bones.
My brain seized on it, turning it over like a shiny coin.
Skin and bones. She thinks you're thin.
"Candace?" Sebastian's voice cut through the spiral. "You coming?"
I forced a smile. "Yeah. Coming."
I grabbed Lavender from the backseat and followed them up the walkway.
The kitchen smelled like rosemary and cookies. A dozen cookies on a plate sat on the counter. Next to it, a foil-wrapped container, far larger than any reasonable "doggy bag" had a right to be.
"Sit, sit," Rosie commanded. Sebastian lowered himself into a chair with a grunt while she fluttered around him, checking his boot, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead like he was five years old with a fever.
"Mom, I'm fine."
"You're gray."
"I'm always gray. It's my natural complexion."
"Don't be smart with me." She swatted his shoulder. "You've been on that leg all night. You need to soak in the tub—hot water, Epsom salts, at least thirty minutes."
"I know how to take a bath, Mom."
"Do you? Because last week I found you asleep on the couch with your boot still on."
Sebastian shot me a look that screamed help me, but I just shrugged. He was on his own with this one.
"Fine," he relented, pushing himself up from the chair with visible effort. "I'll go soak. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." Rosie kissed his cheek. "Now say goodnight to Candace like a gentleman and go upstairs."
He turned to me, and something in his expression softened. The playful irritation faded, replaced by something quieter. Warmer.
"Thanks again," he said. "For tonight. For driving. For..." He gestured vaguely at Lavender, still tucked under my arm. "Letting me win you a defective elephant."
"Unique," I corrected again.
"Unique." His smile deepened. "Goodnight, Candace."
"Goodnight, Sebastian."
He held my gaze a beat too long—long enough to warm my cheeks—then turned and limped toward the stairs.
His boot thudded against each step. Slower as he climbed.
I watched until he disappeared around the corner.
Then I reached for the doggy bag. "Well, I should probably—"
Rosie's hand closed around my arm.
Gentle. Firm.
"Candace, honey." Her voice softened, the fussing-mother brightness gone. "Can we talk for a minute?"
My stomach dropped.
"I really should get going," I tried, gesturing toward the door with my free hand. "It's late, and you probably want to—"
"I want to talk to you." Rosie's grip didn't loosen. Her eyes—warm and brown, so much like Sebastian's—held mine with quiet insistence. "Please. Just for a few minutes."
I could have pulled away. Could have made an excuse, grabbed the doggy bag, and fled into the night like the coward I was.
"Okay," I heard myself say instead. "Sure."
She released my arm and gestured toward the living room. "Come. Sit."
I followed her to the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion. Lavender sat in my lap, her lopsided trunk pointing accusingly at the ceiling.
Rosie settled into the armchair across from me, smoothing her hands over her knees. She didn't speak. Just waited.
Upstairs, footsteps creaked. A door opened. Closed.
Then the groan of old pipes. Water rushing through the walls.
The bath.
Rosie's shoulders eased.
"I don't want you to think I'm prying," she began, voice low. "And I don't want you to feel ambushed. But Emma told me a little bit about what you've been going through."
The words hit like ice water. Heat crawled up my neck. Not anger—worse. Exposure.
I kept my face neutral. Pleasant. The smile I'd perfected over years of brand deals and sponsorship meetings.
But inside, something crumpled.
"Oh," I said lightly, fingers tightening around Lavender. "She mentioned... what exactly?"
"Nothing really," she said kindly. "Just that you were dealing with a lot. I begged for more details, but she didn't budge."
She met my gaze. "She's a good friend."
"She is," I agreed quietly. "The best."
Rosie studied me for a long moment. Then she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.
"I'm not going to ask what's going on," she said. "That's your business. And Emma's, if you choose to share it."
A pause.
"But I want you to know something."
I waited.
"You don't have to carry it alone. Not in this house."
Her smile softened. "You're family now, Candace. Whether you like it or not."
Family.
"Mrs. Holt—"
"Rosie," she corrected gently.
"Rosie." I swallowed hard. "I appreciate that. Really. But I'm fine. I'm just... going through some stuff with an ex. It's not a big deal."
The lie tasted stale on my tongue.
Rosie nodded slowly, like she'd expected that answer.
"You know," she said, her tone shifting into something more conversational, "I'm not sure how much the boys have told you about their father."
The pivot caught me off guard.
"Not much," I admitted. "Sebastian mentioned he wasn't... around."
"That's one way to put it." Rosie's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I left the first time when Sebastian was three. Damien was five—old enough to remember."
"I'm not bringing this up to draw comparisons," she continued carefully.
"I don't know what you're dealing with, and I'm not going to pretend I do.
But..." She paused, choosing her words. "I spent a lot of years in that marriage convincing myself I was fine.
That things weren't that bad. That I could handle it on my own. "
The pipes groaned overhead.
"And I did handle it. For a while." Her fingers traced the arm of the chair absently. "Until I couldn't."
"Rosie, I—"
"We had a tumultuous relationship," she continued. "He'd scream. And he'd beat me." She took in a shaky breath. "I tried to protect the kids the best I could, but Damien…" she trailed off.
"Damien saw more than he should have. He tried to protect me.
Tried to protect Sebastian. Put himself between us and his father more times than any child ever should.
I was so proud of myself when I finally got the courage to leave.
" She laughed dryly. "I still remember it to this day.
I had to search for the car keys quietly for hours. "
"He always used to hide them," she explained, words strained. "Wouldn't let me leave the house without permission. So when I couldn't find them…" She shrugged. "We ran. I packed each of the boys a bag and we took off down the road when he was in the shower."
I pictured it—Rosie, younger, terrified, herding two small boys down a dark road with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
"We walked three miles to a gas station," she continued. "I called my friend from a payphone. She drove four hours in the middle of the night to pick us up." A sad smile crossed her face. "I didn't have a dollar to my name. No job. No plan. Just two boys and a garbage bag full of clothes."
"For months, I kept waiting for him to find us. Every time the phone rang, every time a car slowed down outside..." She shook her head. "I jumped at shadows for years. Kept a bag packed by the door, just in case. The boys didn't know, but I was ready to run again at any moment."
My throat ached.
My phone. The block button I couldn't press.
"He chased after me," she continued. "He always did."
"Why are you telling me this?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
Rosie held my gaze. Her eyes were wet, but she didn't look away.
"Because I recognize something in you, sweetheart." She said it gently. "The way you hold yourself. The way you watch the door. The way you flinch when your phone buzzes."
She paused. Then—"The bruise on your cheek that day at the hospital."
I froze.
"I could be wrong," Rosie added quietly. "And if I am, I'm sorry for overstepping. But if I'm not..."
She let the sentence hang there, unfinished.
I should have denied it. Should have laughed it off, made some joke about being clumsy, thanked her for her concern and fled into the night.
That's what I always did.
But something about the way she looked at me—without pity, without judgment—made the words die in my throat.
"I left him," I finally said. My voice sounded strange. "Months ago. It's over."
Rosie nodded slowly. "Good. That's good, sweetheart."
"So I'm fine. Really. It's done."
"Is it?"
A question, not an accusation.
It still hit.
The texts.
The constant buzzing.
My heart seizing every time his name lit up my screen.
The block button I couldn't press.
"He still..." I stopped. Swallowed. "He showed up the other day at my apartment."
She nodded. "Their father did the same thing. I tried to outrun him, but he always found us."
My eyes widened. "And then what happened?"
"I went back," she admitted, voice small.