31. Carly
CARLY
I waited by the window in the front room, watching the long driveway for Emily's car.
The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, warming my shoulders.
The big house felt different now. Lighter, like I'd opened all the windows and let the stale air out.
It was mine. Not Diane's, not Gordon's. Mine and Boone's, and I was the one who ran it.
The silver band on my finger caught the light, back where it belonged after months away. I twisted it once, and my hands stayed steady. No shaking, no second-guessing. I had invited Emily myself, called her directly three days ago and told her I wanted her to come. She'd said yes.
Boone was in the kitchen behind me setting out plates and glasses.
I heard him open cabinets, heard the quiet sounds of him moving through the space without asking me where things went.
He knew I would tell him if I needed something.
His footsteps were soft on the wood floor, familiar and reassuring.
I glanced back through the doorway. He was arranging coffee mugs in a neat line, his shoulders relaxed under his shirt. He looked up and caught my eye, offered me a small nod.
God, it felt good to have him here like this. Present. Paying attention. Not checking his phone, not distracted, just here with me because I asked him to be.
A car turned into the driveway, blue and practical, sunlight glinting off the windshield. Emily's sedan. My pulse kicked up, nervous energy flooding through my chest. I wanted this. I wanted Emily here at the table, wanted her to know she had a place with us.
I stepped away from the window and smoothed my hands down my jeans. My palms were damp.
Emily parked near the front steps and climbed out slowly. She looked hesitant, her shoulders tight, her bag clutched in both hands. She stood there for a moment staring up at the house.
I opened the door before she reached it.
"Carly." She stopped at the bottom step, her eyes wide. "I wasn't sure—I mean, I'm glad you called. I didn't know if you would want me here after everything."
"Come in," I said. I held the door wider. "I'm glad you're here."
She climbed the steps slowly, watching me like she was trying to figure out what had changed. Everything had changed. I let her see it.
Inside, Emily followed me down the hallway toward the kitchen. The house smelled like coffee and the lemon oil I used on the wood floors every week, clean and sharp. Her footsteps were quiet behind me, nervous and careful.
Boone was at the table when we walked in.
He stood when he saw Emily, his chair scraping softly, and nodded once in greeting.
Then he sat back down without saying anything.
His silence was deliberate, steady. He was here because I asked him to be, and he was staying quiet because I told him this was mine to say.
Emily looked at him, then at me. "Boone."
He nodded again but didn't speak.
I gestured toward the chair across from Boone. "Sit. Please."
Emily set her bag on the floor and sat down carefully, perched on the edge like she might need to leave quickly.
I poured coffee into three mugs and brought them to the table one at a time.
I set one in front of Emily, one in front of Boone, and kept the third for myself.
The ritual felt ordinary and important at the same time, like I was marking something.
I sat down at the head of the table. Boone was to my right, close enough that I could see the rise and fall of his breathing. Emily was across from him. The three of us together, and nobody else.
"I wanted you here," I said. My voice came out clear and direct, no hesitation. "You have a place at this table, Emily. You always will."
Emily's eyes went bright with tears. She blinked hard and picked up her coffee mug just to have something to hold. "Thank you. I—thank you. I wasn't sure you'd want to see me after the relaunch."
"You're welcome here," I said.
She let out a breath, shaky and relieved. "Okay. Good."
I wrapped my hands around my own mug, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. I let the silence sit for a moment, let Emily settle.
"Diane and Gordon don't come to this house," I said. I kept my tone even, factual. Not angry, not bitter. Just the truth. "They don't visit. They don't call. They're not part of what we're building here."
Emily set the mug down too quickly. Coffee sloshed over the rim onto the table. "Oh, God, I'm sorry." She grabbed a napkin and mopped at the spill, her hands shaking.
"It's fine," I said. I didn't move to help her. I waited until she stopped fussing and looked at me again. "They don't get any of Boone's new releases, either. No advance copies, no credits sent to them, nothing. That's done."
Emily's face went pale. The flush drained out of her cheeks all at once. She glanced at Boone, her gaze darting to him like she was hoping he would jump in and explain.
But he sat there silent and still, his coffee untouched in front of him. He wasn't going to explain this for me. He wasn't going to soften it or make excuses. This was mine to say, and he knew it.
"What happened?" Emily's voice was barely louder than a whisper. "Carly, what did they do? I know something happened. I could tell at the relaunch when they weren't there. But what did they do?"
I looked at her across the table. She was Boone's sister.
She loved him. She had been kind to me when nobody else in that family was.
But I wasn't going to explain Diane and Gordon to her.
I wasn't going to lay out everything they did, wasn't going to justify my decision or defend the boundary I was setting. That wasn't what this was.
"I'm not explaining it," I said. Not unkind, but firm. Final. "They know what they did. That's enough."
Emily opened her mouth like she wanted to argue, wanted to ask more, wanted me to give her something she could hold onto and understand. But I didn't give her anything. I just waited.
She looked at Boone again, longer this time, searching his face. He didn't break. He sat there with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, his gaze steady on the table. Present. Silent. Letting me set the terms.
Emily swallowed hard and looked back at me. "Okay."
That was all she said. Okay. She didn't push. She didn't demand an explanation or insist I owed her one. She just accepted it.
Something in my chest loosened. I hadn't realized how much I'd been bracing for a fight.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the guitar pick. It was warm from being pressed against my body, the black surface smooth under my fingers. The silver engraving caught the light, our names together in looping script. Carly & Boone. Worn down from years of use.
I set the pick on the table between us, right in the center where Emily could see it.
She looked at it, her brow furrowing, and then looked at me. Confused. Waiting.
"Boone gave this to me ten years ago," I said. My throat felt tight, but I kept going. "After our first songwriting session together. We'd just finished a song, stayed up all night working on it, and when we were done he handed me this and told me we were partners."
Boone shifted in his seat beside me. I felt the movement, felt the heat of him close to my shoulder. His hand moved toward the pick, hesitated, stopped halfway, and came back to rest near it. Close but not touching.
"I took it with me when I left," I said. The words came out quieter now, more raw. "I've had it this whole time. In my pocket, in my bag. I couldn't leave it behind."
Emily's eyes were wet now, tears pooling but not falling. She didn't look away.
I picked the pick back up and held it in my palm, feeling the weight of it. "This belongs to both of us. Me and Boone. It's ours. Not his, not mine. Ours."
Boone's jaw tightened. He didn't speak, but I saw him swallow, saw the emotion he was holding back.
I stood, the chair scraping softly behind me, and crossed to the counter where Boone's guitar sat propped against the wall. The wood was worn smooth under my hands. I brought it back to the table and set it in front of him, then held out the pick.
"We have work to do," I said.
Boone looked at me for a long moment, his eyes dark and steady and full of something I couldn't name. Then he reached out and took the pick from my hand, his fingers brushing mine, warm and deliberate.
He turned the pick over once, slowly, looking at the engraving. Then he fitted it between his fingers the way he always did. He strummed once, testing the strings, adjusting the tuning with quick movements. The sound filled the kitchen, bright and clear. Right.
I sat back down and pulled the notebook toward me, the one I kept on the counter now for when we worked. I flipped it open to a blank page and clicked my pen.
Emily watched us from across the table, her coffee forgotten. She didn't say anything. She just sat there, watching me and Boone fall into the rhythm we'd built together over ten years.
Boone played a progression, slow and searching. I listened, tapping my pen against the notebook, hearing where the melody wanted to go. When he paused, I hummed a counter-melody under my breath. He nodded and played it again, weaving my line into his.
The pick moved across the strings, black and silver flashing in the light. Our names carved into it, visible every time his hand shifted. A partnership. A promise kept.
Emily cleared her throat softly. "I should probably go."
I looked up from the notebook. "You don't have to."
"I know." She stood and picked up her bag. "But I think you two need to work. And I—I'm glad I came. I'm glad you asked me."
"Me too."
I walked her to the door. She stopped on the porch and turned back to me, her expression uncertain.
"You really meant it?" she asked. "About me having a place here?"
"I really meant it," I said. And I did.
She smiled, tentative but genuine. "Okay. I'll call you next week. Maybe we can have lunch or something. If you want."
"I'd like that."
I watched her walk to her car, watched her drive away down the long gravel driveway until the car disappeared around the bend. Then I closed the door and went back to the kitchen.
Boone was still playing, working through the progression we'd started, refining it. I sat down next to him this time instead of across from him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"From the top," I said.
He started again. I sang the melody this time, not just humming it, my voice filling the space between us. He adjusted the chords to match me, his playing steady and sure. The pick in his hand, our names on it, the two of us working together the way we were always supposed to.
The house was ours. The music was ours. The pick belonged to both of us, and I'd put it back where it belonged.
Not in my pocket where I'd been carrying it like a secret. Not left behind somewhere gathering dust. Right here, in his hand, in use, making something together.
I leaned closer to see the chord he was playing, and my shoulder brushed his. The contact sent warmth spreading through my chest, my pulse kicking up. God, I'd missed this. Missed him. Missed the way we fit together when we were making something.
Boone glanced at me, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What?"
"Nothing." I smiled back. "Keep playing."
He did. And I stayed right there beside him, close enough to touch, writing words to match his melody, the pick flashing between his fingers as the song took shape. Light streamed through the kitchen window, turning everything gold, and the house felt like ours in a way it never had before.
This was what I wanted. This was what I fought for. The two of us, together, building something that belonged to both of us. No one standing between us. No one telling us what we were worth. Just us, partners, the way we were always supposed to be.
The guitar pick with both our names engraved on it, back in use where it was always meant to be.