49. Chapter 49 #2
“It crashed three times yesterday,” she says, spooning salad onto her plate.
“And every time it crashes, it logs you out, so you have to re-enter your password. I don’t remember mine because Jerry made me create it on the spot, and it has to be twelve characters, with two numbers and a special symbol. ”
“Write it down,” I suggest.
“I did. I lost the paper.”
“Mom.”
“I’m doing my best! My brain’s full of other things. Like whether I’m out of milk, and if I paid the electric bill.”
Conversation moves on around me. Daisy leans forward whenever she gets excited, while Mom gestures with her wine glass and nearly takes out the centerpiece. Somehow, they still manage to finish each other’s sentences without trying.
Milo would’ve loved this.
He would’ve asked Mom twenty questions about different books. Would’ve noticed her throwing salt over her shoulder and asked whether it had a historical precedent, a cultural origin, or any statistical evidence of effectiveness.
He would’ve belonged here.
I’m staring at the empty chair next to me. I force my attention back to my plate.
After dinner, Daisy gets up to make coffee. Mom waits until the grinder starts before reaching across the table and laying her hand over mine.
“You know, when your father left, you were so young that I don’t think any of us understood what you made of it.”
“What?” I look up, caught completely off guard.
“Everyone kept explaining it to you in adult language. That we weren’t happy together. That sometimes marriages ended. That you were loved. None of it had anything to do with you.”
I shift in my chair. “Mom, I know this.”
“You do now.” Her fingers tighten around mine.
“But younger you didn’t. Children don’t sit down and analyze the emotional failures of adults, Evie.
Your dad lived with you, and then he was gone.
He promised weekends and missed all of them.
He built another life somewhere else while yours carried on here.
After that, you got very good at making sure you never had to depend too much on anything outside your control. ”
I look down at our joined hands because looking at her will make it harder to keep my eyes dry.
“And you were already you. Organized. Stubborn. Determined to make sense of everything. You found a solution—if relying on people meant they could disappear and leave a hole behind, then you wouldn’t rely on them.”
The explanation should sound too neat for something that happened so long ago.
Instead, my brain starts supplying evidence.
The years of telling Mom I could walk home myself.
Refusing Daisy’s help because explaining the task took longer than doing it.
Staying up until two in the morning fixing booking errors rather than admitting I was drowning.
None of those moments had ever seemed connected. They’d simply seemed sensible.
“I wasn’t consciously doing that.”
“Of course you weren’t.” Mom gives me a small, sad smile.
“Being prepared became second nature. You started making sure nobody could ever accuse you of needing too much or falling apart at the wrong time. And those qualities built you a beautiful life, Evie. But taken too far, they make it easy to forget there’s a difference between being capable and being alone.
” She leans back in her chair. “You know what I’ve noticed lately? ”
“What?”
“How many people have been helping you in this town.”
I frown. “They always help.”
“Exactly.” Her brows lift. “They always have. You’re the one who finally stopped fighting them about it.
That’s how Brindlewood has always worked.
Somebody’s roof leaks; three people arrive with ladders.
Someone gets sick, there are casseroles on the porch before noon.
You’ve spent years being the person who shows up for everybody else, but you never seemed to notice that they’ve been trying to show up for you too. ”
“I noticed.”
“No, honey. You tolerated it when you couldn’t stop them.” Mom pats my hand. “And before you start arguing, I’m not telling you that you need rescuing. But there’s no prize for making every difficult thing harder by doing it alone.”
For once, I don’t have an argument ready.
My life has never been as solitary as I insisted it was.
I had friends, family, an entire town incapable of minding its own business.
None of them appeared because Milo taught me how to need people.
They’d been there all along. I was the one standing in the doorway with my arms full, insisting I could manage.
Mom studies me for a moment. “And as for Milo . . . I don’t know enough about what happened to tell you what to do about him.”
“That’s unusually restrained.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Her mouth twitches.
“You’re stubborn enough to fight a faulty boiler, an insurance company, three contractors, and that ridiculous woman who left you a one-star review because Vermont had mosquitoes.
But when the thing you want is personal, you become very philosophical about accepting defeat. ”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You call it being realistic. Sometimes it is; other times it’s fear wearing sensible shoes.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious. Some things are worth accepting because there truly is nothing left to do. Others you fight for because losing them without exhausting every possibility would haunt you far longer than failing ever could.”
I can’t argue because she’s right.
“Love doesn’t always come with a sensible argument.
Sometimes the only thing you know is that the thought of walking away feels more wrong than the risk of staying.
” Mom lets go of my hand. “If Milo is truly gone and there’s nothing in this world you can do, I’ll sit with you through every miserable day that comes after. Daisy will too.”
The certainty in her voice strips something bare inside me.
“But if there’s even one thing you haven’t tried because you were frightened of what it might cost, then I think you already know whether you’re going to be able to live with that.”
The kitchen clock ticks above the doorway. Daisy spoons coffee into the machine, filling the room with the bitter, familiar smell of grounds. Mom reaches for plates, satisfied that she’s said enough.
I stare at the water ring beneath my glass.
Milo never said a bargain couldn’t keep him here.
He said he wasn’t even sure it would be allowed, then refused to risk my soul finding out.
Krell’s face flashes into my mind. The confidence with which he talks about contracts.
The cold amusement whenever anyone assumes they understand the rules better than he does.
He bargains for a living. More importantly, he is still here.
Every sensible part of me objects.
I push back from the table, chair legs scraping across the floor.
Mom’s eyes widen. “Evie?”
“I have to go.”
Whenever I pictured bargaining with a demon, the inn stood at the center of it. I’ve poured years of myself into it. But for the first time, wanting something else more doesn’t register as a threat to everything I built.