Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
GAVIN
I dropped them off without getting out of the truck. It felt wrong not walking Rose up to her door, as I’d done many nights before.
Elodie exited the car with a quick thanks to me and nothing more, eyes straight ahead, spine stiff with pride and anger. She didn’t look back—not at me, not at Teagan, not even at Rose. But Rose lingered. She turned to me slowly, her gaze locking with mine.
There was so much in her eyes—questions she wouldn’t ask in front of my daughter, reassurances she didn’t need me to speak aloud. A quiet understanding. She got it. All of it.
I should have said something. A goodbye. A thank you. Tell her the revelation I’d had standing in that station. That I love her.
But Teagan was sitting here too, tight as a coiled spring, radiating resentment and grief like heat off a metal slide at the park on a bright sunny day.
So I gave Rose the only thing I could: a look.
One that said I’ll call you. I promise. She nodded almost imperceptibly, like she heard the words in my head.
And then she stepped out, yesterday’s curls loose and swaying at her shoulders, the door clicking shut like a final note on a song I didn’t want to end.
Then it was just me and Teagan. The silence stretched long and sharp, like barbed wire wrapped around old wounds. I adjusted my grip on the wheel as I pulled away and headed home, knuckles tight and white.
“Teagan …”
Nothing. Not even a shift of her shoulders. I sighed, loud and tired, and glanced over. She was turned fully toward the window, arms crossed like armor, jaw tight enough to crack.
“I need you to talk to me,” I said. “About what happened back there. About … everything.” Still no answer.
“Teag, please.” My voice caught, raw in my throat. “Talk to me. Scream at me, throw something, I don’t care. But don’t just sit there like I’m a stranger. I know you’re angry. I know. But I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”
She finally exhaled, sharp and uneven, but she didn’t look at me.
“What happened back at the station …” I shook my head. “That wasn’t just about us. That was ten years of something else—something bigger. I saw it.”
She turned her face, just barely, her expression unreadable. “You don’t know anything.”
The way she said it—quiet, almost disappointed—landed harder than any yell would have.
“Then tell me,” I snapped, pain bleeding into the edge of my voice.
“Tell me what I missed. Tell me what I’m still missing.
Because I swear to God, Teagan, I am trying.
Since the day your mom died, I’ve been doing everything I can not to drown.
And maybe I dragged you under with me. I don’t know.
But I can’t keep guessing what I did wrong. I need you to tell me.”
Her bottom lip trembled, and for a second, I thought she was going to look away again. But then, just like that, she broke. The tears fell—like the flood had been waiting just beneath the surface. “I miss Mom,” she choked, voice cracking straight down the middle.
It gutted me. Ripped through whatever walls I’d built to survive the last decade. My chest seized and I turned away, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “Yeah,” I confided. “Me too.”
“She would’ve known what to do with me,” she said, swiping at her face like she was angry with her own tears. “She would’ve pulled me out of this. She wouldn’t have let me spiral like this. Or feel this fucking alone all the time.”
“You’re not alone,” I said instantly, the guilt hitting me harder than ever.
“Yes, I am,” she snapped, finally turning toward me. “You threw yourself into work. Into that house. Into pretending we should be okay.”
“Teagan. I tried to bring you out of it but never expected us to be okay. The house was for you. For us to try to escape all the reminders. For us to build and decorate together.” I didn’t know what to say.
Because maybe she wasn’t wrong. I could see how it may have all come across as me trying to run away and cover up the loss of Vanessa.
“I’m twenty-seven,” she continued, her voice bitter as she looked back out the windshield.
“I’ve got no job that sticks, no relationships that work out.
And after last night, I almost got a mugshot.
Now I have the reputation as the angry girl who can’t let go of high school drama.
I have nothing to show for my life except grief I can’t outrun and a father who doesn’t know how to talk to me unless we’re standing in front of blueprints or paint swatches.
” She looked up at me with watery eyes and a red nose, reminding me of the little girl who would run to me with scraped knees and papercuts. “I am a disaster.”
Her words were a punch straight to my gut, and I took it.
Every word. “You’re not a disaster,” I declared.
“You’re hurting. That’s different. And that’s allowed.
But you can’t keep hurting people who love and care about you.
We want you to be happy just as much as you want it for yourself … maybe even more sometimes.”
I glanced sideways at her, and for the first time, she didn’t look away. Her face was blotchy, cheeks damp, eyes swollen—but there was life there. Angry. Raw. Real. It was the most she’d said to me in years.
We fell into silence again. But this time, it felt different. Heavier, yes—but also earned. Like maybe it was okay not to fill every space with words when we’d finally started saying the ones that matter.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the tension hadn’t left—but it was less thick.
I killed the engine, but neither of us moved.
The only sound was the faint tick of the engine cooling and the wind shifting through the trees outside.
The porch light flickered to life, sensing our presence. We just sat there.
Teagan stared down at her lap, then inhaled slowly. Her voice was quieter now, but sharp as ever. “Are you fucking Rose?”
“Jesus Christ, Teagan.” I blinked, stunned, then let out a breath that was more of a grunt.
“You make it sound so goddamn juvenile,” I muttered, rubbing the side of my face, elbow resting on the window frame.
I scratched my chin, exhaled hard. “But yes.” I turned my head toward her. “I’m seeing Rose.”
She didn’t nod. Didn’t respond. Just stared ahead into the dark, mouth pressed into a firm line.
I didn’t try to fill the silence with explanations or reasonings.
Because somehow, no matter how quiet, uncomfortable, and painfully honest this moment felt …
this was the most progress we’d made in a decade.