Chapter 27
Kassi
The first morning in the cabin smells like pine and promise, while somehow it still hurts to breathe.
I wake before the sun, tangled in the unfamiliar sheets, half expecting to hear the hum of traffic outside the old apartment window or the clank of pipes that never warmed all the way. Instead, there's only the low creak of wood settling and the soft rush of wind through the trees.
It should feel like peace. It doesn't.
The room is too quiet, too wide. The ache in my chest is a hollow that echoes when I breathe. Pressing the heel of my hand against it, I’m trying to hold the pieces together for one more day.
From down the short hallway, I hear Emma singing. Her little voice lifts and cracks on the high notes, sweet and completely off key, but the sound of it fills the cabin until the silence retreats.
She loves it here.
Yesterday, she spent the afternoon running from room to room, barefoot and wild, her laughter bouncing off every wall.
She claimed the bedroom with the big window and spent an hour deciding where to put her toy box.
She wanted fairy lights on the ceiling and a rug shaped like a star. I promised we'd find both.
Watching her this free, I should be happy. I should feel nothing but relief that she has space now, sunlight, a yard, a life that feels open. But happiness feels just out of reach, a word I can see but can't say.
I roll onto my side and look toward the window.
Morning light seeps through the curtains, turning the edges of the world gold.
The air smells faintly of rain even though it hasn't rained since last week.
It reminds me of Asher. Of the way his shirt smelled like sun and soil when he pulled me close.
The way his voice went quiet when he said my name.
Even though I close my eyes, it doesn't help. His face is still there, the way it looked when I said I loved him when I didn't mean to, and he couldn't say it back because the world had already started breaking around us.
The knock on the front door makes me flinch.
Pushing the blanket aside, I smooth my hair and try to look less like a woman who hasn't slept properly in three nights.
When I open the door, Josh and Jenna stand on the porch. Josh has a box in his hands labeled kitchen, which he's pulled from the trailer still loaded with boxes, and Jenna's holding a tray of cinnamon rolls that are still warm.
"Good morning, neighbor," Jenna says with a grin that's all sunshine and no judgment.
She's made the joke a few times because we moved closer to them, not that we are actually neighbors.
Josh tilts his head toward Jenna. "We come bearing carbs and moral support."
For a second, the kindness is too much. I blink hard and force a smile. "You didn't have to do that."
"Of course we did," Jenna says, brushing past me into the kitchen as if she's been here a hundred times. "It's moving day part two, and nobody survives that alone. Where do you want the boxes?"
"Anywhere," I say, my voice thinner than I mean it to be. "I'm still figuring it out."
Josh sets the box on the counter and gives me a look that's half worry, half big-brother protectiveness. "You holding up okay?"
I nod because it's easier than the truth. "We're good. Emma loves it here."
"Of course she does," Jenna says, already opening drawers, taking inventory. "You've got trees and space and the best cinnamon rolls within twenty miles. What's not to love?"
Emma appears then, hair a wild halo, wearing pajamas with little horses on them. She squeals when she sees Jenna. "You came!"
"I promised, didn't I?" Jenna crouches down and opens her arms. Emma runs into them without hesitation. "We brought treats, Josh's terrible taste in music, and came to help with boxes."
"Hey," Josh says, grinning. "My playlists are classic."
"They're tragic," Jenna counters.
The easy rhythm between them fills the space in a way that steadies me.
Emma climbs onto a stool, swinging her legs while Jenna sets a cinnamon roll in front of her. "It smells like heaven," Emma says, already reaching for the icing.
Jenna laughs. "You're my favorite audience."
I stand there for a minute, just watching them. The sound of Emma's giggle, Jenna's warmth, Josh humming something low under his breath—it's all so normal it almost hurts.
When Josh glances at me again, his smile fades enough to show the question he isn't asking.
He knows. Or at least, he suspects. Jenna is Asher's family, and I doubt that she kept it from her husband.
"You got boxes to unpack?" he asks gently.
"Too many," I admit.
"Good," he says. "Work helps."
We start with the kitchen. Jenna organizes as if she's running a small army. Every dish finds a home, and every utensil gets a drawer. She hums under her breath while she works, little fragments of songs that keep my mind from drifting too far.
Josh carries boxes from the truck with a silent steadiness, the kind of presence that fills a room without pressing against it.
At one point, he pauses in the doorway, holding a framed photo of Emma and me from last summer. "Where do you want this?"
"Over the sink," I say. "It'll make washing the dishes easier."
He nods, hanging it carefully. The smile on Emma's face in that photo is all joy. Mine looks tired but content. That was before the job fell apart, before I learned what my bosses were doing, before Asher.
Blinking hard, I turn back to unpacking another box.
Jenna catches the movement. She doesn't say anything at first, but after a while, she comes to stand beside me. "You okay?"
I almost laugh. It comes out closer to a sigh. "I don't know. I feel like I lost everything in one week. My job. My home. Him."
Her expression softens. "Asher?"
I nod and then I proceed to tell her everything from losing my job and why I’m moving to my complicated relationship with her brother.
She leans against the counter, her voice low. "I heard what happened. Asher didn't mean to tell me, but I figured it out when Zach said he's been quiet. That man doesn't know how to be quiet unless he's hurting."
The words hit a nerve deep in my chest. "He's not the only one."
Jenna reaches out and squeezes my hand. "You did what you had to. You told the truth. Sometimes that breaks things before it fixes them."
"I don't think this can be repaired," I say. "Your brothers hate me. He lost their trust because of me."
"They don't hate you," she says. "They're scared.
You shook up their world, which, as their sister, I can say they desperately needed.
They'll come around. And Asher..." She smiles faintly.
"That man looks at you like you're the only thing standing between him and losing the light. He'll find his way back."
Her faith is a kindness I haven't earned. "You really think so?"
"I know so," she says simply. "Men like him don't stop fighting for what matters."
I want to believe her. I want to hold on to that hope. But right now, it feels too fragile to touch.
Emma interrupts us by holding up a spoon covered in icing. "Can I help unpack, too?"
"You already are," Jenna says. "You're keeping us smiling."
Emma beams, mouth smeared with sugar. "That's my job."
We all laugh, and for a few minutes, the weight in the room lifts.
By noon, the boxes are mostly empty. The cabin looks lived in—curtains half hung, books stacked by the wall, Emma's toys scattered across the floor. It's not perfect, but it's ours.
When Josh and Jenna gather their things, I walk them to the porch. The sunlight filters through the trees, catching in Jenna's hair. She hands me the last of the cinnamon rolls wrapped in foil.
"For breakfast tomorrow," she says. "And for days when you forget to eat."
I swallow past the lump in my throat. "You didn't have to do all this."
She smiles. "We wanted to. Everyone needs people who show up."
Josh nods. "You call if you need anything. Even if it's just company."
"Thank you," I whisper.
The silence that follows feels softer this time.
Emma runs out to the porch, holding her stuffed horse under one arm. "Can we go see the library?" she asks. "Candy said she'd show me how to use the big computer."
I smile. "Tomorrow, baby. We'll go after breakfast."
She nods, satisfied, and spins in a slow circle, her arms outstretched. "I love it here," she says. "It feels like we're in a storybook."
Her joy is contagious. I laugh despite myself. "Yeah. It does."
When she runs back inside, I stay on the porch, leaning against the post.
It's been three days since I left him standing in that kitchen. I haven't heard from him and I haven't tried to call. Every time I think about it, I remember the look on his brothers' faces—the hurt, the betrayal, the fear that I'd been the wrong kind of secret all along.
He deserves time to fix things. To find his way back to them.
But part of me aches to think maybe he won't find his way back to me.
I press my palms against the porch rail, grounding myself in the feel of the rough wood.
This cabin, this job, this quiet—it's a new start. I tell myself that over and over until it almost sounds true. I'll give Emma the life she deserves. I'll keep building something steady, even if my heart still feels like it's been left out in the rain.
The door creaks open behind me. Emma peeks out, her curls glowing in the last of the light. "Mom? You okay?"
I turn and smile at her. "Yeah, baby. Just thinking."
"About Asher?"
Her small voice catches me off guard. "Why do you ask?"
She shrugs. "You get quiet when you miss people. You used to do it about Grandma, too."
I swallow hard. "You're too smart for your own good, you know that?"
She grins. "That's what you always say."
I kneel, pulling her close, and breathe in the familiar smell of shampoo and crayons and safety. "Yeah," I whisper. "I miss him."
"Will we see him again?" she asks.
I want to say yes. I want to promise it like I used to promise everything would be fine. But the truth sticks in my throat.
"I don't know," I say finally. "But I think sometimes the people we love find their way back to us, even when we don't expect it."
She nods, satisfied with that, and presses a kiss to my cheek. "Okay. Can we have pancakes for dinner?"
I laugh through the ache in my chest. "Why not? New house, new rules."
We make a mess of the kitchen, flour on the counter, syrup on our sleeves. She eats two and falls asleep halfway through the third, her cheek pressed to her arm, her fork still in her hand.
I carry her to bed and tuck the blanket around her. For a moment, I just watch her breathe. She's the reason I keep moving. The reason I can start over, even when it feels like everything I built has fallen apart.
When I go back to the kitchen, the last of the light is gone. The cabin hums softly in the dark, the sound of crickets and wind blending into a peaceful hymn.
I clean up the dishes and wipe the counter. Even though I've lost my job, my home, and the man I love, tonight, my daughter is safe, the lights are on, and the wind through the trees encourages me to keep going.
So, I do.
Then I crawl under the blanket and close my eyes, letting the sound of the night wrap around me.
Tomorrow, I'll start again.
And maybe, just maybe, the road that leads me forward will somehow find its way back to him.