21. Billie
Billie
T he Books and Beans coffee shop was busy for a Saturday morning, filled with the usual mix of locals catching up on gossip and tourists trying to soak up authentic small-town charm.
I'd been sitting at my corner table for twenty minutes, nursing a latte and pretending to read a book while my stomach tied itself in knots.
Three days ago, Gage had shown up at the rehabilitation center looking nervous and determined, asking me out for coffee with all the awkward charm of a teenager working up courage for his first date.
The memory of his rambling explanation and how he'd needed to ask in person so I wouldn't think it was therapy-related, still made me smile despite my nerves.
I'd said yes before I could overthink it, and now here I was, five minutes before our agreed meeting time, second-guessing every decision that had led me to this moment. What if this was a mistake? What if seeing him up close, without the buffer of professional boundaries, made everything worse?
What if it made everything better?
The bell above the door chimed, and I looked up to see Gage scanning the crowded shop.
He looked good. Better than good, actually.
The gaunt, hollow look he'd carried when he first arrived was gone, replaced by the kind of healthy glow that came from proper sleep and regular meals and not carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.
His eyes found mine across the room, and the smile that spread across his face was like sunrise after the longest night. Warm and relieved and tinged with the kind of nervous hope that made my heart flutter against my ribs.
He made his way over to my table, managing his crutches with practiced ease.
The bulky cast on his leg made navigating between tables awkward, but he moved with confidence that spoke to how much stronger he'd become.
The transformation from the broken man who'd arrived three months ago was remarkable, and I felt a flush of professional pride that had nothing to do with the way he was looking at me.
"Hi," he said softly, settling into the chair across from me and propping his crutches against the table.
"Hi." God, was that breathy voice really mine? "You look good. Healthy."
"I feel good," he said, and there was surprise in his voice, like he couldn't quite believe it himself. "Laura's been pushing me hard, but in a good way. I think I'm finally starting to believe I might actually heal from this. My cast is coming off next week."
There was something in the way he said "this" that made me think he wasn't just talking about his physical injuries. "That's wonderful. I'm so glad."
"Sorry I'm late," he added quickly. "Took me longer to get here than I calculated."
"You're not late," I assured him. "I was early. Nervous habit."
"Nervous?" His eyebrows shot up with something that looked like pleased surprise. "You're nervous about having coffee with me?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Maybe a little. It's been a while since we've talked without medical equipment involved."
His laugh was soft, genuine. "Fair point. Though I have to say, this is definitely an improvement over you poking and prodding my shoulder."
"I never poked," I protested, but I was smiling. "I used proper therapeutic techniques."
"Right. Therapeutic poking."
We fell into easy conversation after that, the initial awkwardness melting away as we found our rhythm.
He told me about his work with Bullet, about how the horse had become an unexpected confidant.
I told him a little about working at the rehab center, about the satisfaction of helping people reclaim their lives after trauma.
"It suits you," he said when I described a particularly challenging case I'd worked on. "Helping people heal. You always had that quality, even as a kid. You saw the best in everyone."
"Not everyone," I said without thinking.
His expression grew serious. "Billie..."
"I'm sorry." I shook my head quickly. "We're trying to be friends, and friends don't dredge up old hurts."
"Maybe they should," he said quietly. "Maybe pretending the past didn't happen isn't the best foundation for friendship."
I studied his face, seeing the sincerity there, the willingness to have difficult conversations. "You want to talk about why you left."
"I want you to understand that it wasn't about you," he said firmly. "It was never about you not being enough or me not caring. It was about me being a coward who thought running away was easier than facing the consequences of my mistakes."
"But leaving made it worse too," I said softly.
"Yeah. It did." He met my eyes directly. "For everyone involved."
The admission hung between us, heavy with regret and possibility. I wanted to push further, to demand details and explanations, but something in his expression told me he'd shared what he could for now.
"Actually," I said, gathering my courage before I could change my mind, "Delaney invited me to family dinner tomorrow night. I was thinking of going, if... if you're okay with that."
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, then something that looked like joy. "You want to come to family dinner?"
"I thought it might be nice. To see everyone together, catch up properly. I haven't had any Amelia cuddles for ages." I twisted my napkin in my hands. "But I don't want to make things awkward for you. If you'd rather keep family time separate from whatever this is..."
"No," he said quickly. "I'd love for you to be there. The family's been asking about you anyway, and Cade's been wanting to show off his baseball card collection to someone new."
The warmth in his voice made my chest flutter. "Then I'll be there."
"Good." His smile was soft, genuine. "That's really good."
"I should go," I said reluctantly, glancing at the clock. "I have to catch up on all my notes from this week."
"Of course." He started to reach for his crutches, then paused. "Billie? Would you maybe like to see the house sometime? I mean, if you're curious about the renovation progress."
My heart was thundering so loudly I was amazed the entire coffee shop couldn't hear it. The house. Our place. The symbol of every dream we'd shared as teenagers.
"I'd like that," I heard myself say.
The smile that spread across his face was radiant. "Really?"
"Really. But as friends," I added quickly, needing the boundary even as part of me wanted to throw caution to the wind.
"As friends," he agreed, though something in his eyes suggested he was hoping for the same thing I was—that friendship would be the beginning, not the end. "Next Saturday?"
"Yeah, that would be great."
I left the coffee shop in a daze. All I could think about was seeing our house again, and the way Gage had looked at me when I said yes.
Like I was exactly what he'd been hoping for.
All I could think about was Saturday afternoon and the house by the swimming hole and the way Gage had looked at me when I said yes.
Like I was the answer to a prayer he'd been afraid to voice.
Maybe Blake was right. Maybe it was time to stop protecting my heart and start fighting for what I wanted.
Maybe it was time to find out if the boy I'd loved was still somewhere inside the man he'd become.
Saturday couldn't come soon enough.