Chapter One #2
Standing here, Mama's hand in mine, watching the way Evie leans into him like she’s never once doubted he’d carry this—I realize how damn much I want something like that too.
“But we promised each other, no more living in fear, big guy,” Evie says, her voice a quiet whisper, almost as if the words are meant just for him. She softly traces the scar along Maddox’s lip, her touch gentle and tender, like she’s memorizing the map of him.
I can’t help but feel like an intruder in this moment—watching them, standing on the outside of something so raw, so intimate.
But Evie knows, better than anyone, that as much as Maddox denies it, he craves these moments.
He wants to be surrounded by his family, especially when it matters most. Even if he doesn’t admit it, even if he’s always the one pulling away, he’s never more himself than when he’s here, in the middle of the chaos, with all of us close.
“W-wait. Do you…” Maddox’s voice cracks, hoarse and barely a whisper. I fucking swear I just saw Mercy swipe a stray tear from his eye, and for a split second, I can feel the weight of the moment press down on all of us.
A gentle weight settles against my side, and I turn to see Sophie, her eyes glistening, giving me a watery smile before she leans her head against my shoulder.
“Vic!” Evie calls, her voice steady, but there’s a hint of something in it—anticipation, maybe.
A sound that could wake the dead comes from the treehouse, followed by a brilliant explosion of pink that rains down on us.
Pink fucking confetti.
The sight of it makes my heart stutter, that sharp mix of joy and raw emotion hitting me all at once. I look over at Mama, and I see her bite down hard on her fist, trying to hold back the sob that’s threatening to break free, but it does no good.
I watch my brother, his eyes never leaving Evie, and the fear in them is almost palpable. There’s tenderness, yes, but it’s shadowed by something deeper—a quiet terror.
He’s afraid.
When he mouths to her, “I can’t,” his voice barely audible, the words strike a chord deep in my chest. I think it’s not just fear of the unknown, but the weight of a loss he can never shake—losing his last daughter.
The thought of being given the chance again, to love a little girl, and the possibility of it all being taken from him again…
I can only imagine it feels like too much to bear.
She turns him slowly, like she knows one sudden move might break him.
I swear, I’ve seen my brother take punches that would drop most men cold, seen him walk into chaos like it was a second home—but right now, he looks wrecked. Not in the loud kind of way, but in the quiet, shaking-on-the-inside kind of way.
Maddox stands frozen, eyes locked on the pink confetti still fluttering down from the treehouse like it’s snowing some impossible truth.
His chest doesn’t even rise, and I realize he’s not breathing.
Just…holding it all in. On his face it’s plain as day to see that fear.
That loss. That memory of Livvy, the last daughter he held.
I glance at Mercy, and even he’s not smirking, not cracking some dumb joke. We’re all just watching this man, the strongest one in all of us—come undone in slow motion.
He doesn’t say anything. His jaw tightens, his hands flex at his sides like he's trying to fight the tide rolling in, and I see it, that moment where I think he might just drop. Might turn around and run, or crumble where he stands. But he doesn’t.
He looks down. Right at Evie.
She’s got her hand on his chest, calm and steady like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Like she knows exactly what kind of storm is tearing through him right now and she’s not backing down. And that’s what gets him. Not the pink confetti, not even the words—it’s her. It's always her.
And in the middle of it all, Maddox finally breathes.
One deep, shaky inhale, and then, hell. That tear. One single tear cuts a line down his cheek, and none of us dare say a word. Because that tear says everything. About Livvy. About the fear of trying again. About the love he has never stopped carrying.
Then he moves—just enough to press his forehead to Evie’s, his massive hand sliding around her back like he’s holding the whole damn world. His world.
It’s a girl.
And even though it terrifies him, I can see it in the way he clings to her, he’s already in love.
“That’s right, baby,” Mama says softly beside me, her voice thick with emotion and pride so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of me. She’s watching him—her hardest boy, her damn near broken one—standing there with tears in his eyes and love written all over his face.
There’s something sacred in her tone, like she’s not just talking to him but to the little girl he’s about to raise, to the memory of the one he lost, and to every version of Maddox that fought like hell to make it to this moment.
“Damn, who’s cutting onions in this bitch!” Mercy chokes out beside me, voice cracking just enough to betray him.
I huff a laugh through the tightness in my throat, and Mama swats at his chest without looking away from Maddox. “Hush, boy,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it, just love.
Right then, I feel it. That thud in my chest. That ache that tells me life keeps moving, keeps breaking and rebuilding, and some way—somehow—we keep surviving it.
My eyes drift back across the yard. Through the haze of twinkling lights and laughter, and there she is.
Lou.
Louisiana Rose Wright, standing just on the edge of the patio, half-shadowed by the tall hydrangeas that Aunt Joe insisted would “make the whole place pop.” Her arms are crossed, her chin tilted just slightly down like she’s thinking too damn hard.
But I see it—the way her eyes are locked on Maddox and Evie.
On the pink drifting through the air. On family.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about what we could’ve been. About what we still might be.
I wonder if the what if’s and what should’ve been creep into her mind the way they do mine—relentless and quiet, like a slow-burning fire beneath the surface.
Does she ever lie awake, tracing the outlines of memories we never made, conversations we never finished?
Or am I the only one left haunted by the almosts, carrying the ghost of a future that slipped through our fingers before it ever had the chance to begin?
She must feel me looking because she glances up. Our eyes meet. And this time, she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t scowl. She just watches me.
Then slowly, she lifts her glass in a quiet toast across the distance. Just one corner of her mouth curls up, like she’s daring me to read too much into it.
And fuck if I don’t.
I nod. Raise my own glass back. Emotion heavy in my throat because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like she’s already gone.
Because tonight, in the middle of all this love, all this healing—I see a flicker of hope in her eyes. A maybe. A not yet.
And I’ll take it.