Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
I’M GIVING YOU MY BEST NOAH SPARKS HERE
HENRY
I sit here watching them after dinner—and after that math, which, if I’m being honest, made me question if I need to go back to school.
Because the way they teach it these days?
Confused the hell out of me. I’ve always been good with numbers, sharp even, but Dallas looked at me like I was some kind of invalid the second I tried to help.
I don’t know how, but after only a week—one fucking week—that kid has wormed his way in and buried himself deep. Like he’s always belonged here. And as I sit at that table, watching the two of them, something hits me so hard and so fast I can’t move.
This is it. This is what I’ve always wanted. A home. A table that stays cluttered. A kid who rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. A woman who challenges me at every turn and still makes me feel like I can finally breathe.
But I’m not stupid.
I know Lou. Know the way she bolts when things start to feel too good. She’ll leave. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But eventually. She’ll tell herself it’s safer that way—that she’s protecting herself, or maybe protecting us.
No matter how good the sex is—God damn is it good—that is never going to be enough to make her stay. She is right: the spark between us is easy. It always has been.
What I need—what I want—is for her to stay because she wants to. Because she looks around and sees something worth rooting herself in.
I’m not worried about Dallas. She’ll never leave him behind. If she walks, it’ll be with one hand still holding tight to that boy. It’ll be joint custody and calls at bedtime and holidays negotiated with care despite us only living thirty-six yards apart.
But me?
She can let go of me. Again.
Honestly? I don’t think I'll recover from that this time.
The hard truth is this—she can run, she can fight, she can build walls so high no one’s ever meant to climb them…
But she still owns me. Every scarred, stubborn, fiercely loyal part of who I am.
She always will.
“My mama left when I was really little—decided she didn’t want to be a parent anymore.”
Her voice doesn’t waver, not even a little, but I know it guts her. How could it not?
She and Sophie showed up that night like two fragile little angels in pink nightgowns, tears still fresh on their cheeks. Merc saw them too—called them angels himself.
Damn, he was right.
Dallas looks down at the pencil in his hand and I can see the tremble in his jaw like he wants to sob but he fucking refuses and I know what he’s going to tell her is going to break her heart because God damn it broke mine the first time I read it.
“Mine died. Tried sending us to heaven too, but I made it.”
I watch Louisiana Wright wilt—her shoulders slump just a little, her breath catching in a silent gasp. A tear slips down her cheek, tracing the curve of her throat. Then, in this shattered moment, she fucking blooms—for him, fierce and tender all at once.
She gently cradles his face, turns him until his pale blue eyes meet hers.
“Your God damn right you did,” she whispers. “I’m so thankful for that, Dally.”
I swallow hard, forcing back the tears clawing their way up my throat. Because the things that little boy and his baby brother endured…they’re enough to bring the biggest, toughest son of a bitch to his knees.
His mother was a paranoid schizophrenic with a crack habit and a head full of voices louder than reason.
She refused her meds, traded stability for delusion, and believed her sons were spies—sent to watch her, to betray her.
In her mind, she was some kind of assassin, trapped in decommission, always waiting for a signal that never came.
So she locked them in cages. Starved them. Waterboarded them like they were enemy combatants instead of her own flesh and blood.
Dallas made it out.
His baby brother didn’t.
After the state institutionalized her, and the medication finally quieted the noise in her head, she realized what she’d done. She escaped the facility and jumped off the nearest overpass.
Good fucking riddance.
“Okay, so can you show me how to draw or what?”
His voice is sharp, but it’s the way he pulls back from her touch that guts me. Like he doesn’t think he deserves it. Like kindness burns.
Just like that, we watch it happen—the wall going back up, brick by quiet brick, right in front of us.
I brace for Lou to snap back, to meet fire with fire like she usually does. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she softens, her lips curling into a small, steady smile.
“You bet your sweet ass I can,” she says gently, like it’s the easiest promise in the world.
“Where’s the dad?” she barks, stepping out of the bathroom in cactus-print pajamas that read Don’t Be Such a Prick, toothbrush hanging from her mouth like a cigarette. She's already spoiling for a fight, and I haven’t even looked up yet.
I don’t flinch. Just keep my eyes on the file in my lap and answer, flat and honest. “No one knows. They’ve tried. He’s long gone.”
She disappears down the hall again, stomping like the truth pissed her off. The sound of furious brushing follows, like her teeth are to blame for any of this.
When she reemerges, she’s drying her face on the sleeve of her shirt. “So what? That deadbeat can just pop out of the shadows one day and snatch Dallas back like nothing happened?”
“Lou—”
She throws up a hand. “No, don’t Lou me.” Her voice climbs, sharp, all cracked glass. “So—you’re telling me Daddy Dearest can just show up out of nowhere and take him back? How the fuck is that fair to him?” She points towards his bedroom.
She grabs her hairbrush off the dresser like it owes her an answer and yanks it through her tangled hair, not even wincing when it snags hard.
“Another thing,” she spits, “where the fuck was he while his wife was holding her kids underwater and hoping they didn’t come back up? What kind of man lets that shit happen on his watch?”
That’s it. That’s enough.
I push off the bed, stride across the room, and close the distance between us. My hand clamps over hers, steadying the chaos mid-stroke. Her grip tightens like she might fight me for it, but I don’t move.
“Wildflower, give me the brush.”
Her eyes lock with mine in the mirror, steely and unyielding. “We’re not fucking kids.”
“No,” I murmur, keeping my tone even, “but we sure as hell act like it sometimes. You need to settle down, and so do I.”
She pauses, chest rising and falling like she’s deciding whether to punch me or let go.
Finally, she exhales through her nose and surrenders the brush.
Then like I had so many nights when we were younger—when love was louder than pain—I start at the ends and work through the tangles of her hair with slow, careful strokes.
“What’s really going through that head of yours?” I ask quietly, knowing the anger’s just a mask for something else.
She doesn’t speak at first. Her shoulders twitch like she might bolt. But then her voice comes out low and tired, all the fight drained from it. “I’m angry…for him. But I’m also angry at you.”
I nod once, still brushing. “You’re always angry at me.”
She flinches. Just barely. But I feel it. I know she feels it too—this bone-deep tired we both wear like second skin.
“When I read that file…” My throat closes. I push the words out anyway. “It gutted me, Lou. Tore me open and left me there.”
Her eyes flash in the mirror. “Don’t.”
“I’m not.” I reassure her knowing she has no desire to read that thing and instead wants Dallas to tell her whatever he wants her to know or not know.
She stares straight ahead, voice gone quiet. “Some women aren’t even able to have children, and then some of the ones that do…aren’t even fucking worthy of it.”
“Now that,” I say, jaw tight, “I fucking agree with.”
She rubs her hands together like she’s trying to wash off something invisible before finally turning to face me. Her eyes fall to my chest—to the wildflowers inked there like ghosts of her. “I’m not always angry with you.”
I take her chin in my hand, rough but careful. “Look at me, wildflower.”
Her scent hits me first and when her gaze lifts, it’s like she’s stripped herself bare.
“It hurts to look at you, Henny.”
Those words don’t just hit—they split me open. Quiet and lethal, like a knife under the ribs. I don’t flinch, but I feel it everywhere. My grip tightens a fraction. Not rough. Just…steadier than I feel.
She could’ve screamed at me. Hit me. Walked away. But this? This is worse.
I force down the lump clawing up my throat, hook my pinkie in hers like it’ll keep me from losing whatever’s left.
“I know I hurt you,” I say, voice thick, scraping its way out. “And you have no fucking idea how many times I’ve wished I could take back what I said to you that day.”
I look away for a beat, then back. “I told you to go see the world. I thought I was doing right by you. But I didn’t think you’d take my entire fucking world from me, holding it hostage for all these years.”
Her lip quivers. Still, she doesn’t speak.
“I never meant to call you a mistake,” I add, breathing through the sting in my chest. “I meant that what we did—that day—was one. Not because of you, but because I wasn’t in my right mind.
Murph was fresh in the ground. You were crying, and all I could think about was getting you to stop.
Getting you to breathe. You have no idea what it does to me when you cry, Lou. ”
I step in closer, brush my thumb under her eye, rougher than I should be. “There’s nothing I hate more in this world than watching you cry.”
“When you do…it makes me feel like I failed. I’m not a man that takes failure in stride.” My voice drops to a hoarse rasp. “But that’s what all this time we’ve let slip through our fingers has felt like—failure. Every fucking second of it.”
She doesn’t speak, but her chest heaves like she’s holding in a scream. Or a sob.
I lean in, lips barely brushing the trail a tear leaves down her cheek. I taste salt and silence.
“But I’m done letting time slip through our fingers,” I tell her, voice a low growl now. “Done pretending like I don’t still want to fucking crawl inside your skin just to feel close again.”
I glance over at the bed, at the stupid wall of pillows she lines down the middle.
“I’m letting that pathetic barricade stay,” I mutter, “not because I respect it—but because I like knowing you still reach for me in your sleep despite it.”
Her eyes snap to mine. Vulnerable. Defiant.
“I’m going to keep touching you,” I go on, voice dipping into gravel. “Not because I’m owed it. Not because I’m trying to prove something. But because it’s mine. That mouth. That body. That soaked little cunt that trembles every time I even look at you like this.”
Her breath catches. Her legs press together without her meaning to.
“That doesn’t go away, Lou,” I say. “Not with time. Not with silence. You can build a fortress of pillows and spite between us, but I’m still the man who can make you feel whole.”
I step in, so close our lips nearly touch. “If you think for one second I’m satisfied with burying my tongue in that sloppy little pussy…I’m not. I want more—with you. I want the part that no one else sees. The part you hide even from yourself.”
Her breath catches, her eyes locking onto mine—searching, hesitant, like she’s balancing between trusting me and guarding herself.
“I see it, Lou,” I say, voice rough but steady, “the part you hide away. The part you’re terrified to show anyone. Hell, I’m scared too.”
My fingers find her jaw, tracing it slow and tentative, the smallest tremor betraying how much this moment means.
“I don’t want to tear down your walls just to watch you rebuild them again,” I whisper. “I want you to let me inside—completely. The good, the broken, the parts you think aren’t worthy. I just want you to fucking choose me.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t run.
But she doesn’t lean in either.
Her fingers twitch beneath mine, still pressed flat against my chest like she’s afraid of what she might feel if she lets it sink in.
“I want to choose you,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I do.”
I wait, heart pounding, but I feel it—the shift. The hesitation that doesn’t come from fear of me, but something deeper.
She lifts her eyes to mine, glassy and raw—not from tears she’s hiding, but from truths too heavy to speak. “But I’m not whole, Henry,” she breathes, voice breaking. “I don’t want you waking up one day realizing you settled for a garden that never bloomed.”
I tighten my hold on her just a little, feeling those words settle deep and raw in my chest.
“No garden is perfect, Lou,” I say, voice low and rough, “but you—my wildflower—you’re the one that pushes through the cracks, the one that blooms in the hardest places.”
My voice cracks, raw with all I’m feeling.
“You’re not some garden that never bloomed. You’re the wildest, fiercest thing I’ve ever known. I swear, I’m not going anywhere, and neither is he.”
I press my forehead to hers, desperate for her to finally believe it—desperate for her to know this isn’t just words. This is where I’m meant to be. With her. Always. My hand slips beneath the loose edge of her shorts, sliding up slow, knuckles brushing the slick heat already waiting for me.
She gasps—barely—but it’s enough to make my jaw clench.
“Fuck,” I murmur against her neck. “You’re soaked…and I haven’t even done anything yet.”
She shivers as I speak, hips twitching the slightest bit like her body’s caught between anticipation and surrender. I move to her buttons, slow and steady, undoing them like she’s something sacred. Like I want to remember the feel of every undone inch.
Her shirt falls, soft as breath, and I lower my mouth to her collarbone, kissing the dip there like I’ve earned the right. I don’t rush. I don’t press. Just mouth and tongue and heat, drawn out so slowly it makes her whimper.
Then I pull back, just enough to breathe, and sink onto the edge of the bed.
“Take them off, little viper,” I murmur, nodding toward her shorts. “Then come here.”
She does it without a word—thumbs slipping under the waistband, sliding the fabric down those long legs until it puddles at her feet. She steps out of them and toward me like she was made for this moment.
I grip her hips and guide her around, pulling her back into my lap. Her skin meets mine, warm and soft and already trembling. I spread my legs wide, settling hers over mine, placing each delicate foot on my knees. It opens her up—completely—putting her on full display.
My hand slips between her thighs, and I drag my fingers through the slick heat of her, slow and deliberate, before sinking one deep into her pulsing center.
She gasps, hips stuttering, and her hand slides around my neck, fingers knotting in my hair like she needs the anchor.
“That’s it,” I whisper against her jaw, voice low and wrecked. “That’s my girl…now fucking bloom for me.”