CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
This Path, These Trees
I wake early and start the coffee, the scent filling the quiet kitchen like a promise. Mom’s been sleeping at the hospital every night. She won’t go anywhere else. Not yet. But Jasper says it’s progress.
She still won’t step into a restaurant or walk the aisles of a grocery store, but she shows up for Dad. And somehow, that’s enough for now.
Today, Brooks and I are moving Dad’s things back into the bedroom. Dr. Kulkarni says his recovery is nothing short of miraculous. Faster than expected and stronger than anyone dared hope.
But I think I know the truth.
Love is healing him in ways medicine can’t. Maybe it always has.
I inhale a thankful breath. The house smells faintly of cedar and coffee grounds, the kind of morning scent that feels like safety.
Outside, dew clings to the grass, and somewhere down the road, a dog barks.
It’s a small, ordinary sound that shouldn’t matter, but it does.
I press my palms to the warm countertop and just breathe.
After weeks of sleepless nights, this quiet feels almost foreign, like I have to relearn how to exist inside calm.
Brooks returns just after eight, balancing two travel mugs in one hand and a small bakery bag in the other.
"I have fuel," he says with a half-smile, nudging the bag toward me. "Scones. Don’t ask me what kind. I just pointed at the ones that looked fancy."
I take the mug from him and sip. "You’re getting alarmingly good at showing up just when I need you."
He shrugs. "I’ve had years of practice."
"You ready to bring Dad’s stuff back in?" I ask him.
"Eat first," Brooks says, nodding to the scone in my hand. "Then we’ll do the heavy lifting."
"Tell me something," I say as I take another bite of blueberry.
Brooks sits across from me at the dining room table, raising a brow. "Anything."
"When are you going to sell your grandmother’s house?"
His gaze shifts. He licks his lips, nervous. "I don’t know."
"I know you love being here and I know you love helping," I say gently. "But you have to live your own life, Brooks. Jasper, Mom, and Dad… they’ll figure things out."
He nods, slowly. "Yeah. I know. I just… I like being here." There’s a pause before he adds, almost too casually, "Are you, uh, planning on staying?"
"Indefinitely?" I ask, meeting his eyes.
Brooks doesn’t answer. He just looks away.
The truth is, I don’t know. I have a life in Los Angeles. A career. An apartment. All the things I once believed defined me. Now that Dad’s getting better, it’s time to start thinking about return tickets. Time to remember who I was before all this.
"I’m not sure," I admit. "I’ve been an influencer for so long… I’m not convinced I’d be good at anything else."
Brooks chuckles, soft and sincere. "I think you could do anything you put your mind to, Ellie."
I smile. "That means a lot coming from you."
"If you need to go back to California," he says quietly, "I want you to know we’ll be okay here."
His words hit something deep. He’s willing to stay, to carry the weight, to let me go. Still.
"When I figure it out," I tell him, "you’ll be the first to know."
Brooks and I finish in companionable silence, the weight of the day ahead grounding us.
We carry the boxes from the garage one at a time.
Some are labeled neatly—‘Socks’, ‘Books’, ‘Nightstand’—while others are messier, marked in Mom’s hasty scrawl.
We work in silence for a while, the sound of our footsteps on old wood filling the quiet.
It feels like muscle memory, falling into step with him like this.
When we open the last box, the one filled with Dad’s framed photos, and odds and ends, I pause.
"This one’s his favorite," I say, picking up a picture of Mom and Dad at the lake. They’re younger, sunburned, laughing. Her arm is thrown around him. They look like the kind of couple who thought they had forever.
I trace the edge of the frame with my thumb, following the faint nick where the wood once split.
I remember that day. The lake water cold and green, Mom shrieking when Dad splashed her, and the smell of grilled corn and sunscreen thick in the air.
For a long time, that photo hurt too much to look at.
Now, it feels like proof that forever can exist, even if it doesn’t last the way I expected it to.
Brooks leans over my shoulder, close enough that I feel the warmth of him at my back. "He used to keep that one on the windowsill," he says softly.
"I know."
We set the picture back in its place together, like it never left.
"Do you think things will ever go back to how they were?" I ask.
Brooks crouches beside the bed, straightening the quilt like it’s a sacred ritual. "No. But maybe that’s not the point."
I sink to the floor beside him, knees drawn to my chest. "Then, what is the point?"
He looks over at me, steady and sure. "That you’re still here. That he’s still fighting. That your mom walked into that hospital room. That somehow, despite everything, people keep choosing each other."
I swallow hard. "Even when it’s messy?"
"Especially when it’s messy," he says.
We sit in silence, the room half-sorted, rays of sunlight beginning to spill through the window. There’s so much left to do. But for now, this moment feels like enough.
After a while, Brooks and I stand, his hand slipping into mine as he gives it a gentle tug.
"You want to go for a walk?" he asks, voice low and easy.
I nod. "Yeah, I could use a break."
The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled light across the trail ahead. Shadows stretch and sway with the breeze, painting the dirt path in shifting golds and greens. Birds chirp lazily in the distance, their calls softened by the hush that falls between us.
Our fingers are loosely tangled, his thumb occasionally brushing the side of mine as we walk. The earth is soft beneath our steps, worn smooth by time and memory. Somewhere nearby, water trickles, and the scent of pine clings to the warm air.
We don’t say much. But the way Brooks keeps my hand wrapped in his says more than anything else ever could.
I’m split. Between the life I built in LA and the one quietly forming here. With him. With my family. With the mess and the magic of it all.
In California, I had everything I thought I wanted. Brand deals. Sponsorships. A carefully curated identity that looked good on camera. But offscreen? I was lonely. Untethered. I poured so much time into pretending to be someone people would follow that I forgot how to be someone I’d want to know.
I used to think that was success—brunch spots with plants on the wall, perfectly edited reels, and captions about ‘finding balance.’ But none of it held me the way this place does.
This path. These trees. The way Brooks looks at me like I’m not a brand, but a person. Real. Messy. Worth something anyway.
And yet, I worked so hard to build that life. Even if it doesn’t fit anymore, it was mine. Walking away from it completely feels reckless. Irresponsible. What if I regret it? What if I stay here and end up resenting everything I gave up?
But if I leave, what am I walking toward? A version of myself I no longer believe in?
I used to feel like I fit in there. But now… now I feel like I fit here.
It’s just… I’m always in the wrong place. Or maybe I’m always leaving the right one.
"You haven’t said much," Brooks says softly, his voice breaking through the hush of the woods.
I squeeze his hand, grounding myself in the warmth of his palm. "Just thinking," I murmur, the words barely more than breath.
He glances sideways at me, concern etched across his brow. "You want to talk about it?"
I shake my head, my throat too tight to explain the storm brewing inside me. Just ahead, a creek murmurs over smooth stones, the water catching flecks of late afternoon sun like a trail of scattered stars.
"I’d rather dip my feet in that," I say, nodding toward it.
We veer off the trail and step down the embankment.
The air is cooler near the water, scented with damp moss and wild mint.
We peel off our shoes and step into the stream, the cold shocking against our skin.
I hiss through my teeth as the water rushes over my ankles, crisp and biting, but invigorating.
The kind of cold that wakes me up and forces me to feel everything.
Brooks steps beside me and immediately slips on a moss-covered rock, his arms flailing. I reach out and catch his wrist just in time, laughing as I steady him.
"That would’ve hurt," I tease.
"That would’ve been so embarrassing," he grins, but his cheeks flush.
Then, in one motion, he tugs me toward him. I land against his chest, breath catching in both our throats. Before I can say a word, his lips are on mine—urgent and aching. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s raw. It’s desperate.
The sun filters through the canopy in shards of light, catching the water’s surface like glass.
The sound of the creek drowns everything else—every thought and every fear.
For a heartbeat, I wonder if the world could just stop here, if time could fold itself into this quiet space where nothing is decided yet.
Brooks’ laughter fades, replaced by a silence thick enough to feel. I can taste the moment before it changes.
He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish the second he lets go.
And maybe I will.
But not yet.
I kiss him back and I can feel it radiating off of him. This silent, trembling panic. He’s scared. Not of the future. Not of the unknown.
He’s scared of losing me.
He’s scared I’ll choose something else—somewhere else—over him.
And the terrifying part?
I don’t know yet if he’s wrong.
So, I kiss him harder.
My hands slide up his chest, anchoring at the nape of his neck as I press my body fully against his.
The cool water rushes around our legs, but his heat—his steady, grounding presence—consumes me.
I part my lips and let him in, deeper this time.
Slower. Not just desperate, but deliberate.
Like I’m telling him something without needing words.
I’m here.
His fingers tighten at my waist, not possessive, but grateful. He exhales into me, almost as if he’s been holding his breath for weeks. Like he didn’t expect me to stay this long, let alone kiss him like this. Like I might be choosing something after all.
When we finally break apart, our foreheads press together. We’re both breathing hard, the creek swirling cold and wild around our calves, the scent of summer leaves thick in the air.
Brooks is the first to speak, his voice hoarse. "That felt a little like…you don’t want to go."
I close my eyes, resting my forehead against his. "Maybe."
He swallows hard. "So… are you staying?"
I open my eyes to meet his, unsure how to answer. Because right now, with his heartbeat echoing in my ears and the breeze threading through the trees like it’s holding its breath for me, I don’t want to go anywhere.
"I’m not leaving today," I whisper.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, slow and reverent, his eyes dark and full of longing. "I want you, Ellie."
A breath catches in my throat, but I smile, soft and sure. "Soon, Brooks. I promise."
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and pine. The world hums softly around us, as if even the trees are listening for my answer. I think maybe home isn’t a place. It’s this pause between what was and what comes next.