Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
The words spill from my lips without thought, but rather than looking surprised, he grins and twirls me again. And I let him.
The laughter tapers into soft giggles. The kids collapse in a tangled heap on a blanket, pink-cheeked and breathless with fun. The music shifts to something slower, softer, and I ease away from the circle with my drink cradled in both hands, needing a second to breathe.
The punch is warm in my stomach. The air is cooler now, brushing against my skin as I walk a few steps toward the edge of the clearing. I pause near one of the fence posts, sipping slowly, watching the men settle onto blankets and logs, passing around bottles, smiling like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.
Every year, I think, I used to wait like this. Just like this—watching, hoping. Birthday candles burnt out, cake getting dry, Mom trying to cover his absence with soft excuses that only made the silence louder.
I take another sip, the sweetness of the punch turning sharp.
Every year, I thought: this’ll be the one. Dad’ll show up. He’ll remember me.
But he never did.
A shaky breath escapes me. I glance back at the party; the kids curled together like puppies, their little faces lit up in the lantern glow. They deserve better than waiting and wondering if they’re enough to stay for.
There’s nothing Eli or Junie could ever do that would make their mom’s leaving make sense. Nothing.
So, why did I feel for so many years like my father leaving was all my fault?
There is nothing in the world, apart from death, that would keep these men from these children.
The ache sneaks up on me, rising so fast, I don’t see it coming. It burns behind my eyes and swells in my throat. I try to blink it away, to swallow it down, but the tears spill before I can stop them.
I turn my face from the light, away from the warmth of the fire and the hum of music and chatter.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to fall apart.
The heat of Conway’s chest is the first thing I register, and then the solid weight of his arms wrapping around me, pulling me in like it’s instinct, as his scent, woodsy and masculine, surrounds me. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady and close to my ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
That’s all it takes for me to melt into him, burying my face in his shirt, my hands fisting against his sides like I’m afraid he’ll let me go if I don’t hold tight enough. The tears keep coming, louder now, ugly and raw. I can’t stop them.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “It’s stupid. This has been… I—” I swallow hard, trying to breathe. “I used to think it was my fault that he didn’t come back… that it was my fault he left.”
I know I’m babbling, but Conway doesn’t question anything as he strokes my back over and over.
“And now I’m here, and you all… you don’t leave. You stay. You make it work even when it’s so hard.” I lift my head, barely able to look at him through the blur. “You made me feel like I matter, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
His hand finds the back of my head, fingers weaving gently into my hair. He presses his cheek to the mine, voice gruff but tender. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. It never was.”
He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his rough thumb brushing a tear from my cheek.
“And you matter to us, Grace. You hear me? Not only tonight on your birthday but every damn day.”
I nod, swallowing a sob. I can’t speak, but I hear him. I feel his reassurance in every inch of my body, as he embraces me like I’m essential and someone worth holding onto.
Over his shoulder, I glimpse movement. Corbin and Levi quietly herd the kids toward the house, their eyes gentle, giving me space. Eli glances back at me, and Corbin dips his head to whisper something that makes her smile before scooping her into his arms.
They’re giving me this moment. Letting me fall apart without shame.
And that… that is a gift I won’t forget.
When the screen door closes, and the low hum of Corbin’s voice carries from somewhere in the house, the others gather closer. They don’t crowd me too closely, forming a kind of quiet half-circle around me and Conway, like they’re forming a wall against the rest of the world that I can hide inside.
Dylan steps forward first, pressing a cold bottle of water into my hand. “Sip it slow,” he says softly. “You’ve cried more than a person should in a year.”
Stoic and unreadable, Jaxon pulls a clean bandana from his back pocket and holds it out with a flick of his eyes that says, ‘Take it.’ Please. I do. Our fingers brush, and I use it to wipe my face.