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Wes takes Rosie from Tess’s arms before she looks at me, eyebrows wiggling like when she was just a toddler herself. “Race you there, old lady.”

“Old lady? I’m only ten years older than you, you little brat.”

“Exactly.” She tosses a playful glare over her shoulder.

And just like that, we’re off—an unlikely group of four, bonded by loss and quiet understanding, now unified by the irresistible pull of sugar.

Fourteen

Wes

We’re posted up on a stone wall, ice cream melting faster than we can eat it. Lena’s holding some monstrous cone that looks like it was made by a five-year-old—chocolate, caramel, and rainbow sprinkles.

In the grass, Tess is chasing Rosie like her life depends on it. Rosie’s zigzagging on those wobbly toddler legs, completely feral and loving it.

My gaze flicks sideways to Lena. She laughs softly at the scene playing out in front of us, and that laugh sinks straight into my bones.

Those warning bells immediately start sounding.

Admiring her ass is one thing. Noticing her laugh isanother thing entirely.

“Hey,” I say roughly, breaking our silence. “About earlier…what Tess said, about your mom.”

Her eyes are soft when she looks up at me. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

“You’ve been around for months. I should’ve asked.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “It’s not exactly something you slip into casual conversation. ‘Hey, my mom died ten years ago. Pass the ketchup.’”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” She glances down at her lap. “You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you.”

I clear my throat, watching Rosie topple onto the grass, giggling as Tess finally scoops her up. “Still. Family obviously matters to you.”

“Well, you know Tess now. That’s half my story right there.”

We’re quiet again, watching Rosie reach for Tess’s hair. Lena nudges me, softer this time.

“Tess was right,” she says in between licks of her ice cream, unaware of exactly what the sight of her tongue flicking against the sweet cream is doing to my pulse.

I swallow hard. “About?”

“The stories. They really do help. Someday Rosie’s going to ask about her parents, and I want to have answers.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Small things, big things. Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

I suck in a slow breath, memories suddenly heavy in my chest. “Amber was obsessed with the eighties. Shehad this bright pink Walkman that she carried everywhere, even after the damn thing broke.”

“See, that’s something I can work with.”

I almost smile. Almost. But the sudden rush of other memories—sharper, darker ones—cuts off the feeling.

Sensing the shift, Lena looks away to give me space. Except her gaze lands on my cone instead, eyebrows pinched in clear judgment.

“Vanilla?” she asks, scrunching her nose.