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"You were a kid who'd lost her parents," I say gently. "Nobody would expect you to handle that perfectly."
She chuckles. "Yeah, you're right, but I complained about everything. Found fault in everything they did. I hated the chores, hated the structure—it clashed with the free-spirited way I'd been raised.
They weren't affectionate like my parents were, so I assumed they didn't even like me.
"Eventually, I got it into my head to run away. I figured they'd be relieved. I’d assumed in the end they'd only taken me in because they had to—and they'd be glad to see me go.
"So, one night, when everyone was asleep, I snuck out and walked to the bus station with the idea that I'd head to New York or Los Angeles, become a famous actress, and make it big on Broadway or in Hollywood. I was thirteen at the time, so of course I had no idea how ridiculous that plan really was. It feels almost comical now, looking back and remembering how certain I was that stardom was only a bus ride away."
"What happened?" I ask, her story eliciting some dread.
"Nothing bad, thankfully," she says to my relief. "I got stopped by a cop who didn't like the look of a kid on their own in a bus station with a backpack at that time of night. He correctly guessed I was a runaway, and I confessed as soon as he challenged me. He was nice about it though. He didn't call it through or anything. Bought me a donut and a coke, then drove me back home, where my aunt and uncle were still asleep and hadn't even known I was gone."
"When they found out what I did, they were shocked. Surprisingly, though, they didn't scold me. They were obviously upset, but instead of yelling, my aunt cried for the first time and asked me why I ran away. I realized I couldn't answer. They weren't horrible to me at all, but I was lashing out at them because I'd lost my parents and needed someone to blame. I never even stopped to think that my aunt had lost someone as well. She'd lost her sister, and she was grieving too, even if it wasn't as obvious a grief as mine."
She smiles a little sadly. A few tears had trickled down her cheeks as she told the story. This time, she doesn't hide them, like she did last night in the living room, and doesn't wipe them away. She lets them flow, and I'm glad that she trusts me enough to let me see her like this.
"For about a week after that, my uncle slept downstairs in his favorite rocking chair—just in case I tried to sneak out again. My aunt started cooking all my favorite meals, the ones she remembered me liking as a kid. That's when it finally hit me: they loved me. Not with kisses and notes and adventures, but with structure. With showing up. With… with just being there."
"I never tried to run away again. And I did my best after that to behave, to not make their lives harder than they already were."
She sighs. "It's just… sometimes I wonder if I ever showed them how grateful I was. And now it's too late. I can't thank them for everything they did. I can't say sorry for all the grief I gave them—all the normal teenage crap on top of losing my parents."
"I'm sure they knew," I say quietly. "You showed it in your own way—by sticking it out. By adapting. That meant something."
She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she lets out a quiet, thoughtful "Hmm," like she hears me—but isn't sold on it.
We settle into a silence that drifts toward sleep. But one thought won't let me rest.
I know I need to talk to Reed about this. Not because he's the leader—that's Dean—but because he's the one most likely to be hurt. Reed's been open about how he feels about Hailey. The looks he gives her when she walks into the room, the teasing, the way his gaze lingers on her legs, her ass. It's not subtle. But subtlety has never been Reed's strongest suit.
Dean, though… Dean's harder to read. He's always protective, always managing the situation—but that's Dean being Dean. God knows what he really thinks about anything.
Still… now that I think about it, he's been quieter than usual lately. Not that he's ever chatty, but there's a weight to his silence these days. A tension. He watches us like it's his job—and perhaps it is—but every now and then, I catch him looking at Hailey when he thinks no one's watching. And man, if that's not a recipe for disaster, I don't know what is.
I should talk to Reed about Dean too. Get his take. He's better at reading people than I am—always has been. That's never beenmystrong suit.
Later that day, I get the chance to talk to Reed. He's in Hailey's lodge, fixing something under her kitchen sink. He's the resident handyman around here—good with tools, always humming when he's working. Sure enough, he's got a rhythm going when I walk in.
He spots me, grinning. "You look like a man who just got freshly laid."
I freeze. Heat crawls up my neck. "How did you?—?"
"It's obvious," he says, straightening up. "You're not tense, you've got that loose swagger, and your face doesn't look like it's carved out of granite anymore. You've got pep in your step, my friend. You definitely just got laid. Am I wrong? Who was it… Marsha?"
I clear my throat and resist the urge to look away. Time to man up. "That's actually what I came to talk to you about."
He raises a brow. "You wanted to confirm it? Congrats, but I don't need the play-by-play."
"Not that." I sigh. "I hooked up with Hailey."
Reed's grin drops. His face goes slack, and the guilt I've been trying to outrun slams straight into me. I knew this wouldn't be easy. But Hailey and I agreed—Reed deserves to know.
"What?"
"Yeah. We didn't plan it. But I've been attracted to her for a while. Still am."
He frowns—more confused than angry. "I don't get it." His brow furrows, like he's trying to solve a puzzle.