Page 15 of Shattered Promise

It stuck with me. Still does.

So when I found this one—run-down, half-forgotten, but still standing—it felt like something I could build into that. Eventually. Even if it’s just me and Theo, for now.

The air’s cool against my face, soft with dew. Crickets sing from the tall grass along the fence line, their rhythm broken only by the low hoot of an owl out near the trees. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a fox yips—quick, sharp, then gone. It’s not truly quiet out here. But it’s the kind of quiet that lives. Layered, breathing.

A year ago, I’d have been gearing up for a midnight run out at The Alley. Tuning my car, talking shit with Beau, letting the engine noise drown out the rest of the world. Back then, the adrenaline was the point. Now, my Saturday nights are diapers, bottles, and dishes. The hum of the baby monitor and the weight of knowing I’m the only line of defense between my kid and the rest of the world.

It’s a different kind of high-stakes. A heavier one. But I wouldn’t change it. Not a damn thing. Theo’s the best part of my life—hands down. Even when I’m running on fumes.

I pull my phone from my hoodie pocket and tap the screen. My fingers hesitate for a beat, hovering like they always do. Like maybe this time I won’t do it. But muscle memory wins. It always does.

Her name is already in my recent searches.

Abby Carter.

Her Instagram loads slow—signal’s always been shit out here—but I don’t mind waiting. I already know what’s coming. I could scroll it blind. She doesn’t post much, and when shedoes, it’s polished work shots and curated glimpses of her life. Her nonprofit events. Color-coded sodas. Soft-lit photos of gardens and champagne flutes. Stuff that looks . . . put-together. Effortless.

Exactly like her.

I swipe to her tagged photos. That’s where the real ones are. The blurry group shots from holidays. Candids from Beau or their mom. Once, there was one of her laughing with her eyes closed, head tipped back, hair in a messy ponytail. She was holding a mug and wearing an oversized hoodie with the old Ford logo peeling across the chest.

She swiped it from Beau’s closet when she was in high school, then claimed it was lucky. Or that’s what she always said. I just remember walking into the kitchen and seeing her in my hoodie, barefoot on the tile, blinking sleep from her eyes like the night hadn’t ended yet.

I tell myself it’s harmless. That I’m not digging for something that isn’t mine.

But I always stop on that photo. Not on purpose. Not really.

Sometimes, though, one slips through. A blurry shot from her parents’ house. A laugh caught mid-breath. One Beau tagged her in—both of them squinting into the sun at the lake.

Those are the ones that stop me. Those are the ones that look like Abby to me.

It doesn’t feel like breaking a promise if all I’m doing is looking. Sometimes it feels like watching a life through a window. One that was never meant to open.

She’s Beau’s little sister. She always has been. And anything that might’ve been. . .well, that was a long time ago. We’ve both changed.

She built a life out west—successful, magnetic. Always in motion.

And I’m not the guy I used to be. The one who ran toward danger because standing still felt like surrender. Now I’m here, standing still.

Bought a house I’m still learning how to take care of. Raising a son who looks at me like I hung the damn moon, even on the days I barely hold it together.

Stuck in the pit of quicksand my dad left behind when he left the house and never looked back.

Still, I hover over her photos—thumb brushing the edge of the screen, like that’s enough to keep her close. Just to feel a little less far away.

The screen lights up with an incoming video call from Beau. I swipe to answer, his face filling the screen like just thinking about him conjured the call.

“You know it’s after midnight, right?” I say, voice low, steady.

Beau grins back at me, all sharp angles and unbrushed hair. “Pretty sure I’ve called you later.”

“Yeah. Back when you were trying to get me arrested.”

“Hey,” he says, feigning offense. “We never got caught.”

“Sheer dumb luck,” I deadpan.

His laugh comes easy. Familiar. It eases something in my chest I didn’t know had gone tight.