Page 65 of Shattered Promise

ABBY

The Uber dropsme off in front of my parents’ house on Sunday night. I’m not late, but I’m not as early as I usually am. Truthfully, I had a hard time making myself leave my cabin.

It’s not that I don’t love my family, and I am trying to spend more time with them. But I haven’t been feeling like myself lately—the version of me that exists for everyone else.

In fact, I’ve felt more like me in these last two weeks than I have in two years. It’s as freeing as it is foreign.

And the thought of squeezing back into the family-approved version of myself makes me want to slide right back into the Uber and ask to be taken home.

Instead I stand in the driveway, staring at the house. Their porch so aggressively welcoming it could be a set piece from a commercial about insurance or mayonnaise. The porch lights are already on, casting a glow across the hydrangeas that border the walk.

I picture everyone inside—Mom in her trademark apron, my dad and brothers yelling at the TV and whatever sports game is on, my sister dodging my mom’s advice on her bakery.

Mason offered to drive. Said it made sense, since I was already with him and Theo. But I told him no. That it was easier this way.

What I meant was:I’m not ready to tell them about the cabin.

I don’t want to field the inevitable questions that would roll in like fog over the quarry. Why I’ve been hiding out in my inherited cabin like some hermit with a guitar and a past she doesn’t know how to carry.

I step onto the porch and the door swings open before I can knock. My dad stands in the doorway, arms wide, as if he’s been waiting all week to catch me coming home. “There’s my girl!” he bellows, and for a split second I’m twelve again, running toward him after I didn’t get the solo in the school musical, before the years got heavy and the hugs got complicated.

He pulls me in, his arms a bear trap, and I let myself fall into it. He smells like aftershave and oregano. “Good to have you home, Abby,” he says into my hair.

I smile, but it’s brittle around the edges. “Good to be home.”

“C’mon in. Mom will be excited to see you,” Dad says, holding the door open for me.

Inside, the house is chaos, in the best way. The noise hits me first—voices overlapping in every room, the clatter of pans, the sharpcrackof the baseball game on replay. It smells like garlic bread and rosemary, and the faint trace of the lemon candle Mom always lights after she cooks.

“Is that my daughter?” Mom crows from the end of the hallway that leads to the kitchen. She wipes her hands on her apron as she quickly erases the distance between us. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” she whispers as she pulls me into a hug.

“It’s only been a couple of months,” I say into her shoulder, but I let myself lean in. Just for a second.

Mom pulls back, eyes shining. “Still too long. I’m just so proud of you, honey. Working so hard out there in the city.” Her smile softens into something hopeful. “I’m glad you took the weekend off. It’s good to have you home.”

I’ve been here for two weeks,I don’t say.

“I missed you guys too.”

“You’re just in time. Dinner’s ready and the boys set the table,” Mom says, ushering me into the dining room.

Everyone is already there, and somehow the dining table is longer than I remember.

“Did you guys get a new table?” I say, rounding one end of the table and heading toward the only open seat left next to Cora. Across from Mason and Theo.

Mom grins as she takes her seat at one end of the table. “Your father found the leaf in the garage. But we’re in the market for a new one. Our family is growing so fast, and I have a feeling it’s only going tokeepgrowing.”

My brows raise at Mom’s pointed gaze darting toward my sister. Considering Cora was just drinking aperol spritzes at book club two days ago, I think it’s Mom’s wishful thinking.

Mason’s eyes catch mine for a split second before they slide away, but something lingers between us. A hum in the air that no one else seems to feel.

Mom claps her hands and sits down. “Alright, everyone. Dig in!”

The table comes alive. Plates and platters pass in a constant stream, hands reaching and retreating, someone laughing too loud every few minutes. The noise is a comfort and a threat: nobody listens, yet nothing is missed.

“Abby,” Dad says, “try this sausage. Tell me it’s not the best you’ve ever had.” He’s already passing the serving dish down, and I take a small piece. He watches me chew, anticipation onhis face, and I do my best to perform appreciation. “It’s perfect, Dad. Really.”

“See? I told you, honey,” he says, beaming at my mom.