Page 54 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

“I believe in you,” I say simply. “Whatever you decide. Lab, classroom, writing textbooks in a cabin somewhere, I’m proud of you. And I’ll be right there, cheering you on.”

Her lips part on a soft breath. “Dean…”

“Don’t say anything yet,” I murmur. “Just think about it. Let the moment settle.”

She does. And then she leans in, resting her head on my shoulder as Evelyn climbs into her lap, already asking for another lemon bar.

The town goes on around us and is filled with laughter, music, and summer air, but for once, we’re still. And I know, without question, that whatever future Lila chooses, it’s going to be bright. Because she is.

The scent of charcoal and sweet corn clings to my shirt as I wrangle Oliver into his booster seat, his cheeks flushed from too much sun and too many cupcakes.

Evelyn’s giggling, sticky with lemonade and frosting, kicking her feet like the sugar rush hasn’t quite worn off yet.

Lila’s a few steps behind us, hovering near the dessert table where the remnants of pies and brownies have been reduced to crumbs.

She’s smiling when someone says goodbye, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Not like it usually does.

She hasn’t said much since the ambulance left. Since she knelt on the ground with a stranger’s little boy in her arms, pressing an epinephrine pen into his thigh with the kind of practiced calm that shouldn’t belong to someone her age. A calm born from experience. From pain.

I open the passenger door for her, resting a hand lightly on the small of her back as she climbs in. She doesn’t lean into the touch like she usually does. She doesn’t even look up.

The drive is quiet.

Oliver is out cold before we hit the main road, his head tilted at an impossible angle, mouth open. Evelyn’s eyes flutter closed soon after, a faint hum of a lullaby drifting from her lips as if she’s still in some dreamland made of bounce houses and sparklers.

Lila, though… she’s wide awake. Her fingers twist the hem of her sundress over and over, the fabric wrinkled and damp in her grip. Her gaze stays pinned to the window, but I don’t think she’s looking at the passing trees.

I want to say something. To break the silence. But I don’t.

She needs space to think. I’ve learned Lila is the kind of woman who feels things deeply but privately. Her mind is probably still replaying every second. How the boy’s face had swollen, how he could barely breathe, how fast she had to act.

She saved that boy’s life. Yet I know her well enough now to know she’s not feeling triumphant. She’s haunted.

When I pull into the driveway, the house is shadowed under a veil of soft dusk, the porch light flickering to life as I shut off the engine. I look over, expecting Lila to reach for the door handle, but she doesn’t move.

“Hey,” I say gently. “We’re home.”

She blinks slowly like she’s coming up for air, nodding, but she still doesn’t say anything. I get out, carefully lift a sleeping Evelyn from her seat, and press a kiss to her forehead. She murmurs something against my chest, curling into me like a kitten.

Lila finally steps out of the car. She closes the door with more care than necessary, like she’s afraid the sound might shatter something inside her. The light spills across her face, and that’s when I see it. Her eyes aren’t just tired; they’re unsettled. She’s somewhere else entirely.

I pause halfway up the steps, glancing over my shoulder.

She’s standing by the passenger side, one hand resting on the roof of the car, her eyes cast toward the night sky like she’s looking for a sign.

I want to ask what she’s thinking. If she’s okay. If she’s proud of what she did today because she should be.

“This isn’t pretend for me, Lila,” I say quietly.

“I know,” she says. “It isn’t for me either. That’s what makes this so hard. My mind is all jumbled, and I’m so confused after today.”

She doesn’t cry. Neither do I.

But when she steps away and heads for the door, it feels like something is unraveling anyway. The front door clicks shut behind her, and the silence that follows is sharp. Too biting.

I stay in the hallway for a minute, her unsaid words echoing in my head like footsteps in an empty room.

I’m scared… but I’m coming back.

But tonight? Tonight feels different.

This time, she isn’t walking away from me. She’s walking toward something—clarity, maybe, healing, answers. And I want that for her. Hell, I want everything for her.

Moving toward the front porch, I watch the taillights of the SUV narrow into little red dots in the night, taking my heart along with them.

I step back into the house and turn off the porch light. The air smells like rain again, heavy and thick. There’s a storm coming. But whether it’s real or metaphorical, I can’t be sure anymore.

Padding up the stairs, I pause at the kids’ doors. Evelyn is curled into a ball, one hand tucked under her cheek, her tutu crumpled at the foot of the bed. Oliver’s still clutching his stuffy, one leg flung out over the blanket like he’s trying to conquer the mattress in his sleep.

They're safe. They're okay. And Lila helped keep it that way today.

I walk into the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and lean against the counter as I debate drinking it or pouring over my head to wake myself up from this dream.

There’s a faint crease in the curtain from where Lila tugged it back earlier this morning. A folded dish towel that still smells like the lavender soap she uses. All these little pieces of her are scattered through my home like breadcrumbs.

She’s already part of this life. She just doesn’t see it yet.

I want her to chase her dreams. I do. But I also want her to know she doesn’t have to chase them alone.

The following morning, the house is too quiet. Oliver usually wakes me up before the sun, bouncing around with some catastrophic request involving cereal and dinosaurs. Evelyn, three and clingy in the best way, normally demands snuggles and cartoons before I’ve even had coffee.

But today? It’s just me.

No smell of Lila’s vanilla shampoo drifting through the hall. No humming while she folds laundry or cuts fruit for the kids. Just silence. And every creak of the floorboards sounds like an echo of her not being here.

The kids feel it, too. Evelyn curls into my chest, clutching her stuffed fox and lamb. Oliver’s quieter than usual, pushing around his breakfast with a frown.

“Where’s Lila?” he finally asks.

“She needed a break,” I say gently. “Just for a little bit.”

“Did she get tired of us?”

God.

“No, buddy. Never.” I run a hand through his messy hair. “Sometimes grown-ups need space to figure things out. But it doesn’t mean we don’t love the people we need space from.”

He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t understand. Hell, I barely understand it myself.

I’m at Otter Creek Farm by noon, helping Rowan patch a fence near the back pasture. It’s not that he doesn’t have the men on hand to do the work. I think he somehow sensed that I needed to leave the house. Maybe it was Lila’s doing.

The sun beats down relentlessly, and the sweat stings my eyes, but I welcome the physical distraction.

The cows are loud, the barn smells like hay and heat, and I’m grateful for both.

It beats standing in that empty kitchen pretending I don’t notice how everything’s still where she left it—her water glass, the folded throw blanket, and a rubber band from Evelyn’s braid still resting on the table.

“She tell you where she’s staying?” Rowan asks, tightening the drill bit on his impact driver.

I nod. “Ashvi’s place.”

“She okay?”

“I don’t know.”

He gives me a long, measuring look. “And you?”

I want to lie and say I’m fine, that this is just a blip. That she’ll come home once she clears her head. But I can’t. Instead, I wipe my hands on my jeans and sit on the edge of the truck bed.

“I keep thinking,” I say slowly, “if I’m just good enough, she’ll stay. But it’s hard to compete with someone’s dreams, especially hers. She’s a freaking life-saving scientist.”

Rowan leans his arms against the tool rack but doesn’t interrupt.

“I’ve done everything right. I built the house. I hired help. I show up every damn day. I learned to braid Evelyn’s hair and sit through Oliver’s rants about dinosaur evolution. I try so damn hard to be steady. To be… safe.”

Rowan nods once, slow. “And?”

“She’s still halfway out the door.”

We sit in silence, the wind stirring dust around our boots.

Then he says, “You can be everything good in the world, man, but you can’t make someone believe they can have it. That’s their job.”

The words hit harder than I want to admit.

Back at the house, I move through the motions—dinner, baths, bedtime—but it’s all muscle memory. I read Where the Wild Things Are with Evelyn curled against me, her thumb in her mouth, and Oliver pretending he’s not sleepy even as he nods off mid-sentence.

Lila’s name doesn’t come up again.

But when I go downstairs, I catch sight of her sweater draped over the back of the couch. I press it to my face and inhale. It still smells like her.

I have no idea how to move forward without her.