Page 3 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter One

Simone

Current Day . . .

There’s always that one summer night when Birchwood Springs feels almost magical.

It’s during the Moon & Maple Festival.

By late afternoon, the kite races have already painted streaks of color across the sky, and kids with balloon swords and smeared face paint tear through the crowds like sugar-fueled comets.

Neon stars smudge against sticky cheeks, and their laughter clings to the thick, syrupy air like glitter someone forgot to sweep up.

It’s a night festival, of course. And when the paper lanterns begin to illuminate the town, Birchwood Springs seems to have forgotten every bad thing that ever happened here.

Lanterns sway from porch beams and lampposts, stitched together by strings of golden light, and for a minute—just a breath—you could almost believe this place is nothing but fairytales and second chances.

Not that I’m out there soaking in the view.

Nope.

I’m stuck in the first aid tent, drowning in humidity and other people’s questionable life choices.

My scrubs are practically a wet towel at this point.

The industrial fans feel like a cruel joke, and if one more guy staggers in asking if I have anything for ‘just being too high,’ I’m faking a seizure and medevacking myself out of here.

This isn’t how I envisioned my life, but here I am—trying to figure out when I can jump out of this town—again.

There’s a small cut along my forearm I didn’t notice until just now—probably from the boy who stormed into the first-aid tent like he was on fire.

Spoiler: he wasn’t. Just took a dramatic tumble off the inflatable slide.

Left a trail of candy and tears behind him.

A band plays near the lake. The music drifts through the fabric walls of the tent, both upbeat and vaguely nostalgic. The fireworks haven’t started yet, but the air feels ready to split wide open.

I press a cold pack to a teenage girl’s ankle. She winces. Her boyfriend stands nearby, watching me like I might spontaneously unravel in front of him.

I won’t.

I’ve already done that years ago, quietly, when no one was looking.

“Keep this on until the swelling goes down,” I say, softer than I mean to.

She nods, biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. He murmurs a thank you—but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. He probably knows about me or thinks he does. People around here always swear they know.

Maybe he heard something at the coffee shop. That’s where everyone learned I was back—after almost a year of being here. As long as you stay away in a remote cabin by the lake, no one will ever give two shits about who you are or even try to figure out why you’re here.

Here’s a tip for anyone who comes to Birchwood Springs: if you want to hear the latest gossip in town, drop by The Honey Drop for excellent pastries and all the information you can swallow.

By now, many believe that I used to sleep around like my mother—a total lie.

That my grandfather ran me out because I was just like her—I left of my own will.

That I came back smaller somehow, like a shrunken version of the girl I used to be, all because I’m a medical failure.

If I were a terrible doctor, I wouldn’t be here. It’s because of my credentials that they shoved me in this forsaken town. But I can’t say anything because it’s part of my contract. I just smile and avoid everyone outside office hours.

They love a good cautionary tale in Birchwood Springs.

You are free to leave this town. You can even change your name if you’re desperate enough.

But you can’t outrun a reputation that doesn’t belong to you.

Since things have settled, I peel off my gloves.

My palms are damp, but there’s nowhere to wash them, so I settle for a squirt of hand sanitizer.

I duck out of the tent and lean against the frame.

The lake glimmers with carnival lights, reflections dragging across the surface as if they’re trying to escape.

It’s beautiful, but only if you don’t look too hard.

“Hey,” Del, one of my only friends in town and the owner of The Honey Drop, says as she walks over with two paper cups.

“My savior,” I claim.

She hands me one of the cups.

I sip from it and breathe in the tea latte. “Thought you weren’t coming tonight. Too busy to save my ass.”

She waves a hand as if saying I’m being just too fucking dramatic.

“I closed a few hours ago and just finished cleaning up,” she shrugs, brushing a curl from her face.

“The town board begged me to stay open past midnight, but I had zero fucks left for the day. Brought your tea latte. I owe you the pastries. We sold out.”

“Thank you.” I lift the cup and take another sip—hot, earthy, with just the right hint of sweetness. My throat warms before I say, without thinking, “When I was away, this festival might’ve been the only thing I missed.”

Del gapes in mock horror. “Thank you, bitch. I feel all fussy and warm on the inside.”

“You left before I did,” I repeat because maybe if she had stayed . . . I don’t know what would’ve happened though. “So what’s there to miss, right?”

It doesn’t come out bitter. Just . . . tired.

But it’s all true. She wasn’t here anymore.

Del was two years older—one grade up—but we were close.

I worked my ass off trying to graduate early just to leave with her class.

My grandparents put their foot down. Even when I had enough credits, sixteen was “too young” for college.

They didn’t care that I was ready to pack and forget all about this place.

I don’t share that with Del. There is no point in rehashing what happened then. I glance around searching for a safer topic. Something neutral. Something that doesn’t feel like salt in an open wound. I just can’t go there. I don’t want to remember.

If Gale, Nysa, or Blythe were here, it’d be easier to have a conversation, especially if Blythe brought baby Everly. Believe it or not, most conversations are less dangerous when explosive diapers are involved. You just offer to change it and let the conversation shift naturally.

“Why did you leave before senior year?” Of course, Del doesn’t let go. She leans into the silence, trying to ensure I’m ready to speak up because she’s done waiting. “Mom told me you left only a week after I did.”

My grip tightens around the paper cup, knuckles pressing against the warmth. No one’s ever asked me that out loud. Not Nysa nor Atlas. They saw me leaving and accepted it. In fact, they helped me pack my grandfather’s truck when I stole it just so I could get across the country.

Why can’t Del do the same?

I could lie. Say something flippant. Play it off as if I had a better offer, as though I were chasing dreams and freedom instead of running half-wild and panicked with barely a plan.

“The same reason everyone left,” I say with a casual shrug that feels brittle in my bones. “Even you bailed. I was just done. What I can’t understand is why you came back.”

Yes, I’m flipping the conversation and focusing on her because I hate to remember how it all happened, how it began, and how it ended. The middle though . . . the middle was agonizing. The wait, the knowledge that I would lose everything all over again. No one wants to remember any of that. No one.

Since I want this to stay on her side of the court I add, “You’ve been to France. New York. Why come back to this backwards-ass town with its bake-sale politics and maple-flavored judgment?”

That’s the question that matters. Why come back when you could’ve had everything? I know why I’m here.

Because when I said, ‘Please, get me out of here,’ someone listened.

Someone offered me a hand and helped me, but I made a deal.

Favors don’t stay favors forever—they become debts.

And not long ago they called me during one of my shifts at the hospital, saying: We’re collecting.

You have to move to Birchwood Springs. It’ll be two years. Maybe three.

That was the agreement.

Lend my skills. Keep my head down, watch the town. Watch it very closely because things in here are not what they seem.

And after that? I’ll get my life back—if I survive this town.

“Mom needs me.” Delilah finally responds. Her voice cracks at the edges like something fragile, already half-broken. “I don’t know what’s happening to her. She keeps talking about the past—about my father. But not in a sweet, nostalgic way. It’s . . . weird.”

“Like she’s losing her mind weird?” I try not to sound alarmed.

Del shrugs but also nods.

I frown. “Why haven’t you brought her to the clinic? I could run some tests.”

I try to sound chill, very friendly and not frantic because—what the fuck? This is more than just ‘coming check on my mom.’ It’s a medical issue that has to be addressed immediately.

“We’ve seen doctors in Boston. They ran every test, and everything came back clear.

Clean bill of health, but Mom’s convinced he’s still around.

” Her voice drops, raw with something that might be fear or guilt—or both.

“She’s mad at me. Said I should believe her when she tells me she’s seen him.

He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep or spying on us outside The Honey Drop. ”

Which sounds impossible when the man died when she was a baby, she doesn’t say out loud. A chill needle down my spine, but I try to lighten it. “Have you tried a psychic?”

She glares.

I hold up my hands. “Just offering alternatives. Some of them claim they can talk to the dead.”

“Cute joke, like how you try to detour the conversation,” she deadpans. “But you still haven’t told me why you left. And don’t say it was a coincidence, because something tells me it has everything to do with Keir Timberbridge.”