Page 19

Jennifer

P iling back into the SUV was a welcome distraction.

A week ago, I would have said it felt weird to be driven around, but the casual nature of our outings made them feel more like a marathon of double dates.

If half of a ‘double date’ consisted of a couple who strategically stayed as far away from each other as possible.

It was actually adorable to watch a grown man pretend he had no interest in a woman he was attracted to and for that woman to seem oblivious to the battle raging in him.

Bethany was a hoot, at times reminding me of Alyssa.

Both were hilarious. Where they differed was that Alyssa’s humor was softer while Bethany went straight for the jugular.

I sank into the backseat beside Dylan, his warmth seeping through my sweater.

After giving Steven directions for the route I’d like to take, one that would showcase Millridge’s old mansions and hopefully a few mill ruins, I sighed happily and settled more fully against Dylan to leave room for Bethany.

She called shotgun before Steven had a chance to stop her and slid into the front seat with flair. It was a bold move, and the first time she’d done it.

Steven stood by the open car door, looking as if he were considering hauling her out of the front seat and placing her firmly in the back. “Shouldn’t you be where you can monitor your patient?”

She glanced back at us, her ponytail whipping around and her oversized sunglasses slipping down on her nose. “Either of you care if I ride up here?”

“Not at all,” I said cheerfully.

Dylan put a hand on my leg. “More room for us.”

“Told you, I’m moral support, not a babysitter,” she said, adjusting the seat with a queen’s flourish.

Steven closed the door with slow precision, then stomped his way to the driver’s side. I exchanged an amused look with Dylan. Once behind the wheel, Steven started the vehicle and growled, “Don’t be offended if I don’t talk to you. I prefer to focus on the route and traffic.”

“So, I shouldn’t distract you,” she murmured, cheekily.

He reversed powerfully and sighed.

A heartbeat later, she said, “Anyone else dying for an iced coffee? Well, besides Dylan because we don’t want anyone actually dying on this trip.”

“I’m down for one.” I gurgled on humor that was shared with Dylan. “Sorry, Dylan.”

He grinned before lowering his voice so only I would hear. “A week ago, the thought of what I couldn’t have was torture, but I’m beginning to appreciate the excruciating pleasure that can be found in anticipation.”

“Yes,” I whispered. My breath caught in my throat. Sleeping beside him, waking in his arms to a warm kiss we didn’t allow to go anywhere was fueling an ache in me, a hunger that far surpassed what I’d felt for anyone before... even him.

The chemistry the first time we were together was hot and wild, but I was beginning to understand that it had lacked depth.

We’d fallen into bed, brought each other pleasure, then slept in each other’s arms. I still wanted that, but postponing sex meant that Dylan and I held each other late into the night and talked.

I was careful to avoid subjects that would cause him stress, so we spoke of things that made us happy.

It was during one of those late-night conversations that I realized I had had many good years with my parents.

When I set aside my feelings about their marriage arrangement, I saw them in a better light.

My mother was a kind and nurturing soul who’d always made me feel like the center of her universe.

My father was a hard worker, often taking on additional shifts to ensure we never went without.

I don’t know why my mother wasn’t enough for him, but looking back, he’d never made me feel less than loved.

Dylan didn’t speak much about his parents, but he did say the one thing they hadn’t given him that he’d always wished for was a sibling.

Wrapped within the safety of darkness and my arms, he admitted to always feeling the absence of one.

He asked how I felt about having a large family, because he craved one.

I did as well.

And in that same safe place, I expressed to him how much monogamy mattered to me.

A conversation that might have been glossed over with assurances instead led us to share what our childhood fears had been.

Mine had been that my parents would divorce.

Dylan had been afraid that his parents would disown him.

It was unsettling to realize that, to some extent, we’d both manifested those fears.

I’d separated from my parents, essentially divorcing them from my life.

And Dylan had walked away from his parents and disowned them.

He didn’t remember the details of why, but even his spotty memories couldn’t protect him from the reality of their prior estrangement.

Bethany said, “I’m enjoying myself so much this week, I feel bad about being paid for it. It feels more like vacation time.”

Dylan answered, “Having you here has really taken the edge off our worries, and that’s invaluable. If you’re able to extend your leave, we’d love to have you join us for the next few weeks.”

Steven muttered, “Are you sure that’s necessary, Dylan?” His eyes flicked to the rearview, not at us but beyond.

“Deep down, you like me, Steven, so my feelings aren’t hurt,” Bethany said, half-teasing, leaning toward him. “How do you deal with him, Dylan?”

I caught Dylan’s smirk, his gaze lighting with a memory that amused him.

“I remind myself that beneath all that gruff he’s a marshmallow,” he said, voice low.

“There was this older lady who was a regular at one of my resorts, Mrs. Carver. She followed Steven around the lodge while her family skied. Tiny, all colorful scarves and stories, calling him ‘young man’ like he was her lost son. He’d grumble, but he’d fetch her cocoa and reserve a chair for her by the main fireplace. ”

Bethany’s brows shot up, sunglasses slipping. “You did that, Steven?”

“She was a guest.” Steven’s shoulders flexed, his gruff tone cutting.

“Who you always watched out for,” Bethany said. “Is she still a regular?”

Steven’s voice deepened. “She’s in assisted living now, but she’s doing fine. Lost her son years back, grandkids are busy, but they see her at the holidays. I check on her sometimes—no big deal.”

“No,” Bethany said, softer, her flounce fading, eyes warm. “That’s really nice of you, Steven.”

He made a sound of displeasure that had Dylan and me exchanging amused looks again. He was the only one holding himself back from having a good time.

I’d held myself back, decided I knew best, then refused to revisit the accuracy of that decision, and it had cost me. I’d done it with my parents and again with Dylan. Suddenly, watching Steven rebuff Bethany wasn’t funny.

“You okay, Jen?” Dylan asked, voice low. His ability to read the slightest shift in my mood was unnerving and something that was even more pronounced this time around.

“Yes. Sorry,” I said, forcing a smile, taking a picture of a mansion as we passed. “I’m excited to see some old mills. Also, I hear the downtown area is commercially dead, but there is still an old-fashioned movie theater among the few historical sites.”

“Sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a smoke shop,” Steven said dryly.

“When you were young did you aspire to grow up to be Eeyore, or did that just happen to you along the way?” Bethany challenged, grinning at him from the passenger seat.

“Eeyore, as in the donkey from Winnie-the-Pooh ?” Steven spared her a glance before returning his eyes to the road. “That’s how you see me?”

“You’re not as gloomy as you look,” she said lightly. “Most days.”

Steven didn’t miss a beat. “Could be worse. Not sure how, but it could be.”

Bethany beamed. “End of the road. Nothing to do. And no hope of things getting better.”

Steven exhaled like he regretted engaging, but deadpanned, “I’m still trying to find the part of me that’s not lost. Might start with the tail.”

Bethany turned toward him, impressed. “Wow. You’re really committing.”

Without turning, Steven added, “It’s not much of a tail. But I’m sort of attached to it.”

Bethany’s smile softened. “Good. Some of us are, too.”

“Are they quoting Winnie-the-Pooh ?” Dylan whispered.

“I think so. And it’s weirdly romantic,” I tossed back, linking hands with him.

“When it’s good there’s no denying it,” Dylan said, his thumb grazing my wrist, heat flaring despite the rules.

“Like this week.” I nodded, marveling at how it had unfolded into one of the best weeks of my life.

“Like us,” Dylan added, and we kissed briefly before reluctantly putting our passion on hold.

My heart danced wildly in my chest. I looked into his eyes. The world around us disappeared as did the years we’d been apart. Things were perfect.

Too perfect?

That thought rattled me enough that I looked away.

The trees closed in the deeper we drove, their gnarled branches knitting a ceiling over Millridge’s narrow streets.

The town didn’t whisper its past—but bellowed it through crumbling brick and clawing ivy, faded signs on granite stone walls.

Streets twisted like they’d been carved around stubborn stories, the sidewalk split by oak roots in quiet rebellion.

Mansions loomed, once owned by the wealthy, now tamed and modestly upkept by those of lesser means.

Everywhere hinted of a callback to a time when textile mills dominated the area.

These were not cookie-cutter homes. Each was a masterpiece of its own, unique and elegant with stained glass windows, gables, and rusted turrets. Some had impressive wrap-around porches. Others were brick cottages dropped out of fairy tales.

Dylan glanced out the window. “The homes here are stunning,” he said, voice low, like he was reading a memory. “I can only imagine how beautiful they once were.”

“In some ways, they’re more beautiful now,” I said, taking another photo. “It’s nice to think homes like this are now being lived in by regular people.”

“I like that,” he murmured. “And much better than how I was viewing it.”

“Which was?”

“That something here was lost, but you’re right, it’s not gone, it’s just different. And possibly better than it ever was.”

The road opened to a bridge that went over a railroad.

We went through a Dunkin’ drive-through and kept going.

The homes changed, becoming smaller and brighter as the streets were no longer lined with trees.

Many of the small shops on either side of the road were closed, but there was a sandwich shop, the old theater, and that tattoo shop Steven had joked about, right next to the smoke shop.

Pizza. Weiners. A convenience store. Everything one might expect to find in a downtown that had been replaced by superstores and strip malls.

We passed an old train station that boasted advertisements for a Polar Express experience, despite how early in the summer it was. We followed the road beside it up through an area where multifamily homes were the norm.

Just beyond the last of the homes, the trees fell away again—and there it was: the remains of a mill that had been lost to a fire decades earlier.

A jagged wall jutted skyward like a broken tooth, the rest of the structure gutted, its ribs of iron and brick exposed to sun and time.

The roof had collapsed long ago, vines clawing over the rubble like nature was trying to stitch it back together.

A smokestack still stood, defiant and cracked, casting a long shadow over the ruins.

Bethany leaned forward, one hand gripping the dash. “Okay, that’s either a post-apocalyptic movie set or someone’s very ambitious art installation.”

“Or both,” Steven said flatly.

“No,” Dylan said quietly. “It’s what happens when someone wants the insurance money more than they want the building.”

We all fell silent for a moment, staring at what once was.

I took several photos, not sure if I’d caption them, use them for content, or keep them just for me.

Steven was the first to look away. “They should tear the rest of it down.”

Dylan said, “Sometimes what’s left is worth more than what was lost.”

“It’s a hazard for sure,” Bethany stated before she unwrapped a straw and poked it into her iced coffee with a casual flair.

As the SUV rolled past the crumbling mill, I couldn’t help but think of Dylan and me—of what we’d had, and how violently we’d come apart.

There was a time I would have looked at ruins like that and thought they were sad.

Empty. Proof of failure. Now I wasn’t so sure.

The skeleton of the mill stood because something had endured.

It wasn’t what it once was, but maybe that didn’t make it worthless. Maybe it made it real.

Was it foolish to think a relationship could survive the fire, the collapse, the years? That what remained could somehow be more honest, more beautiful than what was lost?

I didn’t know.

But I was starting to hope.