Page 12 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

"It was nice to see you, Abs," he calls to my back.

I toss up a finger wave as I walk away. My heart pounds, and I don’t stop moving until I’m in the frozen foods section, wedged between the ice cream and a display of toaster waffles.

The freezer air brushes cool against my overheated cheeks, and I grip the cart handle with cold fingers, grounding myself in the sensation.

Somewhere I can breathe. And where no one will look too hard if a girl in sunglasses stares at a pint of cookie dough like it might bite her.

My phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime from Mom. I freeze, thumb hovering. If I let it ring out, she’ll call again. And if I miss our weekly check-in, she’ll know something’s off. She always knows. I sigh and swipe to answer, flipping the camera off as it connects.

“Abby?” Mom's voice is warm and familiar, a balm to my frayed nerves. “Honey, I can't see you. Can you see me?”

I wince and pull another white lie out like I’ve got a whole collection stashed in my back pocket. “Oh, um—I’m probably in a dead zone. Service is weird here, you know that.” It rolls out so easily it makes my stomach knot.

I'm telling so many little lies today that I'm going to get caught. It's the law of averages at this point.

“Oh of course, honey. I just wanted to check in. I know how busy you've been with the event, but I thought we could chat for a few minutes tonight. Mason brought Theo for Sunday dinner, and Abby, let me tell you, that boy is getting so big. I swear he ate an entire piece of lasagna by himself."

She chuckles, pure fondness laced through every word. The sound lands in my chest with a soft, aching thud.

I feel it then. A pinch of something I can’t quite name. Longing, maybe. For her. For the comfort of Sunday dinners and too much food and familiar voices layered over one another.

Or maybe it’s just Theo. Because pictures don’t do him justice. And I miss him more than I probably should, considering how little I’ve actually seen him in person.

Mason sent me a photo a few days ago. A blurry shot of Theo in a high chair, cheeks full of cereal and eyes wide with mischief. I texted back a heart emoji and a joke about breakfast foods.

But part of me still holds back when I reply.

Like if I say too much, I’ll tip my hand. Like I’ll start needing it—needing him . And I already learned that lesson the hard way.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone light. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“Me too, honey. Maybe you can sneak back home soon. It’s so nice having all my kids together, you know?

Pretty soon, we’re gonna need a bigger table.

I have a feeling your brothers are gonna be dads before long.

” She says it in that knowing, singsong cadence she reserves for sharing small-town gossip.

I arch a brow, though she can’t see it. “Why? Did something happen tonight?”

“No one told me anything, if that’s what you’re asking. But I saw the way Francesca was looking at Theo, and I’m telling you, Abby, that woman has babies on the brain.”

I shift my weight, stealing a glance around the aisle to make sure I’m still alone. “She just opened a bookstore, though. And they’ve only been married a little while.”

Mom hums like she already has the timeline mapped out. “When you know, you know.”

I smile, already knowing what she’s going to say next.

“I knew as soon as I met your father he was the one. We got married only six months after meeting, and a year later, we had Graham.”

“And the rest is history,” we say at the same time.

She chuckles, and I grin—until it pulls at the tender skin beneath my eye. The smile slips off my face before I can catch it.

“You know,” Mom says after a beat, her voice softening into something wistful, “I used to think you and Jake would be like me and your dad.”

The words scrape across something raw. I clear my throat. “Mom.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just saying?—”

“I know what you’re saying,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. “And I just—it’s been a year. Drop it, okay?”

She sighs, long and disappointed. The kind that used to follow a mess in the kitchen or a forgotten curfew, not from me though.

The kind that makes me feel twelve again.

I don’t have to see her to picture the expression on her face.

I can feel her weighing whether to let it go or say what she really thinks.

“I know, Abby. I just"—she exhales slowly—“I can’t help it if I want my daughter to be happy and fulfilled. You’ve got your dream job, now all you need is your dream partner.”

The words land soft, but they still bruise. Because to her, it probably sounds simple. A job I’m good at. A person to love. A life that looks full from the outside.

But what if I’ve already failed at that? What if I had the person once and walked away? What if I don’t want the version of fulfillment she’s describing, but I don’t know what I want instead?

A tight, invisible band wraps around my ribs. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to ease it. It doesn’t budge.

“I know,” I say quietly, not because it’s true but because it’s easier than arguing. “Look, I have to go, okay? But I’ll talk to you next week.”

“All right, honey. Have a good week. I love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.” I end the call before she can say anything else. Before she can hear the waver in my voice I don’t know how to explain.

By the time the next Uber crests the hill toward the cabin, it’s nearly eleven. The road narrows and bends, flanked on both sides by towering evergreens and a stillness so deep it feels like memory.

And then I see it: Nana Jo’s cabin.

Cabin feels like a misnomer. It’s a tiny country cottage tucked into the edge of a meadow, half-swallowed by trees and time.

White siding and a porch big enough for an outdoor patio set. Windows that blink back hollow and unfamiliar. It’s smaller than I remember, but maybe that’s just because I was young the last time I saw it. The porch light is still on, casting a soft gold glow over the front steps like a held breath.

The driver helps me unload my suitcases, wishes me a good night, and drives off without asking questions.

I stand on the stone path, bag strap digging into my shoulder, key in one hand.

The last time I was here, I wasn’t alone.

The thought slices through me, sharp and uninvited. I shove it aside. No room for grief tonight.

Inside, it smells like dust and lavender and time. I flip on two lights—one in the kitchen, one in the living room—and the shadows retreat just enough to let the quiet settle in.

I don’t bother unpacking. Just drop my bags by the kitchen and stand in the middle of the room, letting the stillness soak into my skin. This place used to feel like a secret. A soft landing. Now it feels like the inside of a story I’m not sure I belong to anymore.

I sink onto the couch and press the heels of my hands to my eyes and immediately wince. Shit. I don’t know how, but I forgot about the reason I’m here.

I came here to disappear. To take a breath without anyone watching me.

But now, sitting in this silence, all I feel is seen.

Seen in all the ways I’ve spent my life trying to avoid.