Page 16 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

It takes less than five minutes for Theo to drift off, his breath growing softer, his little fists unclenching against the fabric of my sweatshirt.

I sway slowly, perched in front of the table, both hands cradling the baby’s weight like a precious, breakable thing.

Each inhale makes his whole body rise and fall—so light, so trusting, so absolutely certain that someone will catch him if he falls.

I cannot remember the last time I felt that kind of certainty. Maybe never.

In the barn, a car coughs to life—just a quick machine snarl, then silence.

I listen to the birds, the gentle peal of a nearby wind chime, the hum of wind in the tall grass.

It’s as close to peace as I get these days, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the old clutch of anxiety to squeeze my ribs.

But there’s nothing. Just the soft, even weight of the baby and the faint tang of lemonade lingering on my tongue.

I press my lips to Theo’s head and close my eyes. He smells like sun-warmed cotton and the faintest trace of something sweet. I could stand here for hours, frozen in the amber of this moment—safe, necessary, wanted . I know it’s not mine, but I keep it anyway. For just this moment.

After a while, I ease Theo into the crook of my arm and lean against the porch railing. My thumb traces lazy circles over his back. His lips twitch in a micro-smile, then his breath slows, mouth falling open.

It’s almost too easy. Like a trick of the light, muscle-memory borrowed from a different life.

But the longer I stand here, the more I notice the tension in my spine.

My arms are starting to ache a little. And this child is so sound asleep, it feels criminal to keep him upright like this.

Plus, I keep imagining that Mason’s going to come back and see me snuggling his kid and I don’t know, ask me to leave or something.

I glance toward the pole barn. Still no sign of Mason. For a second, I consider just leaving—taking Theo inside, laying him in his crib, and disappearing back to the cabin before either of them notice I left. Maybe that’s what I should do.

Instead, I breathe. I memorize the feel of this—his weight, the hush of the morning, the strange, honeyed ache in my chest that isn’t quite pain but not quite longing either, something in the muddy middle.

Carefully, I rise and ease the screen door open with my elbow.

Inside, it smells like lemon and sunshine.

It’s cooler too, the walls holding off the heat of the day.

I softly pad through the kitchen, past the living room with its neat stacks of storybooks and the patchy drywall by the window, and into the hallway.

The nursery is the third door on the left.

I stand for a second on the threshold, eyes adjusting, and then step in.

It’s soft and simple, sweet in a way that guts me.

No wild colors or overdone decorations. Just a pale blue rug, a wooden crib, and a plush gray glider in the corner that looks like it’s seen a hundred midnight wake-ups.

There are a few toys on the low shelves, and a row of baby books near the glider. Everything neat but lived in.

I lower Theo into the crib with slow, practiced hands.

He fusses once, reaches up with that same little grasping motion, and then sinks back into sleep.

I rest my palm on his stomach for a moment, a soft reassurance.

Then I pull the blinds and sink into the chair, letting my eyes drift over the room again.

There’s a framed black-and-white photo on the wall of Mason and Theo. Mason’s looking at Theo with all the devotion and love of a proud father. And even in a still image, it’s a punch to the chest.

I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. Try not to imagine what it’s like to build a life this way, to know exactly what matters and who you want to matter to you and then to just . . . do it.

I think about my own apartment in Seattle, how it smells like expensive floral room spray and ambition. It has a perfect view of the city and a curated minimalism aesthetic. But that’s mostly because I don’t spend that much time there.

It’s not soft, and it’s not comfortable, and I almost never wake up feeling rested.

I don’t have what Mason has. I don’t even know if I want it. But there’s a throb of envy that creeps in anyway.

I push up from the glider a few minutes later, cross the room, and ease the door until it’s almost closed.

Open enough that I’ll be able to hear Theo if he makes a noise.

I return to the porch and stare out at the yard.

For once, I let myself just stand there, not rushing to fill the silence with noise or movement.

I sip the iced tea lemonade, letting the tartness anchor me.

Mason’s still in the barn. I wonder if he’s giving me space, or if he really is busy. Maybe both. I think about texting him to let him know Theo’s asleep, but I don’t. Instead, I sit on the top step, arms braced behind me, face tipped to the sun, and listen to the meadow hum.

I drift for a while, eyes closed, letting the world blur down to birds and bugs and the distant metallic clang of Mason finishing whatever chore he may or may not have invented to stay gone.

I wonder if this is what peace is supposed to feel like.

Not a burst of joy, not an absence of pain, but a steady, humming neutrality. A brief permission to stop worrying.

I open my eyes when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I’ve got a dozen texts waiting for me from the book club group chat my sister named Book Babes.

Cora: Okay who else is finished because I have OPINIONS

Margot: Please define “finished”

Eloise: Oh god, not the ogre

Margot: Did I finish chapter 33 or did chapter 33 finish me?

Francesca: I’m halfway! Planning to binge the rest tonight unless Graham distracts me

Eloise: Jesus, Margot

Cora: I’m going to pretend I don’t know what distracts means

Margot: You’re telling me you read chapter 33 and didn’t get an assist from Beau?

Eloise: Oh. My. God. MARGOT!

Margot: What? We’re all friends here. Some of us are even dating brothers. The jokes write themselves.

Eloise: Moving on. @abby chime in!

Cora: Please tell me you’ve started it at least @abby

Margot: She’s probably not gonna answer because she’s busy with chapter 33. I’m just sayin’

I snort, nearly choking on a mouthful of lemonade.

I can practically hear Margot’s cackle echoing through the screen, and Cora’s faux-mortified gasp.

Even in a group chat, their personalities are so big they threaten to spill out and fill the entire porch with noise and color.

I can picture the way Cora’s lips would twitch, how she’d try not to smile at the innuendo, and how Eloise would roll her eyes but not mean it.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, debating if I should reply and how much to give them. They’re relentless in the best way, and I miss genuine friendship so much it hurts.

I never had a lot of amazing friends growing up, just a small handful of decent ones.

I used to think that being the youngest in a family of six meant I’d have best friends for life.

But that was before I understood that my older sister already had a best friend, our cousin Evangeline.

When we were kids, those two were thick as thieves, and my brothers had each other, which left me to myself. I got used to it soon enough.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

I don’t know how it started or where, but over the years, I began craving the type of female friendships that you read about. The inseparable women in a romcom TV show where it takes you two seasons to understand that the star relationship of the entire series is the friendship between women.

My thumbs start moving before I even think about what I’m going to say.

Me: So, I’m kind of behind. Sorry about that! You guys can meet without me!

Immediately, the replies pile in.

Margot: Dude, no.

Eloise: Absolutely not.

Francesca: We’ll wait until you finish!

Guilt flutters like a moth in my chest.

Me: No, you really don’t have to do that. I don’t know when I’m going to finish the book, and I don’t want to hold you guys up!

Cora: Just come hang out with us anyway @abby. We’ll try to keep it spoiler-free.

Eloise: Yeah, we can definitely do that. It’s only the book like 20% of the time

Francesca: The rest of the time we talk about food

Eloise: And gossip about the guys

Cora: Just come and hang out then, Abby. We miss you!

Tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of my eyes. I blink hard and swallow it all down, but the ache stays right where it is, tucked into the pocket behind my sternum.

I switch to my camera app and toggle it to front-facing. The image stares back at me: tired eyes, wild hair, and a bruise still blooming across my cheekbone like a half-faded watercolor. It’s yellow at the edges now, the darkest part softening to the color of old plum.

I close the app and open my browser instead, searching how long does a black eye last.

I scroll until I find a chart, some dermatology blog with a graphic of healing stages. Day one to fourteen, each tone mapped out like paint swatches: violet, indigo, charcoal, green, gold.

My fingers hover over the screen as I study the image, comparing it to the side of my face in the picture I snapped. Five days, maybe six, until I look normal again. Or normal enough to pass after an artfully applied makeup tutorial.

I open back up the group chat.

Me: I’ll be home next weekend

Cora: YAY! Don’t worry about reading. We know how busy you are!

Eloise: Yeah, come for the vibes!

Margot: And the food because your sister makes some killer desserts

Francesca: We can host it at the bookstore afterhours! I’ll ask Graham to clear some space for us in the front.

Cora: Nothing brings me more joy than seeing BOTH of my brothers be absolutely whipped by their women

Eloise: Whips, you say?

Francesca: I don’t think Graham would be into whips. Just saying.

Cora: Ross Gellar la-la-la-la gif

Francesca: Now a little rope play maybe . . .

Margot: This is great

Eloise: Okay, Frankie, we see you

The knot of dark emotion loosens just enough to let in something warm. My mouth curves into a smirk, and the first thread of excitement takes root inside of me. Yeah, this is the kind of camaraderie I’ve been craving.

Me: Is this how all the book club meetings are in person?

Margot: Absolutely

Francesca: Kind of

Eloise: Yes but with food

Cora: And drinks

Me: Looking forward to it.

And I am.