Page 29 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

Abby’s sitting on my living room rug, guitar balanced in her lap, Theo in front of her.

She hums as she strums, low and easy, half a lullaby, half a story.

I don’t recognize the song—it’s probably one she made up on the spot, something about bananas and blocks and how Theo’s the “mayor of this whole damn town.”

Her voice is soft, a little raspy. Real in a way most people would try to perfect. Theo claps and squeals with joy the whole time, and it kind of seems like he’s singing along.

I lean in the doorway and let myself watch.

There’s a moment, right before she sings the next line, when she glances up and catches me watching. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile blooming like it’s only mine to see.

It hits me harder than I expect.

This is what it’s been like for the last week—easy, natural, like she’s always belonged here.

One minute we’re just two adults passing each other snacks and wet wipes.

The next, she’s laughing so hard at dinner she nearly drops her fork, and I’m wondering what it would be like to wake up to that sound every morning.

We haven’t talked about it. Whatever this friendship is. We’re just . . . here. In this rhythm. And it’s dangerous, how good it feels.

Maybe that’s why I’m not panicking like I should be. Why I haven’t let myself spiral like I usually do. Because I know she’s leaving.

It’s already written. Already scheduled. A Monday night flight. A return to a life that doesn’t include private concerts for my son or glances that make my lungs forget how to work.

There’s a weird kind of safety in that.

She’s temporary, borrowed.

Which makes it easier to let myself fall into this without trying to stop the landing.

Doesn’t mean I don’t think about kissing her every single second of every day. I do.

But it’s different now. Not just want. Want is surface-level. This is something else. This is the feeling that creeps under your ribs and settles there, quiet and permanent.

She tips her head, singing something ridiculous about dragons and pudding, and Theo laughs so hard, he almost tips over.

I should go check on the food and set the table. Instead, I stay where I am, watching the way her hands move across the strings. Watching the way Theo leans into her knees, totally enraptured with her.

My throat goes tight. I swallow it down.

Let myself feel it, just for a second.

This isn't forever. But right now?

It feels like home.

I’m at the stove stirring the pasta when her phone lights up. Again and again and again.

It’s face-up on the island, the notifications coming in so fast, it looks like it’s short-circuiting.

A sharp, rhythmic strobe. I glance toward the living room where Theo’s still babbling and wiggling around, and Abby’s just starting to stand, stretching her arms overhead as she walks into the kitchen.

“Trouble?” I call, nodding toward the island. “Looks like your notifications are having a meltdown.”

She freezes. It’s barely noticeable, but her steps slow, her smile slips. She crosses to the island, eyes trained on the screen, and something shifts in the air.

She picks up the phone like it’s made of glass and unlocks it. Her thumb starts scrolling. Scrolls again. Scrolls faster. Then she stops and stares.

“Three hundred and forty-two,” she mumbles.

My brow pulls. “What?”

Her thumb hovers over the screen. Her other hand braces on the edge of the island like she needs it to stay upright.

“Unread emails,” she says, barely above a whisper. “From the last two weeks. Jesus .” She says it again, quieter. “ Three hundred and forty-two .”

A beat passes.

Then her breath shudders out of her, too fast. Her hand shakes as she puts her phone down. The subject lines are still visible—calendar invites, flagged memos, subject headers in all caps.

She turns her face away like she can’t look at it anymore.

And now I see it.

The too-shallow breathing. The color draining from her face. Her shoulders drawn high, rigid as steel.

“Hey.” I move around the island, slow and steady. “Abby.”

She won’t look at me.

“I set a delay on my notifications,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “So I wouldn’t get distracted. I must’ve scheduled it to expire today.”

I reach out and cover her hand where it’s clenched on the counter.

“Okay,” I say, quietly. “But your hands are shaking.”

She yanks back like I burned her. “Sorry.” She pushes her wild hair behind her ears, then scrubs both hands down her face. “I’m fine, I just—” Her voice cracks. I can see her fighting to reel it in, to shore up her walls.

Fuck, I didn’t realize just how much she’d let them relax until now.

And I’m a fucking idiot for forgetting how she showed up here almost two weeks ago. How she pulled a disappearing act from her whole goddamn life.

For a minute, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the rattle of pasta water trying to boil on the stove.

“It’s been nice, pretending it didn’t exist.” Her eyes keep scanning the screen, but she’s not reading anymore. Just absorbing the sheer volume of notifications. She presses a hand to her chest and whispers, “I can’t breathe in here. I need some air.”

“Alright.” I reach for her hand again, slower this time, and hold it gently.

I wait until she looks at me. “Come on,” I murmur, already guiding her toward the front door with a hand at the small of her back.

I flick the porch light on as we step out into the dusk.

The air’s cooler now, tinged with lake water and the last gold of evening sun.

She slows when she sees the rocking chair in the corner. I gesture to it, but she doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, eyes unfocused.

I nudge her gently. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

She hesitates, but something in my voice must work, because she finally lowers herself into the chair, curling up small, knees drawn to her chest. Her gaze stays fixed on the horizon, where the lake’s gone almost black, the sky spooling out purple and bruised above the trees.

Inside, I scoop Theo up from the rug, where he’s busy smashing blocks into a tower, and grab the sweating glass of iced tea lemonade I left on the counter.

The door clicks behind me when I come back out, Theo cradled on my hip, the glass already beading in my hand.

Abby’s still there, rocking gently, the chair squeaking a little under her weight.

Her face is turned away, but her shoulders look less rigid now, her whole body loose in a way I haven’t seen before.

I set the glass on the side table, then lower Theo onto her lap. He goes without protest, burrowing into her arms and tucking his forehead under her chin.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs quietly, wrapping both arms around his little frame and holding on like she might float off without the anchor.

I stand beside them, one hand braced on the porch railing. “Take a drink.” I nod toward my glass next to her.

She reaches for the glass. Her hand’s steadier now, but she still blinks hard before taking a sip. When she sets it back down, the ice rattles against the sides—loud in the hush of the porch. “Thanks,” she whispers, voice frayed at the edges.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She rocks Theo with a gentle rhythm, her cheek pressed to the top of his head as she holds my gaze.

“That’s alright, Trouble.” I huff a quiet laugh and nod a few times.

I settle onto the porch next to her, my back against the railing.

“I come out here when everything’s too loud,” I say quietly.

“When the shop gets too busy. When I feel like I’m failing my boy.

When I can’t remember if I’ve done anything right that day. ”

“You’re never failing him, Mason. Never .” Her voice is quiet but firm, any trace of lingering panic momentarily gone.

I drag my hand over my jaw, trying to let her words sink through the tough layers of self-doubt.

“I don’t always fix it. Sometimes I just sit here and watch the trees move. Remind myself the world’s still turning. Even if I’m not keeping up.”

Abby lets out a breath and leans her head back.

Above us, the porch light draws a soft orbit for every moth and mayfly in the county.

Abby’s eyes trace their zigzag patterns, something lit and wistful behind the way she follows the tiny, frantic movements.

She looks like she might say something, then shakes her head minutely, lips pressed to the soft fuzz of Theo’s hair.

He’s idly tugging on a lock of her hair, and I find myself strangely jealous of their proximity.

She rocks him, rocks herself, and for a while we just sit there, the three of us, tangled in the hush.

The oven timer rings, breaking the moment, and Abby startles, blinking like she’s surfaced from a dream. She gives a sheepish little smile and squeezes Theo tighter, as if he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the porch.

I hold out a hand. “Ready to eat?”

She slides her hand into mine, and I pull them both to stand. And the three of us wander into the house for dinner.