Page 43 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The air outside the office building smells like rain on concrete and burnt espresso. Familiar enough to ground me, sharp enough to sting.

The folder is still in my hand—light, but my fingers clench around it like I might float away if I let go. My heart beats fast. Not panicked, not exactly. Just . . . loud .

I can’t believe I did it. I just quit my job.

The words loop in my head like they belong to someone else. Someone braver, someone more sure.

My boss was understanding if not surprised. She asked me if I was sure seven times, doubt and pity etched into her pretty features. I’m actively trying not to let those thoughts consume me though.

My heels click across the sidewalk, a half-step off rhythm. I’ve never loved this part of town, even though I was supposed to. It’s too clean, too modern, too full of people pretending to be more.

I used to be one of them. All sharp edges and tailored ambition. Now I feel like a shadow walking through someone else’s life.

A passing window catches my reflection, and I pause. The woman looking back at me is standing too still. Chin up, shoulders back, mouth curved like she just got away with something. She looks outwardly happy but there’s a terrified gleam in her eyes if you look closer.

I blink and the gleam dissipates.

The memory of my mother’s voice slices through the fog: You have a real job now, Abby. Something to be proud of.

I swallow hard and keep moving toward my car. Like that could press the mounting anxiety back down into the small box I usually keep it in.

In the trunk, some moving boxes and a brand new navy suitcase. I bought it after I landed this morning, just in case I needed more space than I thought.

I slide into my car and unlock my phone.

Me: It’s official. I’m jobless

His response comes fast. A photo of Theo in dinosaur pajamas, his hair mussed from sleep, clutching a stuffed lion and grinning wide.

A breath I didn’t know I was holding slips out of me. God, that kid, that house, and that man .

I can’t wait to go home.

The bar is mostly empty, sunlight bleeding through the dusty blinds in long, golden slats. It smells like citrus cleaner and stale beer. Familiar. Faintly off.

Beth’s crouched behind the counter, inventory clipboard in hand. When the door creaks open, she pops up fast—too fast.

“Abby?” Her face lights up like a spark to dry leaves. “Oh my god, I knew this would happen.”

Before I can answer, she’s around the bar and pulling me into a hug. It lasts a beat too long, her grip snug around my middle like she doesn’t want to let go. Her perfume is sharp and floral, clinging to the inside of my nose.

I gently ease back. “What would happen?”

Beth waves a hand, like the answer’s obvious. “You. Coming back home.”

My brow furrows. “Actually, I’m not coming back,” I say carefully. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to say thanks. For being kind. And to let you know I’m staying in Avalon Falls for the foreseeable future.”

Her smile falters. Not all at once, but like a ripple over glass. “Oh.”

She recovers too quickly. “They must really like you back there.”

A finger starts tapping the edge of the bar. Steady. Too steady. The sound starts to crawl under my skin.

“Hope they know how lucky they are.”

I offer a faint chuckle. “Thanks.” My hands tuck into the pockets of my coat. “It just feels like the right time, you know?”

Her gaze sticks. Doesn’t blink. Smile too wide, the edges too tight.

“You’ll still text, right?” she says suddenly. “I mean… just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to stop talking.”

“Of course,” I lie, gently. We never really were texting friends.

Her eyes don’t move. Not even a little.

Beth’s silence stretches just a second too long. Then she blinks, like she’s rebooting.

“That’s good,” she says, voice slipping into something a little higher, a little too bright. “I was worried you might just ghost.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I reply, offering a small smile. “I’ve just been… overwhelmed lately.”

Her mouth twists like she’s about to say something else, but instead she just nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

She moves behind the bar again, her movements jerky, precise—lining up bottles that don’t need lining. One hand wipes the already-clean surface with the hem of her sleeve. The other curls around the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

Something in her posture shifts. Straighter. Rigid. Like she’s holding something in.

I glance at the clock above the bar, its ticking suddenly loud in my ears. “I should get going. Still have to drive back tomorrow.”

Beth looks up sharply.

Her smile doesn’t change, but her eyes do. Tighter now. Tired, maybe. Or something else.

“Bye, Beth,” I say, grabbing the strap of my purse. “Take care.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave.

Her voice is flat, clipped. “See ya later, Abby.”

One finger stays pressed against the edge of the bar, tapping once, then again. The rhythm gone now. Just… force.

I step out into the fading light, the door clicking shut behind me.

The back of my neck prickles like I just stepped out of the wrong room at the wrong time.

But when I glance back through the window, she’s gone.

Just the quiet bar, golden slats of light, and the aftertaste of something I can’t quite name.

Something sour, something I don’t want to look too closely at.

The afternoon light stretches across my floor in long bars from the blinds, casting everything in that familiar Seattle softness—muted, drowsy, a little tender at the edges.

The apartment is mostly quiet, save for the creak of my suitcase zipping closed and the soft scuff of my flats on the hardwood.

Most of my life here was spent at work or work-related events. It was always in motion, running from one meeting to another, pulling long days more often than not. It didn’t leave me with a lot of time spent in my apartment, which makes packing everything easy.

I pull a box from the hall closet, ready to shove the last of my bathroom products inside, when something pastel catches my eye.

A pink terry cloth spa headband still in its plastic wrap, tucked beside a stack of sheet masks I barely remember buying. I frown, turning it over in my hand and seeing the tag still attached.

It’s probably something I ordered during one of those midnight stress purchases meant to make me feel like I had my life under control. I toss it into the box and seal it shut with a clean line of tape.

On my way to the kitchen, I pass the open shelving that holds exactly three mismatched mugs and a small bottle of lavender honey. There’s a fourth mug tucked into the back of an open cabinet next to the sink.

I don’t remember buying it, but maybe I did. Or maybe it was here when I moved in, like the previous tenant left it.

The mug is white, chipped at the rim, with a faded blue pattern around the lip—tiny birds flitting across a sky.

I turn it over in my palm, feeling the slight warp in the ceramic.

It doesn’t belong to me. Not in the way the other things do.

I set it back on the shelf, right where I found it.

A tiny, private legacy for whoever comes next.

There’s a strange satisfaction in leaving something behind. Proof of existence. A marker that I was here, just for a little while.

I drag the last suitcase to the door, double-check the windows, and stand in the center of the almost-empty apartment. Only the nightstand and the little bookshelf by the window are left.

A candle sits in the center of one of the shelves that I don’t recognize.

My brows draw together as I crouch down, fingertips brushing the cool ceramic jar.

I don’t remember buying it, but it’s half-burned.

Maybe it came in one of those treat yourself bundles I ordered when I was pulling seventeen-hour days and surviving on caffeine and ambition.

I’d barely been home enough to light one.

I shake the thought loose.

Maybe I lit it once and forgot. My brain was mush back then. Over-scheduled and overstretched.

I tuck the candle into a padded nook in the last box, then walk the apartment one more time. The air hums with quiet—the kind that feels like a house waiting for someone else to come home.

But no one will, and I’m not staying.

I pause at the window, catching my reflection against the dark skyline. My eyes look clearer than they used to, my shoulders a little less sharp.

I feel it again—that strange, unspooling kind of lightness. Like I’ve loosened something that was choking me without realizing it. Like maybe I’m finally making room for the life I want, not the one I inherited.