Page 48 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

Dinner is already loud by the time I slide into my usual seat. I’m next to Francesca and across from Mason and Theo, my mother on my left.

Someone’s laughing too hard—probably Beau—and Margot is trying to convince Vivie she needs to eat her veggies or she’s going to get pimples.

Francesca and Eloise are debating over what counts as a “classic” movie, and Dad’s trying to uncork a bottle of wine with a set of keys because someone misplaced the opener again.

I used to love this chaos.

Now, it just makes my skin buzz in that too-many-tabs-open way.

I focus on buttering a roll. Carefully, methodically. Like it’s a task I know I can get right.

Mom’s in hostess mode, pouring water into mismatched glasses, telling Dad to sit up straight or he’s going to get indigestion, nudging Beau about something he left in her garage. She reaches across the table to pat my hand, fingers light but insistent.

“Abby, honey, I was going over the calendar with Marilyn from my gardening club, and we’re both so excited about your fall fundraiser,” she says.

“Have you finalized the menu yet? I told her that the caterer you used last year was just divine. Those little tarts with the goat cheese? So good . I can’t wait to attend again this year. ”

My shoulders hitch, but I force a smile. “It’s still in the works.”

“Oh, and you’ll keep the silent auction, right? I’m hoping your father and I will get lucky this year. Wouldn’t it be fun to vacation at a lake house, Lucas?” Mom asks, beaming across the table to Dad.

“Anything is fun when I’m with you, sweetheart,” Dad says with a genuine grin.

“God, ugh. Some of us are trying to eat here,” Beau faux-grumbles with a smirk on his face.

Cora tips her glass toward me without a word, and I know it’s a commiserating sort of acknowledgment.

But it’s the kind that stays quiet. I love my sister, but I know how hard she’s had to work to keep Mom out of her bakery the last couple of years, so I don’t see her jumping in to rescue me any time soon.

I keep chewing, but the roll turns to paste in my mouth.

I chase it down with a sip of water, the taste of yeast and salt lingering bitter at the back of my tongue.

Across the table, Mason watches me with a careful sort of attention, one hand steady behind Theo’s highchair, the other palming a sippy cup to keep it from flying off the table.

He doesn’t join in the conversation—just lets the noise tumble around him, eyes darting to me every few seconds like he’s checking the tension on a line only the two of us can see.

Vivie launches into a passionate monologue about her school’s upcoming science fair, her hands flailing dangerously close to the salad bowl.

Theo’s already got a breadstick mashed to a pulp in one fist, and it’s only a matter of time before it becomes a projectile. Mason intercepts the mess with practiced ease, flicking a napkin from his lap and dabbing at Theo’s mouth with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten.

Mom’s voice cuts in again, a little too bright. “You’re already working on the next event, right?” Mom asks, beaming like it’s a compliment. “I mean, of course you are, what am I saying. You only have like a couple of months left.”

Mason shifts in his seat. I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me.

Something behind my ribs curls inward, brittle with pressure. I place the roll back on my plate and flatten my palms to my thighs. The prickling beneath my skin intensifies—a swarm of bees in my marrow. I want to scream, but I’ve never raised my voice at this table, not once in my entire life.

I don’t even know what it would sound like.

“Yeah, Mom,” I say, and the words come out clipped, the consonants too sharp. “I’m working on it.”

She latches onto the answer, her hands fluttering as she turns to Francesca.

“Did you know Abby’s last fundraiser broke a regional record?

Just incredible. She’s on the fast track, climbing that corporate ladder.

You know, if you ever need an event manager for the bookstore, I bet Abby would do it for a reasonable price. ”

“Mom,” I cut in, my cheeks growing pink.

“Oh, honey,” Mom says with a laugh. “She knows I’m only joking, don’t you, Francesca? We all know you wouldn’t charge her for that. You’d do it because you love to plan events.”

Francesca laughs, but it’s that nervous kind of laughter that sounds like a grimaced chuckle.

The table vibrates with conversation, but it doesn’t touch me. It feels like I’m watching through thick glass, the world happening one room over. I can see the way Mason leans forward, mouth barely parted like he’s ready to jump in, he’s just waiting for my signal.

It makes me feel brave.

I set my water down and look straight at my mother, surprised by the calm in my own voice. “Actually, I don’t.”

Mom’s face softens, confusion tilting her brow. “You don’t what, honey?”

“I don’t love planning events. And I won’t be planning the fundraiser in the fall or any other one.”

The table stills. Not all at once—just a gradual, domino hush as my words leak outward.

“I’m not doing any of it,” I say, a little louder. “Because I quit my job.”

Cora’s fork clinks against her plate. Beau lets out a low, appreciative whistle and leans back in his chair. And Graham just stares at me over his glass.

My mother’s face does a strange thing: it empties, the usual animation draining out. She blinks at me, glances at Cora, then at Dad, as if she’s making sure she heard what she thinks she heard.

“You . . . quit ?” The word lands in the center of the table. It’s not angry, just so stunned it hangs there, vibrating.

I nod. “Yeah. I did.” This time the words are steadier, almost a dare. The absence of apology in my voice is a new and unfamiliar animal.

She doesn’t speak, just presses a napkin to her mouth and stares at the center of the table like she might find some better version of the evening hiding in the casserole dish.

Next to me, Francesca’s hand slides under the table and squeezes my knee. I almost jump. Her palm is dry and warm, her grip silent and strong. I want to thank her but I can’t trust my voice.

Dad’s the first to recover. “Well, hell, Abby. That’s . . . I mean, that’s big news.” His voice is soft, not unkind. His eyes dart to Mom, then back to me. “What are you going to do now?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, the air shuddering in my chest. “I don’t know yet, but I’m figuring it out.” I steal a glance at Mason, whose mouth is tipped up at the corner, eyes bright and unguarded. The approval in his gaze is so loud I almost miss what Mom says next.

“That’s . . . I just—” She fumbles with her napkin, twisting it between her hands. “What about money? And Seattle? Where are you going to live?”

“I’m fine. And I’ll figure it out, okay? And for now, I’m in Avalon Falls.” The truth is, I’ve let Graham handle my investment portfolio for a decade. Every bond Nana Jo gave me for birthdays and holidays was cashed in and rolled into whatever program Graham recommended.

And my brother is a genius when it comes to that stuff. So, I’ve got enough money to float me for a long time. Not that I feel the need to tell Mom that.

Mom’s mouth parts as her gaze bounces around the table before landing on me. “I just don’t understand. When did you do this? Why wouldn’t you talk to me about this before? Is it because you’re coming home too often? Maybe there’s still time, you can call your boss, say it was a mistake.”

The words don’t even have time to settle before I realize everyone is staring at me. The casserole dish, motionless in the center of the table, reflects my own dumbstruck face back at me in its glass lid.

I look at my hands, steady on the table, so white they glow against the wood. “I don’t want to call my boss,” I say. “I don’t want my job back.” The honesty of it is a strange, foreign taste in my mouth. “I haven’t wanted it for a long time.”

The silence at the table is long enough that Vivie, who never notices tension, pipes up, “Why not? You were really good at it.” Her face is pinched with confusion, and for a split second I’m six years old again, unable to explain to anyone why I hated ballet despite being the fairy in my recital.

“I was,” I say, and the words land with a funny, hollow pride. “But being good at something and loving it aren’t always the same.”

Dad gives a slow nod, a glimmer of something like understanding passing through his expression. “Amen to that. Never was good at my job, but I did it for thirty-five years.” He laughs—a real, short bark of it—and shakes his head. “Sometimes the heart just wants what it wants.”

I nod, and my eyes sting, but it feels nice. Like the air is moving again.

Mom makes a noise. Not a word, not quite a sigh. Just a note of confusion that catches behind her teeth and won’t let go. She looks at Dad, then Beau and Graham, then at Cora, and finally back at me.

“I just don’t understand, Abby.” The wet shimmer in her gaze is not anger but something closer to grief.

For a second, her fingers flutter at her collarbone—she always does that when she’s about to cry but won’t let herself.

Then the hand falls to the table. Her knuckles are white but her voice, when it comes, is soft and bewildered.

“I just don’t see what’s so awful about being good at something,” she says.

“About building something for yourself. You had a future in that world, Abby.”

The words are meant to be gentle, but there’s that thin blade of disappointment in them, honed over years of expectation.

I nod a few times and push back my chair to stand. “If you’ll excuse me.” I walk around the table and kiss Theo’s head. He reaches for me, and I scoop him up, using him as a lifeline.

MASON

She’s not even gone thirty seconds, but I feel it—her absence like a snapped cord in the center of the table. I’m halfway out of my chair before I even think about it.