Page 7 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The house is quiet. Not peaceful-quiet—bone-deep quiet.

The kind that presses in on your chest and makes everything feel too still.

Theo’s been asleep for hours, the baby monitor casting its steady blue glow beside me.

I should be in bed. But sleep’s been harder lately.

Too many thoughts. Too much noise in my head, even when everything else goes still.

It’s past midnight now. That hour where the world feels a little haunted.

Insomnia’s the double-edged sword of parenthood no one warns you about.

You spend all day running on fumes, dead on your feet—but the second your head hits the pillow, your brain kicks into overdrive.

Victory laps through every thought you’ve ever had.

You’re too tired to think and too wired not to.

No one talks about that part. Not on the parenting blogs.

Not in those smug little videos with clean counters and color-coded baby bins.

I shift on the porch steps and lean into the post behind me, letting the wood take some of my weight.

The wraparound porch was half the reason I bought this place.

It needed work—hell, it still does—but I couldn’t let it go.

I saw one like it when I was a kid, out near Briar Hollow.

Big white farmhouse, peeling paint, kids’ bikes dumped by the front steps.

I remember thinking that looked like a place you could stay.

A real family kind of house.

It stuck with me. Still does.

So when I found this one—run-down, half-forgotten, but still standing—it felt like something I could build into that. Eventually. Even if it’s just me and Theo, for now.

The air’s cool against my face, soft with dew.

Crickets sing from the tall grass along the fence line, their rhythm broken only by the low hoot of an owl out near the trees.

Somewhere deeper in the woods, a fox yips—quick, sharp, then gone.

It’s not truly quiet out here. But it’s the kind of quiet that lives. Layered, breathing.

A year ago, I’d have been gearing up for a midnight run out at The Alley.

Tuning my car, talking shit with Beau, letting the engine noise drown out the rest of the world.

Back then, the adrenaline was the point.

Now, my Saturday nights are diapers, bottles, and dishes.

The hum of the baby monitor and the weight of knowing I’m the only line of defense between my kid and the rest of the world.

It’s a different kind of high-stakes. A heavier one. But I wouldn’t change it. Not a damn thing. Theo’s the best part of my life—hands down. Even when I’m running on fumes.

I pull my phone from my hoodie pocket and tap the screen. My fingers hesitate for a beat, hovering like they always do. Like maybe this time I won’t do it. But muscle memory wins. It always does.

Her name is already in my recent searches.

Abby Carter.

Her Instagram loads slow—signal’s always been shit out here—but I don’t mind waiting.

I already know what’s coming. I could scroll it blind.

She doesn’t post much, and when she does, it’s polished work shots and curated glimpses of her life.

Her nonprofit events. Color-coded sodas.

Soft-lit photos of gardens and champagne flutes.

Stuff that looks . . . put-together. Effortless.

Exactly like her.

I swipe to her tagged photos. That’s where the real ones are.

The blurry group shots from holidays. Candids from Beau or their mom.

Once, there was one of her laughing with her eyes closed, head tipped back, hair in a messy ponytail.

She was holding a mug and wearing an oversized hoodie with the old Ford logo peeling across the chest.

She swiped it from Beau’s closet when she was in high school, then claimed it was lucky. Or that’s what she always said. I just remember walking into the kitchen and seeing her in my hoodie, barefoot on the tile, blinking sleep from her eyes like the night hadn’t ended yet.

I tell myself it’s harmless. That I’m not digging for something that isn’t mine.

But I always stop on that photo. Not on purpose. Not really.

Sometimes, though, one slips through. A blurry shot from her parents’ house. A laugh caught mid-breath. One Beau tagged her in—both of them squinting into the sun at the lake.

Those are the ones that stop me. Those are the ones that look like Abby to me.

It doesn’t feel like breaking a promise if all I’m doing is looking. Sometimes it feels like watching a life through a window. One that was never meant to open.

She’s Beau’s little sister. She always has been. And anything that might’ve been. . .well, that was a long time ago. We’ve both changed.

She built a life out west—successful, magnetic. Always in motion.

And I’m not the guy I used to be. The one who ran toward danger because standing still felt like surrender. Now I’m here, standing still.

Bought a house I’m still learning how to take care of. Raising a son who looks at me like I hung the damn moon, even on the days I barely hold it together.

Stuck in the pit of quicksand my dad left behind when he left the house and never looked back.

Still, I hover over her photos—thumb brushing the edge of the screen, like that’s enough to keep her close. Just to feel a little less far away.

The screen lights up with an incoming video call from Beau. I swipe to answer, his face filling the screen like just thinking about him conjured the call.

“You know it’s after midnight, right?” I say, voice low, steady.

Beau grins back at me, all sharp angles and unbrushed hair. “Pretty sure I’ve called you later.”

“Yeah. Back when you were trying to get me arrested.”

“Hey,” he says, feigning offense. “We never got caught.”

“Sheer dumb luck,” I deadpan.

His laugh comes easy. Familiar. It eases something in my chest I didn’t know had gone tight.

“You look like shit,” he says, squinting. “You on the porch again?”

“Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “You gotta see it out here, man.”

He scoffs, his mouth pulling into something between a grimace and a grin. “I’ve been to your place plenty of times, Mase. What the hell?”

I chuckle at the mock outrage lifting his eyebrows. “Nah, I meant at night. It’s different out here. Feels like a whole other world.”

His face smooths into a familiar smirk. “Are you asking me for a sleepover, bro?”

He barely gets the words out before he’s laughing—loud and unfiltered, the same way he always has. The sound bubbles under my ribs, loosening something.

I roll my eyes, even though I know he can’t see it from the porch light’s glow. “We’re not ten.”

He’s still grinning, wide and unapologetic. “Right, right. Let’s call it camping, then. Shit, you’ve got like a million acres out there. Peach and I could pitch a tent anywhere.”

My gaze narrows at the gleam in his blue eyes. “I don’t like that look.”

It’s the same one I’ve seen our whole lives, right before he does something wild and talks me into going with him. He gives me his best wide-eyed expression and holds it for a solid two seconds before a feral sort of grin stretches across his face.

“That.” I point at the screen. “That’s the look I’m talking about. Whatever half-baked idea you’ve got cooking, I’m out. Yeah?”

He laughs, ending it with a low whistle. “C’mon, man, I’m just fuckin’ with you. But camping’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

“I’ve got a baby, Beau. I’m not camping in my own backyard when I’ve got a perfectly good roof and four walls. Can you even imagine me trying to tent-sleep with Theo?” I shake my head. “He barely sleeps now. Our whole routine is just . . . whatever works.”

Beau grins. “Well, you’re the one who moved out to the sticks. You could’ve had the unit around the corner from me, bro.”

It’s a conversation we’ve had a hundred times before.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, dryly. “Your place is great. But you know I needed space for Theo.”

Beau and his older brother, Graham, bought up an entire block of three-story maisonettes a couple miles from downtown.

They turned two into their own bachelor-palaces and left the third as a shared middle unit—for what, I’m still not sure.

It’s like their version of a clubhouse. Or a fallout shelter.

Either way, it wasn’t what I had envisioned.

“Yeah, I know.” Beau shifts, leaning forward until the light from his screen catches the faint furrow in his brow. “I just wish you were a little closer. Peach and I could help out more with Theo, you know?”

He means it. I can see it in the way his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but doesn’t. The way his eyes soften just enough.

I exhale slowly. “Yeah, man. I appreciate that. You’ve got an open invite, always.”

Beau relaxes a little, slumping back against whatever couch or chair he’s sprawled across. “How’s my favorite burrito anyway?”

I huff a laugh at the nickname. Beau helped me figure out how to swaddle Theo when he was brand-new—tight and snug like a burrito.

Which, now that I think about it, started with a panicked video call to Abby.

She walked him through it from my kitchen one night, voice calm even though I was losing my shit in the other room because Theo wouldn't stop fussing.

That was back in the early days. A lifetime ago. I haven’t thought about that night in a while.

I clear my throat and pull my mind back into the present.

“He’s good. Think he’s cutting a tooth or maybe it’s that sleep regression thing, I don’t know.

Took two books, twenty minutes of lullabies, and every ounce of patience I had to get him down tonight.

” I sigh, but the corner of my mouth tips up. “But yeah. He’s good. Getting big.”

“Shit,” Beau says, smirking. “Are you singing again?”

I shake my head, letting the grin come easier now. “Spotify. I’m not cruel.”

Beau’s gaze shifts. “What about you? You sleeping?”

I glance out into the dark, watching the trees sway like they’ve got secrets. “Sometimes,” I say. Then slide my gaze back to him. “When my loudmouth best friend doesn’t call me in the middle of the night to talk about camping.”

He snorts. “Don’t start. I’ll tell Peach you’re talkin’ shit.”

I smirk. “Since when do you hide behind your girlfriend?”

“Since she started doin’ this thing with her?—”

“Beau Carter, I know you’re not about to run your mouth on speaker,” comes a voice offscreen, sharp and amused.

He grunts, but the grin spreading across his face is smug as hell. He glances to the side. “C’mon, Peach. You know I love you.”

“I know,” she replies, sweet and dangerous. Then she leans into the frame—tilted head, wild dark curls, sharp eyes that miss nothing. “Hi, Mason. Don’t believe a word he says. He’s full of shit.”

“Eloise,” I say, lips twitching. “Nice to see you.”

She winks. “You too.” Then vanishes out of frame just as fast.

Beau’s grin shifts, softens. “All I’m saying is say the word, man. I’m five minutes away.”

“In your dreams,” Eloise calls from somewhere offscreen. “It takes twenty-five if I’m driving. Forty if he’s behind the wheel.”

Beau turns toward the sound of her voice, laughing as he shakes his head. “Now who’s talkin’ shit, Peach?”

“Facts, Carter,” she drawls back.

Their back-and-forth settles into the quiet like a warm blanket, something soft and steady and sure. It pulls tight in my chest before I can stop it—that ache of wanting something like that. A partner in the room. A second voice. A kind of ease I haven’t felt in a long time.

Beau turns back to me. “All I mean is—we’re here for you, man. We’re family. And family shows up.”

I nod, swallowing around the lump that rises too fast in my throat. “Thanks, man.”

He studies me for a beat, then brightens. “How about Peach and I swing by tomorrow, hang out with the little burrito while you get some work done?”

I shake my head. “I appreciate it. I really do. But we’re good. I built out a setup in the garage. Playpen, sound machine, rocking chair, the works. We’ve got a routine going now.”

Beau raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I huff a quiet breath. "Besides, he's a handful now. The kid never stops moving."

“Please. We’ll bring Vivie. She’s a tween now, and she's all about babysitting. I pray for Peach when she hits her teens.” He mock-shudders. “God, do you remember Cora and Abby in high school? Goddamn menaces, both of ’em.”

I smile at that—small, involuntary. The kind that stings a little on the way out. Yeah. I remember.

Beau misses the beat in my silence. He straightens a little, something more serious flickering behind his eyes. “You’re doing good, Mase.”

I nod once, slowly. “I’m trying.”

He nods back. No joke, no deflection. Just that steady kind of quiet that only comes from someone who’s been in your corner long enough to know when to talk and when to let things sit.

"Alright, man, let me know if you change your mind, yeah?"

"I will. Now get off the phone and pay attention to your girl," I tease him, jerking my chin a little.

"Oh, I'm gonna pay her all kinds of attention." He grins, waggling his brows at me.

"Later, man," I say around a laugh.

"Later, Mase," he says, and ends the call.

Abby’s Instagram flashes back up, her profile still open behind the call. Like she never left. Like the whole thing was just a break in my regularly scheduled scroll.

My thumb hovers over a photo again— the photo—and before I can stop myself, I trace the outline of her face. A touch that doesn’t touch. A memory pretending not to be one.

Then I lock the screen and tuck my phone away. Lean back against the porch post. The baby monitor still glows steady blue beside me.

Still here. Still standing.

And for tonight, that’s enough.