Page 15 of The Hang Up (Lilac Harbor #3)

FIFTEEN

Lena

The silence in my bedroom is too loud.

It’s the first day I’ve been home since I told my mom I was moving out. Clay & Cupcakes is closed on Mondays, which means no distractions, no sugar cookies to bake, no scones to prep, no customers to smile at while swallowing exhaustion.

Just me and the evidence of my life stuffed into every inch of this room.

I stand in front of the open closet, a cardboard box at my feet, my hands shaking slightly as I touch the hem of an old hoodie. I wore it for two years straight in high school. It still smells like cinnamon and lemon, like safety.

I fold it carefully and place it in the box.

I’ve been promising myself I’d move out for years. I’ve always made excuses. Mom’s health. The bills. The guilt. But I can’t pretend anymore. Not after what she said the other night. Not after what she did .

I reach for another shirt, pausing as I hear the front door creak open.

Heavy footsteps. A familiar rhythm.

A second later, Holden appears in the doorway, holding two large boxes and wearing that hoodie I love, the faded green one with the frayed cuffs.

His smile is soft. “Hey, sunshine.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Hey.”

He glances around the room, taking in the open drawers, the box half full on the floor, the pile of shoes I haven’t worn in years. “You sure about this?”

I meet his eyes and nod. “More than I’ve ever been.”

He sets the boxes down and crosses the room in two strides, wrapping his arms around me. I lean into him, burying my face against his chest.

For a moment, it’s just us.

No history.

No hurt.

Just the thump of his heart and the warm, solid weight of him around me.

“I brought donuts,” he murmurs. “Figured you could use some sugar and carbs while we face the pit of hell.”

I huff a laugh. “You know how to spoil a girl.”

“I try.”

We work in tandem, me sorting through clothes, him taping boxes shut and labeling them in sharp, slanted letters. I let him pack the books because he insists he has a system. I don’t argue. It feels good to let someone else take the lead for once.

We’re mid-pack when the door down the hall creaks open, and Mom’s voice rings out.

“Lena? What’s going on?”

My spine stiffens. Holden’s gaze flicks to mine, cautious but steady.

I step into the hallway, arms crossed. “I told you. I’m moving.”

She steps into view, her shawl draped dramatically around her shoulders, her eyes narrowing when she sees Holden behind me.

“You,” she hisses, her voice rising like steam off boiling water. “This is all your fault.”

“Mom—”

“You came back and ruined everything!” she screams, pointing a shaky finger at him. “She was fine before you showed up. She had a good routine, a system. She took care of me!”

My blood turns to ice.

Holden doesn’t flinch. He takes a slow breath and steps forward, placing himself slightly in front of me.

“You don’t get to blame me,” he says calmly. “Lena has sacrificed everything for you for the last decade. If anything, I should’ve come back sooner.”

She turns on me, her voice like acid. “So you’re going to leave me here to die? Is that it?”

“No,” I say quietly. “But I’m not going to stay here and die with you.”

Her mouth drops open, fury overtaking her expression. “How dare you? After everything I’ve done for you?—”

“Everything you’ve taken from me,” I snap, my voice cracking. “That’s what you mean.”

I should walk away. I know I should. But something inside me is done keeping the peace.

“All those years I could’ve gone to college, moved out, lived a life, but I stayed. I worked two jobs, cooked, cleaned, managed your meds, paid the bills, ran your errands. And I never complained. I never stopped to ask if I wanted that life.”

“Because I needed you,” she spits.

“No.” My voice trembles. “Because you wanted me to need you. Because you didn’t want to be alone.”

Her face flushes red. “You ungrateful?—”

“I saw your prescriptions, Mom,” I cut in, my voice barely above a whisper. “I talked to the pharmacist.”

She stills.

“They said you stopped picking up your inhalers six months ago. You’re not on the meds anymore. You told me your doctor changed your treatment, but when I called, they said you haven’t even been in . Not once this year.”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I take a step closer, my chest heaving. “You’re not dying. You’re not even sick. You could’ve worked, but you didn’t want to. You let me believe you were helpless so I’d stay.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

And it confirms everything I already knew.

Mom doesn’t deny it. She stares at me, jaw clenched, arms crossed, the curtain finally pulled back.

The air is sucked out of my lungs. “I wasted so much of my life,” I whisper. “So many years. So many dreams. And for what?”

Holden slips his hand into mine.

Mom scoffs and waves a hand. “Fine. Go. Run off and play house with your little boyfriend. Don’t come crawling back when it all falls apart.”

I don’t respond.

I turn away.

Back into my bedroom. Back into the safety of Holden’s arms.

“Let’s finish packing,” I say, voice brittle.

“We could leave tonight,” he offers. “If you want.”

I pause. Then I nod. “I want.”

We work in silence, the tension in the house thick and suffocating. But with every box that’s sealed and every drawer that’s emptied, I feel empowered. Each packed item feels like reclaiming a piece of myself.

When the last box is taped shut, Holden loads them into his truck while I take one final look around my bedroom.

I expect to feel sad. I don’t.

I feel free.

We pile into the truck as the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over Lilac Harbor. I twist my fingers in my lap as Holden drives, one hand resting on my thigh.

When we pull into his driveway, I start crying.

Not loud, dramatic sobs, but quiet tears that I can’t seem to stop.

He parks and shuts off the engine before turning to me. “Hey. Come here.”

I crawl into his arms like a child, and he holds me while I cry. He strokes my back, brushing his mouth across my temple. He doesn’t rush me or tell me to calm down. He just lets me feel it.

When the tears slow, I whisper, “I gave her everything. And it still wasn’t enough.”

He presses his forehead to mine. “That’s not on you.”

“I should’ve left years ago.”

“You’ve left now,” he says gently. “That’s what matters.”

I exhale shakily, fisting his shirt. “I don’t know what to do with my life. I don’t have a plan. I never got the chance to think about it.”

“Well,” he brushes his thumb over my cheek, “what do you want? Do you want to go to college? Travel? Move somewhere new?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Part of me still wants to bake. But part of me wants to breathe for a while. I want to sleep in. I want to read a book without falling asleep halfway through. I want to live.”

Holden nods. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

I stare at him for a long second, my chest aching with something that feels like relief and grief and love all tangled together. “You mean it?”

“Every word.”

He kisses me, slow and sweet, right there in the truck as the stars blink to life overhead.

And when we walk into the house together, our home , a new sensation settles in my bones.

Peace.

For the first time in my life, I’m not living in service of someone else’s needs or expectations.

I’m simply living.