Page 6 of The Hang Up (Lilac Harbor #3)

SIX

Holden

I stand in front of Clay & Cupcakes with two cups of coffee and a brownie—Lena’s favorite. The kind with the crackly top and gooey center, still warm from the oven. The kind she made for herself on bad days, but also for me. She said that sugar fixed everything.

Maybe it’s stupid, thinking that coffee and a brownie can fix what I broke, but I don’t know what else to do.

“Hey,” I say quietly as Lena approaches, her head down and her jaw set.

She stops short when she sees me, her shoulders tensing like she’s bracing for a fight. Her bag is slung over one shoulder, and her eyes are bloodshot like she didn’t sleep last night. She looks exhausted. And I hate that I probably had something to do with that.

I hold out the to-go tray and brown paper bag. “I brought you a coffee. And a brownie. The kind you used to like from Sandbags Burgers.”

She doesn’t move.

“Lena—”

“No,” she says, voice low and even, like she’s spent all night rehearsing it. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not trying to get anything from you,” I say quickly. “I just… I thought you could use something sweet.”

She stares at the tray for a second, her lips pressed in a tight line, then looks up at me. Her eyes are tired. Wary. “I don’t want it.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

I set it on the bench outside the shop, careful not to spill anything, and step back. She moves past me without another word, unlocking the door and slipping inside like she can’t bear to be near me for another second.

I don’t follow. I just stand there, staring at the door until the Closed sign flips and the lock clicks. Then I allow myself to exhale.

That went well.

I don’t know what I expected when I brought her the brownie. Forgiveness? A smile? Maybe a thanks?

Yeah, none of that happened.

She didn’t even look me in the eye.

I run a hand down my face and walk toward Wade’s place. He and Ray are working on the old truck in their garage this morning, and if I stay out here any longer, I’ll lose what little patience I have left.

It takes me ten minutes to get to the house, and I hear the music before I see the open garage. Wade is inside with his sleeves rolled up, grease on his hands, and a grin on his face. Ray is next to him, wiping down an old carburetor.

“Morning, soldier,” Ray calls when he sees me.

“Morning,” I reply with a nod.

Wade eyes me. “You look like you got your ass kicked.”

I gesture toward town. “I tried to bring her a brownie.”

He winces. “Damn. Cold rejection?”

“Freezer burn.”

Ray lets out a low whistle and sets down the carb. “That girl’s got fire.”

“She’s always had it,” I say, leaning against the garage door frame. “That’s what I loved about her. She was always full of fire, full of life.”

“So what’s the plan now?” Wade asks as he wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it onto the workbench.

“I don’t know. Keep showing up? Prove I’m not here to mess with her head.”

Ray studies me with the quiet wisdom he’s known for. “You serious about staying this time?”

I nod. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been back for six months. This is home. It’s where I belong.”

“With or without the girl?”

I open my mouth to reply, then pause. Finally, I say, “I want her to be part of it. But even if she never forgives me, I’m staying. I’m not running again. I want roots here. Real ones. I want to build something that matters.”

Ray nods slowly, like that’s the only answer he was willing to accept. “Then show her. And not with coffee or baked goods. Do what you did back when she still smiled at you.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

Wade grins. “He means write her another letter.”

“You think she wants that? She hasn’t liked any of the others I’ve written her.”

“She didn’t want the brownie either,” Wade says dryly. “Didn’t stop you.”

Ray shrugs. “Girls like letters. Especially when they come from the heart.”

I blow out a breath. “Even if the last one ended in disaster?”

“You’re not the same guy who wrote that first one,” Ray says. “And she’s not the same girl who read it. Maybe it’s time you started writing from where you are now. Not where you were then.”

His words hit me square in the chest. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

I stay a little longer, helping them with the truck, but my mind is already back at the workshop. Back at my desk and the blank page waiting for me to get this right.

When I finally head home, I don’t bother turning on the TV or making lunch. I head straight to the shop, flipping on the lights and sinking onto the stool by my workbench.

The air smells like cedar and varnish and old memories.

I grab a pen and a fresh sheet of paper and sit for a long time, staring at it.

Then I start writing.

Lena,

I know you’re tired of hearing from me. I know I don’t deserve your time. But I need to say this anyway.

I’ve been trying to find the right words since I got back. Trying to explain what happened, what I was thinking, why I left.

The truth is, I was scared. Not of you. Not of us. But of not being enough.

When my grandpa died, I didn’t just lose the only family I had. I lost the person who made me believe I could be somebody. I felt like I needed to prove I could be a man who deserved you. A man who could build a life for us.

So I left. Thinking I’d go out and become that man.

But instead, I broke the only thing that ever made sense.

You.

I know sorry isn’t enough. I know I can’t undo what I did. But I need you to know that I came back for you. I stayed for you. And I’ll keep staying. For as long as it takes.

Lilac Harbor is my home, Lena. And you’re the heart of it.

Please read this. Give me a chance to prove I can be the man who stays.

Forever yours,

Holden

I fold the letter carefully, like it’s sacred. Slipping it into an envelope, I scrawl her name across the front in my messiest handwriting the way I used to. Like it might make her smile.

I stand in the doorway for a second, the breeze from the lake stirring the hem of my jacket, and then I walk into town.

It’s late afternoon now, and the streets are quieter—a few tourists here and there, a couple of kids on bikes, the occasional dog walker. The town is comforting and familiar, like pulling on a favorite sweater.

I spot Lena outside the shop, wiping down one of the café tables. Her hair is falling out of its bun, and a smudge of frosting clings to her cheek. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I threw away.

I walk slowly. Don’t want to spook her.

When I’m a few feet away, she straightens, catching sight of me. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t bolt.

Progress?

“Hey,” I say quietly, holding out the envelope. “I know you don’t want to see me. I know you probably don’t want to read this. But I need you to have it anyway.”

She stares at the letter like it’s poison.

“I’m not asking for anything,” I add. “Not today. Just… read it. That’s all.”

I hold it out for a moment longer. And finally— finally —she reaches out to take it. Her fingers brush mine, and a jolt of electricity zings through my chest.

She doesn’t say anything. Just tucks the envelope into her apron and goes back to wiping down the table.

I take that as my cue to leave. I walk away without looking back this time because for the first time since I got home, I feel like maybe—just maybe—she’s listening.