Page 49 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Forty-Five

Delilah

When I enter the house, Mom is already waiting, as if she knew the exact moment I’d walk through the door.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Instead, she thrusts a rosary into my hand, presses my third-eye bracelet into my palm, and begins flinging holy water at me as if she’s casting out demons.

“Mom,” I groan, dripping, “I’m okay.”

But her eyes are wide and glassy. Her lips tight. The tremble in her hand betrays everything.

“We’re not okay, Lilah.” Her voice wavers, brittle with something thick and buried beneath her skin. “You don’t understand.”

I pause, breath catching. “Obviously. Would you like to share with me?”

She stares at me for a beat, then says, almost too casually, “I think we should take a long vacation.”

What?

That makes no fucking sense. My pulse flares. My body still hums from Mal’s kiss, from his heat, from the fire he pressed into my skin with nothing more than his mouth and his hands—and now this?

“No,” I say firmly. I step back and plant my feet like that will help me hold the line. “If you need to, you can take a long vacation, Mami. I’m staying here.”

She crosses her arms like she’s already decided how this ends. “Fine. But if I feel we have to go, we go.”

Her voice is final. Her tone leaves no room for compromise. It slams against my ribs like an alarm.

And I realize what this is. She’s not being dramatic. She’s scared. She makes it sound like we have to run. Like there’s something out there—someone—who’s watching, waiting, and she's ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

Maybe that’s how she’s managed to survive everything until now, but it still doesn’t make sense. We’ve lived in this town our whole lives. Our roots are here, buried beneath every crack in the sidewalk, every pan dulce recipe passed down from abuela, and every whispered prayer over café con leche.

She thinks it’s easier to flee than to stand her ground.

But I’m not her.

I exhale as the pressure builds behind my eyes, that tight sensation making my lungs fight for space in my ribs.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

But what I don’t say—what simmers low and hot in my blood—is that I won’t fucking run. If anyone wants to come for me, let them. Let them try to burn down what I’ve built. Let them try to tear me apart.

I’ll be here. Waiting. With my sleeves rolled up and my fire already lit.

Because I have nothing left to lose.

And I sure as hell have something worth fighting for now.

Mom cocks her head and narrows her eyes like she can smell the defiance coming off me in waves. “So . . . tell me,” she says, her voice deceptively casual. “Are you dating Mal or Cassian? They made it sound like they’re with you.”

“I am dating both.”

Her eyebrows rise like she’s about to short-circuit. “So it’s like an open relationship.” She shakes her head with dramatic flair. “That’s not commitment. And without commitment, there are no grandchildren.”

“Ughhh,” I groan. Of course she’s concerned about grandchildren. Because my mother has exactly two speeds: Mexican panic and marital obsession. And she’s just slammed the pedal on both.

I could wave a hand and tell her it’s none of her business. I could drop a sarcastic quip and walk away.

But I don’t want to hide this—not anymore.

“We’ve been dating and we’re committed to each other,” I say, grounding each word with intent. “It’s new, and we’re trying to keep things quiet so the town doesn’t stick its nose where it doesn’t belong. But we’re—the three of us—together.”

She tilts her head slightly. Her lips press together like she’s solving a puzzle she’s just now realizing was always there.

“Are Mal and Cass dating too?”

“Exactly.”

Mom stares at me. One beat. Two.

It’s like her brain needs a moment to sync the data.

I want to move, shift the energy, give her room—but I wait.

I let her catch up, let her form the words she’ll say next.

Her silence feels loaded, not with judgment but with careful thought.

As if she’s sorting through every interaction, every sideways glance, every quiet conversation she’s witnessed over the years.

And then she says it.

“Yeah. I see it now.” She nods, slow and thoughtful. “How did I miss it?”

There’s no heat in her voice. Just acceptance. Like love has always been complicated, and maybe that’s okay.

“If the town gives you grief,” she says, stepping closer, “you let me know. At least since Pastor Moreau is gone they’ve stopped being so sanctimonious. But . . .” she waves a hand like swatting at a fly, “there’s still an ignorant soul or two lurking in this town.”

I don’t realize how tense I’ve been until I’m moving—into her arms, into the warmth I’ve known since birth.

I hug her, and she doesn’t hesitate. She holds me like she’s trying to convince herself I’m still real, still here, still hers. Her hand strokes my back the way it used to when I couldn’t sleep after Grandma died. She smells like cinnamon and prayers and too much perfume.

She’s my home.

Even when she’s dousing me in holy water and matchmaking mid-crisis.

“You’re the best, Mami,” I whisper into her shoulder.

She holds me tighter, one hand smoothing over my hair like she used to when I was little and had nightmares. Her perfume clings to my skin—floral, strong, and so familiar. Her heartbeat pounds quick and uneven. She's still trembling a little. But so am I.

“Of course I am,” she sniffs, pulling back just enough to cup my cheek. “Now go wash your hands—we need to have breakfast and figure out how we’re going to give everyone their daily pastries and coffee.”

In her world, cinnamon rolls, conchas, and croissants are sacred, and routine prevents the grief from consuming us completely. I laugh, the sound cracking through the fog in my chest like sunlight breaking through the smoke.

For a second, just one?—

I forget the flames licking up the walls of everything I built.

I forget the fear that still lingers in the corners of my mind.

I forget how close I came to losing it all.

And I remember.

I remember who I am.

And who I’m fighting for.