Page 54 of The Whisper Place (To Catch a Storm #3)

The fire burned bright, all oranges and licking yellows against the star-crusted horizon.

Charlie, Blake, and I sat around the fire pit in Charlie’s backyard, beers sweating on the arms of our chairs.

Blake and Charlie were arguing about something.

It had started with Molly Ringwald, I think, and drifted from there.

Their voices wove around the fire, flickering with the same heat and light.

A large tent with only screens for sides sat a dozen yards away, halfway between the fire pit and the house.

Charlie had put it up and we slept there on the nights I couldn’t be inside.

I still woke up in a panic, even with the songs of crickets and frogs around me, even with the sleeping weight of Charlie’s arm draped protectively over my side.

I ran out of the tent some nights and straight into the field.

Other nights I paced the perimeter of the yard with a flashlight and a knife.

If we were inside, I turned every light on in the house.

Sometimes I could go back to sleep, but even if I didn’t I still returned to the warm place next to Charlie, snuggled my head into his chest, and felt the rumble of his snore.

If he woke up, he’d pull me closer and kiss my hair, and then I relaxed enough to whisper things I couldn’t yet say in the daylight.

He always listened and, by not trying to make it better, he made it better.

Blake chucked another log on the fire, smirking when Charlie got up to arrange them in some predetermined formation.

Eventually she’d start throwing smaller sticks and handfuls of leaves.

It was part of their routine, and the comfort of knowing we would do this again next week—Blake coming here for our movie nights, popping a massive batch of popcorn, and all of us ending the night under the stars—was enough to put a lump in my throat.

I was home. This place. These people. This was where I belonged.

When the fire was ordered to Charlie’s satisfaction, he sat back down and his hand found mine. He slid our palms together and squeezed.

A half-empty bag of marshmallows sat at Blake’s feet.

We’d roasted some earlier, prompting a debate about the best way to bring a fresh take on s’mores to the bakery.

We’d settled on a bar and decided to experiment with a black cherry compote for a twist. That would be tomorrow, or next week.

I hadn’t gone back to the bakery full-time yet.

I worked two or three days a week and sometimes I needed to leave mid-shift, going to the backyard or farther, walking quickly through campus to the river.

I always came back and Blake was always waiting, pulling me in for a flour-coated bear hug, generally with a line of confused and impatient customers waiting to order.

Mom visited last week, staying at a hotel down the road from the bakery, visiting Charlie’s farm, and working side by side with Blake and me on a batch of frosted Hawkeye cookies. We messed up enough of them that Blake made us take a break and eat some of the failures with coffee on the back steps.

We watched the sunrise together, steam drifting from our mugs. She broke the silence long after the cookies were gone. “My therapist says I have to stop apologizing to you.”

“My therapist said it will be a while before you can.”

She huffed out a laugh and put an arm around me. When she spoke again, her voice was thick with unshed tears.

“This is what I wanted you to have.”

“I know.” I rested my head on her shoulder.

It was still so delicate, her bones like some exotic, fragile bird.

I knew better, though. I knew her shoulder could support all my weight and then some, and even if it broke, it would heal stronger than it had been before.

My mother wasn’t just any bird; she was a phoenix.

“I wanted this life, too. But it was missing one thing.”

Her head lowered to rest on mine, and we watched the sky light up with the fire of a new day until Blake yelled for help with the muffins.

I’d been sad when she went home, but not as much as I thought I’d be. She had her life, the life she’d fought for, and I had mine. We texted daily, and had started a group chat with Blake that was ninety percent links to recipes and drool emojis.

“What do you think?”

The bonfire came back into focus and I blinked, realizing Blake and Charlie were both staring at me. Charlie’s thumb rubbed back and forth on my hand, and his eyes were clouded in concern.

“Kate?”

The name was warm and rich on his tongue. It grounded me, brought me back to them. An old name for a new life. I still drifted away a lot, but it hadn’t been to a dark place this time.

I smiled at both of them. “I’m here. I’m good.”

The whale was dead. And I’d finally made it to shore.