Page 33

CHAPTER 33

CASPIAN

“I can’t believe you’re eating that soup at midnight,” I say, watching Marcus demolish the last of Nate’s soup on my couch. “And I really can’t believe you’re actually defending him now. You were ready to castrate him the moment you stepped off the plane in Burlington.”

“Well, if Nate’s mom’s pastries weren’t so damn good, I wouldn’t have been too full to eat this earlier,” Marcus says between spoonfuls. “And besides, that was before I met him and saw how he looks at you.”

I think about how Nate showed up at the festival tonight, his eyes full of regret and longing. How my heart skipped when I saw him standing there, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain in a way I’ve never seen him before. Despite everything, seeing him made my whole body feel lighter, like coming up for air after being underwater too long.

Marcus licks his spoon clean. “And before he gave us this soup that tastes like grandmothers and blankets.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, but I can’t help the warmth spreading through my chest at his words.

“I’m right,” Marcus insists. “And you know it.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

But lying in bed, I can’t stop thinking about Nate. About how safe I feel in his arms. About our first kiss in the snow, the way he’d hold my hand while we walked through town, how he’d show up at the coffee shop just to see me smile.

Should I let one mistake erase all of that?

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need to talk to Tate and Tristan. Get answers to the questions that have haunted me since I found out.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and dial Tate’s number.

“Hello?” His voice is hesitant, hopeful.

“I’ll hear you out,” I say quickly, my heart racing as I pace my bedroom. “But on my terms. Come to the coffee shop tomorrow morning, an hour before opening. Just you and Tristan.”

There’s a pause. “We’ll be there.”

I spend the next few hours tossing and turning in bed, my mind too full of questions to sleep. Around three a.m., I give up and head to the kitchen, careful not to wake Marcus, who’s sprawled across my couch. I’m thankful to past Caspian for buying one that turns into a bed, but I really need to turn that spare room into an actual bedroom.

The familiar routine of measuring flour and sugar helps calm my racing thoughts. By the time the sun starts peeking through my kitchen window, I’ve made three batches of cookies, two loaves of bread, and enough muffins to feed half of Maplewood. Stress baking has always been my go-to coping mechanism.

A few hours later, my hands shake as I juggle boxes of stress-baked goods from my car. True to their word, the twins are waiting outside Special Blend. Alone. It’s still strange seeing two people who look so much alike, knowing I share DNA with them.

“Let us help you with those,” Tate offers, both brothers already moving forward.

“Thanks,” I manage, handing over some of the boxes. It’s strange having them here, being helpful, looking so alike yet distinct in their movements.

“You can drop them on the counter,” I say, going around the counter and placing the box I’m holding by the coffee maker. “Coffee?”

They both nod when I ask if they want their usual—an Americano for Tate and a vanilla latte for Tristan. I busy myself with the familiar routine of brewing, grateful for something to do with my hands.

“How are Ben and Indy? And the kids?” I ask, trying to delay the inevitable conversation.

“We left before the kids were up,” Tristan says. “Ben and Indy were already on their third cup of coffee. They’re probably as nervous about this meeting as we are.”

“We’re sorry,” Tate says as I set their cups down. “For ambushing you like that. We tried to find the right way to tell you, but we kept chickening out and letting Ben and Indy take over.” He looks down at his coffee. “We’re…kind of out of practice at this brother business.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting down with my own coffee.

The twins exchange a look that seems to hold years of shared pain. “When our parents divorced,” Tate explains, “they couldn’t agree on custody arrangements. So they split us up. Tristan stayed with Mom, and I moved to Boston with Dad.”

My mouth drops open. “They separated twins? Who does that?”

“Our parents,” Tristan says grimly. “We’d see each other during school vacations, alternating between Mom and Dad, but…”

“We drifted apart,” Tate continues. “Became almost like strangers. Tristan was the one who reached out when he got engaged. I was…different then. Bitter. Career-focused. I’d distanced myself from Dad, but looking back, I was becoming just like him without realizing it.” His face softens. “Meeting Indy, reconnecting with Tristan—it changed everything. Showed me what really matters in life.”

I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, trying to process this. “How can you be sure I’m your brother? It could be a coincidence. Maybe Mom and your dad were just in a relationship, and he gave her money because he liked her, or…”

“We didn’t have a chance to tell you everything that day at the pub,” Tate interrupts gently. “When we were going through Dad’s things, we also found a letter. It was addressed to Elena, but it had been returned unopened. She must have moved and not left a forwarding address.”

Tristan nods. “Along with the letter, there was a note where he mentioned Elena specifically. He wrote that he made a terrible mistake letting her go. That he was selfish and heartless, that he panicked when she told him she was pregnant.”

My heart starts pounding. “What else?”

“In that note, he admitted to giving her money to…” Tate’s voice catches. “To terminate the pregnancy. But she ran instead. Never contacted him again. The return label on the letter showed she’d left Connecticut, where she lived at the time, but he never found out where she went. He thought she might have gone through with it until years later, when he found out she hadn’t. That’s when he started sending money again.”

“We found a second will with the letter and the note,” Tristan adds. “He wrote that he hoped it was enough. He didn’t apologize for his behavior or his mistakes. Just said he tried to make it right.”

Tears start rolling down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying. “Did you…? Did you have a relationship with him?”

“Not really,” Tate says softly. “He was…distant. Cold. The kind of father who thought providing financially was enough. Even when I lived with him in Boston, I couldn’t call him an exemplary father. Tristan had it even harder. Dad would cancel their visits last minute, saying work came up.” He pauses, sharing a look with his twin. “But we’d really like to have a relationship with you if you’re willing. We know this is a lot to take in.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I just… I didn’t think I had any family left after Mom died. And now, I suddenly have brothers.”

“We can do a DNA test if you want,” Tristan offers. “But honestly? We don’t need one. We can feel it. You’re our brother.”

I look between them, searching their faces. They have the same dark eyes as me, the same slightly tanned skin tone. But it’s more than that. It’s the way Tate fidgets with his coffee cup just like I do, the way Tristan’s smile turns up more on one side, just like mine.

“My whole life,” I say, my voice breaking, “it was just Mom and me. And I loved that, I did. But sometimes…” I trail off, remembering lonely parent-teacher conferences, empty chairs at my high school graduation. “Sometimes I’d wonder what it would be like to have siblings.”

“Well,” Tate says with a gentle smile, “now you’ve got two very protective older brothers. Even if we are only older by a few years.”

“And nieces and nephews who are going to adore their Uncle Caspian,” Tristan adds. “Bailey already adores you. He hasn’t put down the book he got here the other day.”

Something in my chest breaks open at their words, at the easy way they include me in their family, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m standing and pulling them both into a hug. They wrap their arms around me immediately, and for the first time since Mom died, I don’t feel quite so alone.

“So,” Tate says when we finally break apart, all of us wiping our eyes. “Tell us about yourself? We want to know everything.”

I laugh wetly. “Where do I even start?”

“Anywhere,” Tristan says. “We’ve got time.”

As I begin telling them about growing up with Mom in Phoenix, about my dreams for Special Blend, about moving to Maplewood, something shifts inside me. Like a piece of a puzzle I didn’t even know was missing has finally clicked into place.

We talk until it’s past the time to open the shop. As they get ready to leave, Tristan clears his throat.

“We’re in Maplewood for a few more days,” he says. “We’d love to have dinner together as a family. Maybe Nate could join us too?”

I fidget with my apron. “Things between Nate and me are…complicated right now.”

“About that,” Tate says, running a hand through his hair. “We need to tell you something. We kind of took advantage of Nate’s connection to you to set up our meeting. He was very specific about not wanting to hurt you. Made us promise we’d handle it right.”

“Which we clearly didn’t,” Tristan adds. “So if anyone deserves your anger, it’s us, not him.”

I think about Nate, about how devastated he looked at the festival, how he’s been trying to make things right. “I’d love to have dinner with you all,” I say softly. “And…maybe I’ll talk to Nate about joining us.”

Both brothers hug me again.

“Thank you for giving us a chance,” Tate says.

“Thank you for finding me,” I reply.

After they leave, I stand in my empty coffee shop, feeling both exhausted and strangely light. I have brothers. I have family. And maybe, just maybe, I still have Nate too.