Page 39 of Shattered Promise

Eloise: Yeah, come for the vibes!

Margot: And the food because your sister makes some killer desserts

Francesca: We can host it at the bookstore afterhours! I’ll ask Graham to clear some space for us in the front.

Cora: Nothing brings me more joy than seeing BOTH of my brothers be absolutely whipped by their women

Eloise: Whips, you say?

Francesca: I don’t think Graham would be into whips. Just saying.

Cora: Ross Gellar la-la-la-la gif

Francesca: Now a little rope play maybe . . .

Margot: This is great

Eloise: Okay, Frankie, we see you

The knot of dark emotion loosens just enough to let in something warm. My mouth curves into a smirk, and the first thread of excitement takes root inside of me. Yeah, this is the kind of camaraderie I’ve been craving.

Me: Is this how all the book club meetings are in person?

Margot: Absolutely

Francesca: Kind of

Eloise: Yes but with food

Cora: And drinks

Me: Looking forward to it.

And I am.

15

ABBY

The restof the morning unspools in gentle, unhurried threads. Theo is still napping after an hour, and I spend most of that time on the porch, idly watching swallows dart over the grass while texts from the group chat burble in and make me laugh out loud more than once. At some point, I wander into Mason’s kitchen and find a pack of sticky notes and a pen; I scribbleTheo asleep in crib! Nap Strike: Averted –Aand stick it to the fridge, because it feels cheeky and fun.

I rinse out my glass, set it in the sink, then pause. There are a few other dishes there—a bottle, two mugs, some breakfast plates. I roll up my sleeves and start washing them, the rhythmic motion oddly soothing. The water is warm, the soap citrus-bright. I stack everything to dry on a towel and wipe down the counter, the hum of the house settling around me like a comfortable old song.

On a whim, I duck back into Theo’s room and grab the baby monitor off his dresser, closing the door softly behind me. It lights up immediately, the feed clean and clear.

He’s still out. Both arms high around his ears, mouth open in sleep.

I clutch the monitor to my chest and tiptoe back down the hall, resisting the urge to look behind the other three closed doors.

Instead, I follow the sound of machinery out the front door and into the heat.

The barn is open—big bay doors rolled back, sunlight pouring in across the concrete floor. A Mustang is up on jacks, deep blue paint gleaming under the strip lights overhead. Tools line one wall in neat rows. There’s a workbench, a battered fridge, and in the corner, an entire baby-proofed area for Theo.

There’s a pack-n-play, a pile of board books, a basket of toys, even a foam mat with puzzle-piece edges. The sight makes me laugh under my breath. Of course Mason would turn a corner of his garage into a kid zone. This is the same man who once built an entire zipline with Beau when they were in middle school after seeing exactly one video tutorial.

He’s under the hood of the Mustang, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease streaked across one forearm.

I watch him for a minute, the way his movements are precise but unhurried. He leans in, bracing a wide palm against the frame, a tendon flexing under the skin, and squints at whatever’s inside. Every once in a while he mutters something under his breath, a low running dialogue with himself, and there’s a kind of comfort in the ordinariness of it.

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