Page 47 of Shattered Promise

“I’m surprised you remember that,” I murmur, surprise sparking underneath my skin like popping candy.

“I remember everything.”

The confession hangs there, suspended between us, as the landscape blurs by—barns and sun-drenched pasture and green so bright it makes you squint. I glance at Mason, trying to gauge if he’s screwing with me, but the set of his mouth is too sincere. He drums the steering wheel, one finger at a time, like maybe he has more to say but he’s not sure how to start.

The road unspools in front of us, a two-lane ribbon through drowsy pines and strip-mall outposts that seem to vanish assoon as they appear. Theo’s soft, even breathing is the only thing that marks time, each sigh from the backseat landing like a feather between us. I keep waiting for Mason to say something else—to explain why he showed up at my door, why he claims to remember everything but forgotthatday—but he just drums along with the radio.

The truck feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too full of things unsaid.

I know I’m reading into it, but there’s a tiny, hopeful, naive piece of me that wishes he would make this big grand declaration. I know it’s stupid though. I don’t evenlivehere—but you could, my intrusive thought buts in.

I clear my throat and look out the window. “So tell me about Chestnut Hollow. How did you find it?” Anything to get these swirling, silly thoughts out of my brain.

“It’s called Fyr Bal. I guess they’re celebrating a milestone year, and it’s a festival for the town’s Scandinavian heritage. Mom and Cal went last year, and I don’t think Cal was nearly as impressed as our mom was, but they both had fun. Mom walked away with some artisan crafts and a tomato plant she accidentally killed a month later. But Cal said the food was good. Apparently, the kettle corn changed his life.”

I laugh softly. “High praise.”

We lapse into a more comfortable rhythm then—swapping light stories, taking turns pointing out odd billboards and ridiculous street names. At one point, we pass a barn painted in camouflage shades and both of us make a surprised noise at the same time. It makes Mason grin. Like we’re in sync, like this isn’t the first day we’ve spent in a truck together. And maybe it won’t be the last.

When we hit the halfway point, I reach back and adjust Theo’s sunshade so it blocks the light from his face. Masonglances at me again, and his voice is low when he says, “You’re good with him.”

“It’s all him.” I say simply. “He’s easy to love.”

“Yeah.” There’s something quiet in the way he says it. Something I almost miss. “He is.”

He doesn’t add anything else. But his hand slides just a little closer to mine on the console. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel it.

Like we’re both holding our breath.

Like it’s only a matter of time.

19

ABBY

We parkon the edge of a grassy field that’s been roped off for temporary parking. It’s uneven and full of pickup trucks and dusty minivans. My dress flutters against my legs as I climb out of the cab, sunglasses sliding into place.

The Fyr Bal festival is a fever dream in the best way—Scandinavian flags snapping from every lamppost, kids with painted cheeks shrieking as they race barefoot across sun-warmed grass, and the air thick with kettle corn and the charcoal curl of grilled meat. The polka from the park’s main stage bleeds into a dozen overlapping conversations, the offbeat wheeze of an accordion chasing us down the street. Booths spill across shut-down Main Street like a block party that got out of hand and never quite recovered.

“Want me to get Theo?” I ask, moving toward the back door.

“I can grab him after I get the stroller out,” Mason says, stepping around the back.

I pause, cup in hand. “I don't mind.”

"Alright." He nods once, already opening the truck bed.

I get Theo out of his car seat quickly and watch Mason. He snaps the stroller open one-handed, like he’s done it a hundredtimes. Which—of course—he has. There’s something about the efficiency of it, the strength behind it, the way his bicep flexes under the cuff of his rolled sleeve, that has no business being as hot as it is. I shift Theo to my hip and try not to think too hard about the fact that I’m staring.

Mason glances up as he finishes locking the stroller wheels, mouth tilting in a half-smile like he caught me watching. I put Theo into the stroller seat and buckle him in.

“Hat, buddy,” Mason murmurs, fitting his floppy dinosaur bucket hat over Theo’s soft hair.

Theo makes a face like he might complain, then grins like the world’s his and we’re just living in it.

Mason looks at me. “Ready, Trouble?”

Just for a second, the world hushes. The music, the laughter, the fluttering flags—everything drops out. He’s half in shadow, sun catching on his jaw, and that smile—quiet and familiar, completely unfair—unfolds like it’s been waiting just for me.

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