Page 104 of Shattered Promise

I nod. “Yeah. I did.” This time the words are steadier, almost a dare. The absence of apology in my voice is a new and unfamiliar animal.

She doesn’t speak, just presses a napkin to her mouth and stares at the center of the table like she might find some better version of the evening hiding in the casserole dish.

Next to me, Francesca’s hand slides under the table and squeezes my knee. I almost jump. Her palm is dry and warm, her grip silent and strong. I want to thank her but I can’t trust my voice.

Dad’s the first to recover. “Well, hell, Abby. That’s . . . I mean, that’s big news.” His voice is soft, not unkind. His eyes dart to Mom, then back to me. “What are you going to do now?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, the air shuddering in my chest. “I don’t know yet, but I’m figuring it out.” I steal a glance at Mason, whose mouth is tipped up at the corner, eyes bright and unguarded. The approval in his gaze is so loud I almost miss what Mom says next.

“That’s . . . I just—” She fumbles with her napkin, twisting it between her hands. “What about money? And Seattle? Where are you going to live?”

“I’m fine. And I’ll figure it out, okay? And for now, I’m in Avalon Falls.” The truth is, I’ve let Graham handle my investment portfolio for a decade. Every bond Nana Jo gave me for birthdays and holidays was cashed in and rolled into whatever program Graham recommended.

And my brother is a genius when it comes to that stuff. So, I’ve got enough money to float me for a long time. Not that I feel the need to tell Mom that.

Mom’s mouth parts as her gaze bounces around the table before landing on me. “I just don’t understand. When did you do this? Why wouldn’t you talk to me about this before? Is it because you’re coming home too often? Maybe there’s still time, you can call your boss, say it was a mistake.”

The words don’t even have time to settle before I realize everyone is staring at me. The casserole dish, motionless in the center of the table, reflects my own dumbstruck face back at me in its glass lid.

I look at my hands, steady on the table, so white they glow against the wood. “I don’t want to call my boss,” I say. “I don’t want my job back.” The honesty of it is a strange, foreign taste in my mouth. “I haven’t wanted it for a long time.”

The silence at the table is long enough that Vivie, who never notices tension, pipes up, “Why not? You were really good at it.” Her face is pinched with confusion, and for a split second I’m six years old again, unable to explain to anyone why I hated ballet despite being the fairy in my recital.

“I was,” I say, and the words land with a funny, hollow pride. “But being good at something and loving it aren’t always the same.”

Dad gives a slow nod, a glimmer of something like understanding passing through his expression. “Amen to that. Never was good at my job, but I did it for thirty-five years.” He laughs—a real, short bark of it—and shakes his head. “Sometimes the heart just wants what it wants.”

I nod, and my eyes sting, but it feels nice. Like the air is moving again.

Mom makes a noise. Not a word, not quite a sigh. Just a note of confusion that catches behind her teeth and won’t let go. She looks at Dad, then Beau and Graham, then at Cora, and finally back at me.

“I just don’t understand, Abby.” The wet shimmer in her gaze is not anger but something closer to grief. For a second, her fingers flutter at her collarbone—she always does that when she’s about to cry but won’t let herself. Then the hand falls to the table. Her knuckles are white but her voice, when it comes, is soft and bewildered. “I just don’t see what’s so awful about being good at something,” she says. “About building something for yourself. You had a future in that world, Abby.”

The words are meant to be gentle, but there’s that thin blade of disappointment in them, honed over years of expectation.

I nod a few times and push back my chair to stand. “If you’ll excuse me.” I walk around the table and kiss Theo’s head. He reaches for me, and I scoop him up, using him as a lifeline.

MASON

She’s not even gone thirty seconds, but I feel it—her absence like a snapped cord in the center of the table. I’m halfway out of my chair before I even think about it.

Then I clock Beau watching me from across the table. Not suspicious, not smug. Just a strange knowing in his gaze. Like he’s been waiting for this. Like he's already halfway to the truth.

I force myself back down into my seat. Rub a hand over my jaw, slow and tight, and try to pretend like I’m not thinking about chasing after her. Like my skin isn’t humming with the urge to get up and find her, to see if she’s okay.

Lucas, bless him, tries to fill the silence. Says something benign—weather or travel or one of those awkward dad segues that doesn’t require much. A few people nod along. Cora reaches for another dish. Francesca offers Vivie the sweet potatoes.

Then Beau clears his throat and leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “So, Mase.”

I glance up at my best friend, wondering if this is the day we end our friendship.

He’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that comes with a countdown clock. “Tell us about your mystery girl.”

The room stills.

Hazel perks up immediately, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. “You’re seeing someone, honey?” Her voice is light, hopeful—but there’s an edge to it. Like she’s trying to measure the impact before the words have even landed. “That’s good. You know, you’re always welcome to bring her over for Sunday dinner sometime.”

Suddenly the collar of my shirt feels too tight.

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