Page 62 of Shattered Promise

Then her breath shudders out of her, too fast. Her hand shakes as she puts her phone down. The subject lines are still visible—calendar invites, flagged memos, subject headers in all caps.

She turns her face away like she can’t look at it anymore.

And now I see it.

The too-shallow breathing. The color draining from her face. Her shoulders drawn high, rigid as steel.

“Hey.” I move around the island, slow and steady. “Abby.”

She won’t look at me.

“I set a delay on my notifications,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “So I wouldn’t get distracted. I must’ve scheduled it to expire today.”

I reach out and cover her hand where it’s clenched on the counter.

“Okay,” I say, quietly. “But your hands are shaking.”

She yanks back like I burned her. “Sorry.” She pushes her wild hair behind her ears, then scrubs both hands down her face. “I’m fine, I just—” Her voice cracks. I can see her fighting to reel it in, to shore up her walls.

Fuck, I didn’t realize just how much she’d let them relax until now.

And I’m a fucking idiot for forgetting how she showed up here almost two weeks ago. How she pulled a disappearing act from her whole goddamn life.

For a minute, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the rattle of pasta water trying to boil on the stove.

“It’s been nice, pretending it didn’t exist.” Her eyes keep scanning the screen, but she’s not reading anymore. Just absorbing the sheer volume of notifications. She presses a hand to her chest and whispers, “I can’t breathe in here. I need some air.”

“Alright.” I reach for her hand again, slower this time, and hold it gently. I wait until she looks at me. “Come on,” I murmur, already guiding her toward the front door with a hand at the small of her back. I flick the porch light on as we step out into the dusk. The air’s cooler now, tinged with lake water and the last gold of evening sun.

She slows when she sees the rocking chair in the corner. I gesture to it, but she doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, eyes unfocused.

I nudge her gently. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

She hesitates, but something in my voice must work, because she finally lowers herself into the chair, curling up small, knees drawn to her chest. Her gaze stays fixed on the horizon, where the lake’s gone almost black, the sky spooling out purple and bruised above the trees.

Inside, I scoop Theo up from the rug, where he’s busy smashing blocks into a tower, and grab the sweating glass of iced tea lemonade I left on the counter. The door clicks behind me when I come back out, Theo cradled on my hip, the glass already beading in my hand. Abby’s still there, rocking gently, the chair squeaking a little under her weight. Her face is turned away, but her shoulders look less rigid now, her whole body loose in a way I haven’t seen before.

I set the glass on the side table, then lower Theo onto her lap. He goes without protest, burrowing into her arms and tucking his forehead under her chin.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs quietly, wrapping both arms around his little frame and holding on like she might float off without the anchor.

I stand beside them, one hand braced on the porch railing. “Take a drink.” I nod toward my glass next to her.

She reaches for the glass. Her hand’s steadier now, but she still blinks hard before taking a sip. When she sets it back down, the ice rattles against the sides—loud in the hush of the porch. “Thanks,” she whispers, voice frayed at the edges.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She rocks Theo with a gentle rhythm, her cheek pressed to the top of his head as she holds my gaze.

“That’s alright, Trouble.” I huff a quiet laugh and nod a few times. I settle onto the porch next to her, my back against the railing. “I come out here when everything’s too loud,” I say quietly. “When the shop gets too busy. When I feel like I’m failing my boy. When I can’t remember if I’ve done anything right that day.”

“You’re never failing him, Mason.Never.” Her voice is quiet but firm, any trace of lingering panic momentarily gone.

I drag my hand over my jaw, trying to let her words sink through the tough layers of self-doubt.

“I don’t always fix it. Sometimes I just sit here and watch the trees move. Remind myself the world’s still turning. Even if I’m not keeping up.”

Abby lets out a breath and leans her head back.

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