Page 206 of The Fine Line
“Even with one leg,” Rhett whispers, and the kid giggles.
I watch the whole exchange, something soft blooming in my chest.
We settle around the kitchen table, eating Annie’s incredible soup and chatting about her and Blake’s love story and Blake and Rhett’s summer memories growing up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight pressing down on me—the stress, the tension, the mess we left back in Chicago—feels just a little bit lighter.
And I wonder, as I watch Rhett smile at his old friend and ruffle Jacks’ hair with easy affection, if maybe this is what healing is supposed to look like.
Later, when the sun has set and the Di Fazios have gone off to bed, I find him alone.
The house is hushed, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional groan of the old wood beams in the ceiling. I’m fresh from a hot shower, my hair damp, an oversized sweatshirt falling to mid-thigh. The warmth still clings to my skin as I step quietly into the living room.
Rhett is sitting on the couch, his leg propped up, the brace jutting awkwardly over a throw blanket. He’s staring out the wide glass windows at the frozen lake beyond—nothing but black night and silver moonlight reflected off the ice. His expression is distant. Empty in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You ready to go to bed?”
His eyes flicker toward me, then back to the window. He shakes his head. “Not just yet.”
I hesitate, then cross the room and lower myself onto the couch beside him. Not touching. Close, but not too close. Things between us still feel… fragile. The air between us charged and uncertain, like the wrong word could shatter the whole thing.
“Blake’s really nice,” I offer, voice quiet.
Rhett huffs a breath, the barest curve of a smile on his lips. “He’s alright.”
I glance at him sidelong. “Annie’s amazing too,” I add. “I can see why he waited his whole life for her.”
Something in his face shifts at that. His fingers drum restlessly against the seam of the couch cushion. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “A good woman can make a man strong enough to do just about anything…”
I swallow. The words settle heavy between us, carrying more weight than they seem to on the surface. For a long moment,neither of us says anything, just the pop of the fire filling the silence.
Then—at the same time—we both speak.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Caroline, I’m?—”
We stop. He laughs under his breath. I do too, but mine comes out shaky.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him, shifting to look at him properly.
His eyes meet mine, dark and heavy with something I can’t quite place. Regret maybe. Or exhaustion. “I should’ve told you,” he says softly. “About Lauren. About therapy. I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just… I’m not used to having anyone under the same roof who cares about my problems.”
Something inside me aches. I drop my gaze to where his fingers are resting on the couch. “That makes me sad.”
He breathes out slowly. “I’m not trying to make you sad, Cub.”
“You’re strong,” I say. “You’re stronger than you think.”
He shakes his head faintly. “I wasn’t always.”
I wait, watching him carefully, the way his eyes drift back toward the lake like he’s seeing something far older than tonight.
“Blake isn’t the only one I spent my summers with here,” he says eventually. His voice is quiet. Worn. “Holt was there too.”
I blink. “Brendan Holt?”
“Yeah. Same camp.” He shakes his head. “Different teams.”
My brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
