Page 39 of The Promises We Broke
As I drove back toward town, I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said. About possibility, about believing in things that might never happen but were beautiful enough to hope for anyway.
About the house we'd once dreamed of sharing, and the man who'd cared enough to save it.
Chapter 13
Gage
The keys to the swimming hole house felt heavier than they should have in my palm as Trace helped me out of his truck. Three days since my conversation with Jasper, and I still couldn't quite believe the inheritance was real, that I actually had the means to buy this place and make it mine.
"You sure about this?" Trace asked, eyeing the overgrown path that led to the front door. "It's going to be rough terrain with the crutches."
"I need to see it," I said, adjusting my grip on the crutches. "Need to know what I'm getting myself into."
The house looked smaller than I remembered, but maybe that was just perspective. Eleven years of living in temporary spaces had changed my understanding of what constituted home. But the bones were still good, the wraparound porch still graceful despite the peeling paint and loose boards. The view of the swimming hole through the trees was exactly as I remembered it.
Perfect.
Trace helped me navigate the front steps, steadying me when my crutch caught on a loose board. Inside, the house was a time capsule of interrupted renovations and abandoned dreams. Three different families had started projects here over the years, each leaving their mark before giving up and moving on.
But underneath the chaos, I could see what it could become. Original hardwood floors beneath layers of mismatched linoleum. Crown molding hidden under decades of paint. A stone fireplace that just needed cleaning to reveal its natural beauty.
"It's going to need a lot of work," Trace said, but there was something in his voice that sounded almost like admiration.
"That's the point."
We spent an hour walking through the rooms, Trace helping me navigate stairs and uneven floors while I catalogued everything that needed attention. The kitchen was a disaster from the 1960s, the bathroom hadn't been updated since someone had moved it indoors, and there was evidence of water damage in two upstairs bedrooms.
It was perfect.
"I can see the potential," Trace said as we made our way back to the main floor. "But Gage, this is going to be months of work. Maybe a year or more."
"I have time."
Trace's phone buzzed with a text from Delaney, and his expression immediately shifted to concern so quickly that I couldn't stop myself from reading it over his shoulder.
Barrett's being fussy and I'm exhausted. Could you come help? Sorry to interrupt.
"Go," I said immediately. "She needs you."
"I can drop you off at the cottage first..."
"Actually, I think I want to stay here for a while. Look around some more. Xander can pick me up when he gets back from the clinic."
Trace hesitated, clearly torn between helping his wife and leaving me alone in a house that wasn't exactly handicap accessible.
"I'll be fine," I assured him. "Just sitting on the porch, maybe making some notes about what needs to be done first."
"Promise me you won't try to do anything physical. No lifting, no climbing, no testing the structural integrity of anything."
"Promise."
After Trace left, it was actually strange to find myself alone in the house Billie and I had dreamed about, even knowing that I'd finally bought it. The silence was profound, broken only by the sound of wind through the trees and the distant splash of water against the swimming hole's shore.
I'd been lying to Trace about just sitting on the porch. There was something in the main living room that had been bothering me since we'd first walked through. A modern addition that someone had tacked onto the original stone fireplace, cheap paneling that partially covered the beautiful stonework and destroyed the room's natural proportions.
It would only take five minutes to pull down. Maybe less. And I'd already seen a crowbar in a previous owner's abandoned toolbox. Before I could think better of it, I was attacking the paneling with the kind of focused intensity I'd been missing for weeks. Physical work that required all my attention, that drowned out the constant noise in my head about forgiveness and family and second chances. Even the gradually building ache in my body was familiar enough that I found a sick sense of peace in it.
The paneling came away easily, revealing the stonework beneath in all its natural beauty. But I didn't stop there. Ikept pulling, kept tearing away everything that didn't belong, that had been added without respect for the house's original character.
