Page 38 of The Promises We Broke
Could be. But nothing about Gage's return had felt like coincidence so far.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on anything except the possibility that Gage had bought our house. Our house. The place where we'd carved our initials in the old oak tree, where we'd planned our wedding when we were eleven and thought love was simple. Where we'd promised each other forever and meant it with our whole hearts.
If he'd really bought it, if he was planning to restore it... what did that mean? Was it about us, about some fantasy of reclaiming what we'd lost? Or was it just a practical decision by someone who needed a place to live and had enough money to buy what he wanted?
By evening, I was wound so tight with speculation and hope and fear that I could barely sit still. I found myself driving toward the ranch without consciously deciding to go there, pulled by a need to see him that was stronger than my professional boundaries.
Booker met me as I pulled up my car outside of his house, directing me to one of the guest cottages that Gage had moved to for some privacy. I found him on the cottage porch, a beer in his hand and his casted leg propped on a small table. He looked peaceful for the first time since he'd been back, like the privacy and space had allowed him to finally breathe.
"This is a surprise," he said as I climbed out of my car. "Everything okay?"
"I heard about the swimming hole house," I said without preamble, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. "Someone bought it."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could see something shift in his expression. Not guilt, exactly, but acknowledgment.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I did."
The simple confirmation hit me like a physical blow. I'd been hoping I was wrong, hoping it was just coincidence and speculation. But there it was. He'd bought our house. The place where we'd fallen in love, where we'd promised each other everything.
"Why?" The question came out smaller than I'd intended.
He set down his beer, his expression growing serious. "Because it needs someone who understands what it could be. Someone who remembers what it was supposed to represent."
"And what was it supposed to represent?"
"Hope," he said quietly. "Possibility. The idea that broken things could be made beautiful again if someone cared enough to do the work."
I stared at him, trying to read the meaning behind his words. Was he talking about the house, or was he talking about us?
"Gage..."
"I'm not asking for anything from you," he said quickly. "I'm not assuming that buying the house means anything beyond what it is. A place that needs restoration by someone who has the skills and the motivation to do it right."
But the careful way he was watching my face, the hope I could see lurking in his storm-gray eyes, told a different story.
"You bought our house," I said again, still trying to process the magnitude of what he'd done.
"I bought a house that's been sitting empty for years, waiting for someone to see its potential."
The distinction felt important, like he was giving me permission to interpret his actions however I needed to. Like he was offering hope without demanding I reciprocate it.
"Are you planning to live there?" I asked.
"Eventually. Once I can manage stairs and don't need daily medical supervision."
"That could be months."
"I have time."
I have time. The simple statement carried so much weight. Time to heal, time to build, time to figure out what kind of life he wanted to create in Willowbrook. Time to see if the girl he'd left behind might be willing to be part of it.
"I should go," I said, though my feet didn't seem to want to move.
"Billie," he called as I turned toward my car. "I meant what I said. I'm not asking for anything from you. I'm not assuming my being here changes anything between us. But I want you to know... coming home, seeing my family again, working with you... it's made me remember what it felt like to believe in possibility."
The vulnerability in his voice nearly undid me. This was the boy I'd once known, emerging from underneath years of guilt and self-punishment. Open, hopeful, willing to risk his heart even when he wasn't sure of the outcome.
"I'll see you Wednesday," I said instead of responding to the emotion in his voice.
