Page 92 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t speak.
I sit up a little, needing to look her in the eye for what comes next.
“There’s something else,” I say. “Something I’ve never told anyone.”
She nods once. Silent. Ready.
“The day my dad died…” I stop, my jaw clenching. My hands curl into fists before I force them open. “My dad and I had plans. He wasn’t supposed to go out that day. Stupid, right?”
She shakes her head, eyes already shimmering. “Not stupid.”
“But then your dad…” I swallow hard. “He radioed in that he needed my dad.”
She’s silent. Completely still.
“And my dad went,” I say, my voice flat now. “And I had a bad feeling. I had even asked to go out with them. But he had shrugged me off and said he didn’t need me.”
I see it hit her. Like a wave to the chest.
My voice cracks when I continue. “I know it wasn’t your dad’s fault. But part of me…part of me needed someone to blame.”
“And you blamed my dad,” she whispers.
“Yeah. I did. For a long time.”
Tears slip from the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. “I always wondered if you did.”
“I know it was just an accident.” I press my hand to her cheek. “I was angry and broken and drowning in it.”
“We didn’t know how to hold grief,” she says, her voice cracking.
I nod. “And I held it wrong. I held it until it poisoned everything.”
Her lip trembles. She leans into my palm like she’s been waiting for this moment to happen between us so we can finally get past it, something that was keeping us from being fully together. It’s gone now.
“I should’ve dealt with it sooner,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
She climbs into my lap and wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder.
I hold her. Tight. Like I’m making up for every second I didn’t before. And she cries. She cries for her dad. For mine. For Old Pete. For us. And I let her. Because for the first time, it feels safe to fall apart.
We sit like that until her tears slow. Until all that’s left is the warmth of our skin pressed together, the steady rise and fall of our breathing.
“I don’t want to carry all this sadness anymore,” I say.
“I know,” she whispers.
She leans in and kisses me softly and slowly and a little shakily, like we’re rewriting the past with our mouths.
Her hands cradle my face like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I kiss her back like I never want to leave again. Because I don’t. Becausethispain—the love, the mess of it—is real. And it's ours.
We curl back up under the quilt, tangled and quiet, her head on my chest and my heart steady for the first time in years.
“I love you,” I whisper into her hair.
She sighs against me, her body soft and warm in my arms. “I love you, too.”
Chapter 27
