Page 9 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
The sound of a car pulling up yanks me out of my guilt spiral. It’s an old pickup, Rowan's.
She steps out before I can even stand, arms crossed over her chest, sunglasses keeping me from seeing her eyes, her stride purposeful. Rowan's always been the most no-nonsense of the sisters, direct, sharp, fiercely protective of Willa. And right now, she’s a woman on a mission.
“Rowan,” I nod, trying to muster a casual tone. She’s having none of it.
“You busy?” she asks, already walking straight up to me.
I have a feeling that even if I was busy, this conversation would be happening regardless.
“Just fixing things,” I answer, as if that explains anything. As if this sweat-soaked apology project counts for something.
She leans against the post I just fixed, eyes narrowed behind those shades. “You know you have a lot more to fix than this railing, right? You didn’t only hurt Willa when you left. We all missed you, Tate.”
Okay, so we’re just getting straight to it. These Maren sisters don’t mess around, especially Rowan, who is known for being the toughest of all of them. My throat tightens, and I grip the drill a little harder, but I say nothing. I know she’s here to let me have it, so I’ll take it. I deserve it.
She doesn’t wait for a response but rolls right on. “You hurt all of us, Tate. You left a crater, and it wasn’t just her picking up pieces.”
I nod slowly, eyes cast down. “I know, and I'm sorry.”
Her voice softens, not by much, but enough that I feel it like a squeeze around my ribs. “Willa…she’s strong. She won’t admitit, but when you left? It broke her.” She pauses, lips pressed together like she’s holding back more. “And when she broke, it broke all of us, too. And you’re an asshole for that, Tate.”
The air between us is heavy now, loaded with everything unsaid, and I swear it’s harder to breathe.
“I know I have a lot to fix,” I manage, voice low, thick.
She sighs, steps forward. “I won’t pretend I’m not mad at you. I am. Hell, I could throttle you right now.” She reaches out suddenly, surprising me, and pulls me into a fierce hug, tight and no-nonsense.
“But we missed you, Tate,” she whispers. “And I’m glad you’re back. Even if I still want to kill you a little.”
I freeze for a heartbeat before hugging her back. When she pulls away, there’s a shimmer in her gaze, steel and softness wrapped up together. Classic Rowan.
“Be good to her,” she says. “Earn her trust back. You better fix this.”
And just like that, she’s gone, strolling back to and climbing in her truck. The engine rumbles as she pulls out and turns down the road.
I stand there, feeling more feelings than I have in years. And I’m kicking myself for leaving and staying gone. When I left, I felt like I was an outlier. I didn’t have family here anymore. Just ghosts. And I told myself that I needed to go away.
By the time the sun slips lower on the horizon, I’ve got the railing solid, a lot sturdier than when I started. It’s barely a dent in all that I need to do, but it’s something.
The sweat rolls down my back as I put everything away, my muscles tight and tired in that good way, where the physical exhaustion almost makes you forget the exhaustion. Almost.
I stretch my back, wiping sweat from my temple with the edge of my wrist, and lean against the porch to admire my work. And then I feel it, that tingle at the back of my neck. Iknow before I even look up. There she is. Willa, standing at her upstairs window, half hidden behind sheer curtains, is watching me.
My heart lodges in my throat. She’s beautiful in the golden light, hair loose, face unreadable from this distance, but I swear her gaze is burning holes straight through me. I can’t help myself.
I grin. A slow, crooked, lazy grin, the kind that used to make her laugh and roll her eyes all at once. And just like that, she looks away. Pretends she wasn’t watching. But she was.
I stay rooted there for a second longer, heart pounding, grinning like an idiot at nothing now.
Then I turn back to my tools and finish tightening the last railing bolt, because this isn’t about rushing. Not this time. As twilight falls, I gather my tools and pause at the top step of the porch.
I sit on the steps for a while, elbows on my knees, watching dusk settle over the street. A neighbor bikes past and calls out with a grin, “About time you came home, Holloway!”
I laugh softly, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. Yeah. It was time.
As night falls, I close my eyes, leaning back against the porch post. The smell of her favorite candle drifts down from the open window above, a vanilla scent I haven’t smelled in years but know by heart.
God, I missed her. And I’m not leaving again. I left because I thought she deserved better than me.All I did was make her carry the pieces I shattered. Not this time. I open my eyes, looking up at her window once more.
