Page 40 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I swallow. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like maybe I didn’t let myself want it because I was afraid of losing more than what I already had. Like my dad or…you. Again.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I get that.”
I glance at him. “You do?”
He nods. “More than you know.”
The storm picks up again, wind howling against the windows. But inside, it’s warm, safe, and steady.
I tuck my legs beneath me and rest my head against the couch cushions. “I'm glad you're back.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then he leans back beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “Me too.”
And I believe him and the quiet possibility that maybe he’s not going anywhere this time.
We sit there until the fire burns low, the storm slowly giving way to silence.
And in the soft glow of candlelight, with Cobweb curled between us and the world tucked outside, I let myself believe at least for tonight at least that I don’t have to protect myself from this.
That maybe this is the beginning of something new and real this time.
The fire crackles, low and golden, and the wind howls against the windows like some old ghost is trying to get in.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the quiet feels like its own kind of truth.
Then, finally, he exhales, slow and heavy. “She’s selling everything,” he says, his voice low and rough.
I glance over. “Your mom?”
He nods, staring into the fire like it might offer some kind of answer he hasn’t been able to find on his own. “The house. The boat. All of it.”
“Oh.” My chest tightens. “Tate, I’m so?—”
“She told me over the phone like she was giving me a weather report.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fingers dragging through his hair, jaw tight. “She didn’t even ask if I wanted it. Just said she was calling the realtor.”
There’s a long beat where the only sound is the storm and Cobweb’s soft purring.
I reach out instinctively, resting a hand on his forearm.His eyes flick to mine, surprised, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I mean it in more ways than one.
He lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “It’s not like I wanted to live there again. Not really. But still…”
“That was your home.”
“Yeah.” His voice goes quiet. “And despite all the pain of losing my dad, there were still some good memories. My mom used to hang lights on the porch in the fall, even if she didn’t feel like celebrating. She hated most holidays. I carved my first pumpkin on those steps. So many memories happened there. Good and bad, I guess.”
“I just thought…” he continues, the smile fading again, “maybe someday I’d go back and fix it up. Make it mine. Maybe eventually use the boat again, not for fishing, but something different. Tours. Harbor trips. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “But I guess that was just some stupid idea I had in my back pocket.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say gently. “She just took it all away without finding out what you wanted. Typical April.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, quietly says, “I feel like I’m standing on the shore watching every last piece of thelife I thought I had drift away. And I don’t know if I should chase after it or just…let it go.”
The rawness in his voice punches something soft in my chest.
“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” I say. “You’ve been carrying so much.”
“Feels like I’ve been carrying it forever.”
