Page 81 of Stick Break
It’s the kind of place that makes you feel something the second you walk through the door, like it’s already waiting to make room in your life. Like it’s already whispering, you belong here.
Marta gently leads us through the cottage, her hand light on my arm. We pass by the bedrooms. Pristine now, the beds neatly made, the quilts too crisp, too still. But I can feel the echoes. The laughter. The tiny feet pounding down the hall. The squeak of a closet door opened during hide and seek. These rooms were once full of life, chaos and happiness.
And now… they’re just waiting for someone to mess them up again.
I glance at Rip beside me. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we stepped inside. Emma is skipping ahead, singing a song she appears to be making up on the spot. It involves frogs, popsicles, and something about a dog with a purple bowtie.
She opens cupboards like a realtor-in-training, presenting each empty shelf with flair.
“That one always used to have Pop-Tarts in it,” Marta declares with a laugh.
I smile despite myself. Sometimes even grown men keep Pop-Tarts in their cupboards. Especially the ones with strawberry frosting—which I think is an atrocity—and secretly eat them cold.
Everything about this place feels right.
Which is exactly why it’s terrifying.
Then Marta slows, narrowing her eyes at me like she’s trying to adjust a blurry memory. “You look so familiar,” she says.
My pulse jumps. Before I can respond, Betsy swoops in with the speed and precision of a woman who doesn’t wear kaftans and orthopedics. “She’s been here with Paisley before,” she says quickly, her tone breezy but a little too eager.
My heart thuds.
Does she know? No, she can’t. If she did, she wouldn’t treat me like one of her own. This woman has old fashioned values, and would turn her back on me if she knew. Right? I quietly slip my hat back on, tugging the brim low.
Marta tilts her head. “Yes, maybe that’s it,” she says slowly, though her eyes are still searching my face. “Or maybe it’s because you remind me of that singer who won The Spotlight. What was her name…” She snaps her fingers. “Indie Rhodes.”
My stomach somersaults.
“She has long dark hair, though,” Marta continues. “And she wears too much makeup.” Marta wags a playful finger. “Still, she’s a pretty little thing. You’re a pretty little thing too.”
I force a small laugh. “Thank you. That’s sweet of you.”
Beside me, Rip makes a sound, a low, gruff throat-clear that almost sounds like a warning or a question or maybe both. I glance at him, trying to read the tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his jaw.
How much does he know?
“Where would we find the listing for the cottage?” he asks casually, but his hand tightens around mine.
Marta’s eyes light up. “Give me two seconds.” Her voice lifts with excitement as she shifts her focus from me to him.
“Yes, of course. The place is perfect,” Rip says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze that somehow reverberates straight through my ribs. “Don’t you agree?”
I glance at him, searching his face, but I can’t read him this time. My brain races. What does he want me to say? That I love it? That I want this life with him? That I’m ready to dive headfirst into a future neither of us has dared to talk about, to…define?
“It is,” I say slowly, “But we’re a long way off from thinking about a cottage, Rip. We’ve got… a wedding to plan. And a lot on our plates.” My voice sounds more rational than I feel.
Go me.
Rip doesn’t miss a beat. “Right. And I still need to upgrade from my small two-bedroom apartment.”
He says it smoothly, effortlessly, like it’s always been part of the plan. For a moment, I wonder if it really was. His ability to think on his feet is impressive—and slightly terrifying. It reminds me just how practiced he is at this whole pretending game.
But then I catch something in his eyes. Something quiet. Steady. Real. He’s not faking this. At least… not all of it. Had he been planning to upgrade all along? Why? Sure he asked me to go back with him, until I figured life out, but my temporary presence doesn’t require a move. That’s when I remember what he said about his ex…she liked Tiffany.
Is he upgrading for her…are they about to be ‘on again’.
“Yeah,” he adds, more softly now his eyes going to some distance spot, like he’s recalling sweet memories—before he met me. “We’ll have to start house hunting soon.”
