Page 79 of Stick Break
We count together, and on three, we lift her into the air. Her laughter floats up like a ribbon, wrapping around my ribs, tying the broken pieces of myself back together.
“Careful now,” Betsy calls from behind. “Don’t want to pull your arm out of the socket.”
Emma rolls her eyes, but there’s affection there. She loves her grandma fiercely. Just like I do.
I glance back at Betsy, walking at a slower pace. I’ve seen her hustle. She’s hanging back on purpose—to give us time alone with her granddaughter. Maybe she sees the loneliness in me. Maybe that’s why she pulled me close from the start and offered me something I didn’t even know I was desperate for.
A place. A family. A home.
And now, my heart aches with the weight of knowing I’ll have to walk away from it all. From her. From this. Because if Betsy ever found out who I really am, what the tabloids say I did, what the internet turned me into, she’d be crushed. And I couldn’t bear to be the reason for the disappointment in her eyes. Some goodbyes are quiet. Others are cruel.
As if on cue—mind reader that she is—Betsy points to a charming little cottage tucked just off the path. “The Conrad’s have their place up for sale,” she says casually, but there’s something there. Something she’s not saying…yet.
I stop walking and raise a hand to block the sun, squinting in the direction she’s pointing so I can get a better look at the cedar-sided beauty. Quiet. The kind of place where sunsets are sacred and s’mores are aplenty. A dozen brightly painted Adirondack chairs form a loose circle around a firepit, like they’re waiting for the next ghost story or singalong.
“Conrad’s?” I ask.
“They weren’t at the bonfire the other night. Their granddaughter just had a baby.” Betsy’s voice turns all warm and soft, and when I look over, she’s smiling at me, like she’s in on a secret that I know nothing about.
“They’re selling the place and moving closer to their grandkids in Texas,” she adds, her eyes practically twinkling. And then—there it is. That look. The one that means she’s got an idea I’m going to have to politely decline or die trying.
“It’s a perfect spot for newlyweds,” she says sweetly, nudging me with her elbow like I’m not already on emotional thin ice. Then she turns to Rip and narrows her eyes. “Or those about to be newlyweds.”
Rip throws his arms up. “What did I do now?”
I can’t help but laugh. “You haven’t made an honest woman out of me yet,” I tease, lifting a brow in his direction.
Betsy nods solemnly and huffs out, “Exactly.”
“Oh, Charly, Rip, please buy it,” Emma gasps, clapping her hands together like she’s just solved world peace. “Then we could see you every summer. We’ll have bonfires, and sing songs, and go to the festival. And Charley, I’ll make you s’mores every single night.” She presses her hands to her chest, her eyes full of sincerity. “I promise not to burn them this time.”
My gaze shifts to Rip, who’s now looking like he might either faint or fake a hamstring injury to escape. I feel you, buddy. We’ve officially crossed a line, and there’s no safe word in place.
“It’s lovely,” I manage, scrambling for something neutral to say. “Don’t you think it’s lovely, Rip?”
He drags a hand through his hair and offers a nervous half-smile. “Yeah. Real nice. Super lovely.”
“Well, that settles it,” Betsy declares. She grabs my hand and starts pulling me off the sandy path, her eyes locked on the Conrad’s’ place like it’s already ours.
“Wait, where are we going?” Please tell me we’re not going to the Conrad’s cottage.
“We’re going to the Conrad’s’ cottage,” she announces cheerfully.
“Oh God,” I whisper, my feet stumbling to keep up. My voice rises a full octave. “Surely, we can’t just…Betsy. Don’t we need an appointment or… legal permission or… literally anything?”
“Yay!” Emma squeals, sprinting ahead of us with the enthusiasm of a child who just scored a free hot dog at the local fair.
“Come on, Rip,” Betsy calls over her shoulder. “Stop dallying!”
I glance back and find Rip frozen mid-path, jaw unhinged, looking like he just watched his future flash before his eyes, complete with singalongs, matching sweaters, and…casserole.
That thought makes me grin. I shrug and give him the most expressive play along or perish look I can manage.
Because in this town, resistance is futile. And if you say no to Betsy, I’m pretty sure the entire zip code shuns you and your descendants for seven generations.
Rip lags behind, his hands in his pockets, kicking at the dirt path as he slowly follows us. Meanwhile Betsy marches me up the stone walkway like a woman on a mission—specifically, a matchmaking, real-estate-closing mission.
Just as we reach the porch of the cedar cottage, the front door creaks open and an elderly woman steps out, squinting into the sun. “Betsy,” she calls out, arms wide.
