Page 86 of Quietly Falling
So much more.
I pushed and she pushed right back—didn’t shy away when I tried to put distance between us.
No, my girl had doubled down until I’d surrendered to her fully and completely.
My girl.
She fought for me and maybe that was the difference. I’d been a case file my whole life, but she didn’t see any of that. She just sawme.
Right now, I’d like to stillseeher naked.
But it’ll have to wait.
It takes another twenty minutes before she’s stepping into her boots and following me out into the sunshine. Birds chirp and trees sway as Birdie and Moose trot along the path ahead of us.
It’s beautiful.
Peaceful.
“Tell me about meeting Mason,” she says, surprising me as she breaks the silence, her fingers threading with mine as we walk.
“He was placed in the same home I was when he was seven and I was nine. As far as I remember, my life had been a happy one before I lost my parents, but Mason’s life wasn’t like that. We latched on to each other right from the start. He’s my brother and my best friend, and after we left New Hampshire, we drove down the East Coast—just picked a spot on a map—and ended up in Blackstone Falls.”
“And you said you weren’t good at road trips,” she teases gently.
“We lived together, got a job with Otto and Case Thayer doing landscaping, and then he met Lana. He’s eleven years younger than she is but that never mattered—not really,” I tell her. “When they moved in together, it was a reality check. And I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“With him, or in general?” she asks, the question devoid of judgment.
“Both, I guess. I get to be an uncle and I like that. When he moved out, I converted his room into a space for Beck, and I took the office and made the other bedroom for Holland and Remi, Jensen’s daughter.” I swallow hard. “I know it’s not the same, but growing up I was never made to feel at home, so even though they’re not going far, I want them to feel like the space is theirs. I want them to be comfortable.”
Ella stares at me, emotion swirling in her eyes. “You have no idea how good you are, do you?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to deny it but I keep my mouth shut, pressing my lips together as I force myself to think about it. To feel it.
To own it.
“I try hard, but I wasn’t always,” I tell her, not needing to touch the scar to know every dip and jagged edge smoothed over by time.
“Don’t tell me if you’re not ready.”
“It’s a part of who I am.”
“You’re beautiful,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I’ve never told anyone just because I wanted to.” It’s a strange reality. I’d been forced to talk to the therapist in juvie, told countless police officers and lawyers, but it’s all been for a purpose.
Not for me.
“Then I want you to really make sure you’re ready. I can wait.”
But I can’t.
The realization is freeing—like sunshine warming my skin after a string of rainy days.
“My foster sister, Audrey, went missing when she was twelve. I was ten and our foster father, Daryl, told the police she ran away—made up stories about how she’d take off for days at a time but didn’t report it because she was a troubled kid.”
“I’m here,” she says quietly.
