Page 128 of Behind the Shadows
Holland was gone for the day, attending a conference with a speaker she was excited about. We spent all our free timetogether, and I played with the idea of asking her to move in with me. But I wasn’t sure it was right yet. Not that we didn’t share our places with each other already, but I wanted something new. Ours. A new beginning where neither of our scars and trauma clouded the view.
I pulled up to the house with the for-sale sign on it and killed the engine, letting the quiet settle. Tall pines stood like sentinels around the two-story gray home with black trim and a gravel drive tucked off a sleepy road in the Portland hills. The rain had stopped long enough for the sun to cut through the clouds and bounce off the windows. It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t polished. But it was private. Secluded. Safe.
The place looked like it had been waiting for something—or maybe someone—to give it purpose again.
I stepped out and ran my fingers along the hood of my Mustang. My boots crunched the gravel, the air thick with cedar and wet earth. It smelled clean. Like a place that didn’t expect blood in the floorboards or secrets in the crawlspace. A place where I didn’t have to be the monster anymore.
The Realtor was already waiting by the front door, smiling like she already knew she’d nailed it. And maybe she had.
I stared up at the house again, imagining Holland standing at the top window. Barefoot, with her coffee in hand and her beautiful red hair a mess after I made love to her first thing in the morning. The thought caught me in the chest—too tender, too real—but I didn’t shake it off. I let it sit. Because maybe this was what starting over really looked like.
The home had dark lines and quiet bones. It offered enough space to live without hiding.
From the pictures online, there was a room for her to work in. An office with good light and shelves she could fill with the books she never let anyone borrow. There was even a sunroom off the kitchen she could turn into her greenhouse. She wouldwant something green. Something alive. Something that didn’t remind her of everything she’d lost.
I didn’t know what normal was, but I wanted to build whatever version of it we could find together. Even if it came cracked and crooked, like both of us.
“Ready to see it?” the Realtor asked.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s see what home looks like.”
The front door opened, and I stepped inside, instinctively scanning the space. Old habits, but there was nothing to fear here.
The entryway was wide and open, leading into a living room with tall windows that pulled in the light. A stone fireplace dominated the far wall, big enough to warm the whole place in winter. It wasn’t fancy—nothing polished or overpriced. Just a solid structure and good air.
I could already see Holland curled up on the couch under one of those oversized blankets she pretended not to love. Reading something too dark for her own good with her feet tucked beneath her. Safe. Warm. Mine.
“This way,” the Realtor said, gesturing toward the kitchen.
The room had dark oak cabinets with matte-black fixtures. The kind of counters you didn’t mind getting scratched. If she didn’t like them, I would gut the kitchen and build her anything she wanted, but I had a feeling she would love it the way it was. Holland would have a gas stove, a deep farmhouse sink, and enough room for her to dance barefoot when she thought no one was watching. I ran my hand over the edge of the counter and felt the thought bloom. We could build something here. Not just survive—but live.
The Realtor and I moved toward the back, where a set of French doors opened out to a covered porch that looked out over the trees. A lake shimmered in the distance. Quiet.Unbothered. Like it didn’t know anything about blood or trauma or brokenness.
Upstairs, the primary bedroom had tall ceilings and a window seat overlooking the woods. I didn’t care much about bedrooms, but this one? I stood there for a long moment, staring at that bench. It was the kind of place she’d stare out at the world from. Think. Heal. Remember who the hell she was.
The hallway led to a second room, smaller but filled with light.
“What do you think of this for an office?” the Realtor asked.
I stepped inside.
Soft cream walls with built-in shelves. A small alcove by the window could easily fit a desk and a lamp, and there was also enough room for Dog to curl up and nap while she worked. It wasn’t much. But it could be hers. I pictured her here—hair pulled up in a messy bun, surrounded by stacks of notes and files she’d swear she was going to organize but never would. It felt right.
“She works with people,” I said quietly. “Psych trauma. This … she’d like this.”
The Realtor smiled. “Then I think you’ve found your place.”
I walked past her without answering, heading toward the end of the hall where another door stood half open. This one hadn’t been in the listing.
It led to a small room—glass ceiling, exposed beams, and warm wood everywhere. Greenhouse, maybe. Or a sunroom waiting to be loved again.
Something in my chest twisted.
This was it.
This was the room I would make hers. Plants. Herbs. A place to breathe without looking over her shoulder. A place she could make beautiful, even if we were both still learning how.
“I’d like to bring her to see it. When can that happen?”
