Page 39 of The Bastard's Lily
Then she scurries back inside before I can even thank her. I stare after her, stunned.
Rook sets the basket in my lap as I get back on. “Told you I had one more stop.”
I run my hand over the scarf-covered handle. Inside, the smell of sesame, garlic, and dumpling heaven makes my mouth water.
“You really remembered I liked dumplings?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t look at me, just hands me my helmet and starts the engine again. “I remember everything.”
My heart does something strange. And this time, when I wrap my arms around him, I don’t leave any space between us.
The engine hums beneath us like it remembers too. Like these back roads were carved just for him and me. We pass the edge of town in a blur of porch lights and dusk-soaked pine. The sun’s low now, washing everything in honey and gold, and my cheek rests against the back of Rook’s shoulder as we turn off the main road and into memories.
I know this route. Of course I do. These curves and gravel dips, the shadows where the trees grow thickest—hell, I could ride them blindfolded. I used to bike these paths as a girl. Used to sneak off in Grimm’s truck after dark. Used to kiss Rook Wilder under the trees with my whole heart in my mouth, thinking the world ended at the edge of this town.
And now I’m here again. Older. Tired. Carrying too much. But he still rides like the devil’s behind him, and I still know exactly where we’re headed. I swallow hard, fingers tightening around his ribs. He’s warm beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, and every time we hit a bump or curve, I press closer, like it’s instinct. Like my body remembers what my mind keeps trying to forget.
We pass the broken fence line where the old Miller barn used to stand. It’s just skeleton wood now, half-swallowed by vines and wildflowers. And then the turn comes. It’s a narrow trail just past the oak tree that got split in half by lightning. Rook slows down and leans into the curve like it's muscle memory. Likewe’ve never left.
The road turns to dirt. The bike rattles beneath us. And my heart? It’s breaking and rebuilding in the same breath. Because this place—it’sours.
The hidden clearing. The one with the moss-covered boulders and the creek that runs cold even in July. Where we laid on a blanket once and mapped the stars with our fingers, whispering the names like they were secrets. He’s bringing me back here. Back to where we first said I love you. Back to where we first made love. Back to where I thought he was going to propose…
I close my eyes. And when I open them again, we’re pulling into the trees. The engine dies. Silence wraps around us like a hush in church. And Rook turns his head just enough to glance at me over his shoulder.
“Still with me, Cal?” His voice is low. Careful. Like he knows I’m balancing on a wire made of ghosts and heartache.
I nod. Because I am. I’m here. And I’m not ready. But Iwant to be.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush me. Just steps off the bike and gets to work with quiet efficiency, pulling the bag Auntie packed from the side satchel and unfolding the blanket with a flick of his wrists. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like we never stopped.
I sit still for a moment longer, then slowly reach up and tug the helmet free. My hair falls loose around my shoulders, and I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater this whole time. The scent hits me instantly—wet moss, pine needles, and the sweet rot of old leaves. It's this place. It always smells like the edge of a storm.
I slide off the bike and walk a few paces away, my boots crunching softly over the earth. Everything looks smaller than I remember, and yet exactly the same. The curve of the creek. The boulder with the mossy top, where I used to sit and dip my toes in the water. The trees forming that half-circle canopy above like a secret dome.
Our cathedral.
I trail my fingers along the bark of an old pine, the skin rough beneath my palm. So many memories live in this clearing, tucked into the soil like bones. Our laughter. Our fights. The first time Rook told me he loved me, right here, under the stars and wrapped in nothing but a blanket and teenage hope.
God, I almost hate how much I missed this.
I exhale shakily and turn just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He’s crouched near the creek now, setting out containers on the blanket like this is a normal night. Like we’re not ghosts walking through our past.
He glances up. Doesn’t say a word. Just meets my gaze with that quiet intensity that always used to unspool me. And maybe still does. I take a slow step toward him. Then another. He lets me come to him on my own terms. No pushing. No pressure. Just Rook, offering me space to breathe. To remember. To maybe—just maybe—hope again.
I lower myself onto the blanket beside him, tucking my legs to the side as I settle onto the soft flannel. Rook hands me a container without a word, the plastic warm against my palms and fogged with steam.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy or forced. Just two people chewing through the awkwardness with pork and cabbage dumplings.
“You really haven’t been back here?” I finally ask, breaking a piece of scallion pancake in half and handing it to him. He takes it without hesitation.
“Not once,” he says, voice quiet. “Couldn’t.”
My eyes flick toward the tree line. “But you remembered the way.”
His shoulder lifts. “Never forgot.”
I nod, chewing slowly. “Didn’t think I’d ever come back here either. Guess Beau changed that.”
