Page 83 of Untruly With You

“I know you said you and Laine weren’t an actual couple, but I don’t know any fake girlfriends that would fly across the country at the drop of a hat.”

“It's complicated,” I say, rubbing at the immediate headache forming behind my temples.

“Tomorrow is her last day here, isn’t it?”

I nod, trying to ignore the pressure suddenly hard against my lungs. “Laine’s going back to the city to look for an apartment.”

Hank clicks his tongue. “Maybe you should stop her.”

My sigh is shaky. “We aren’t actually dating. I can’t ask Laine to give up her life, her career, to stay here—especially…under the circumstances.”

Hank dips his chin a touch, his weathered face looking wise. “Your mother had dreams too, things she left behind when she chose to be with me. She never blamed me for it. Never made me feel bad about it. I don’t think she has ever regretted her decision to come here.” He huffs a laugh. “Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself to avoid feeling too guilty.”

I’m stunned. I don’t think I’ve heard my father speak this much at one time.

He looks out at the emerald field again, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I appreciate you wanting to be here while…” He swallows the rest of the sentence, unable to talk about our harsh reality in too much detail. “I think you and I are more alike than we realized. We both try to bury our emotions. But if what you feel for Laine is even a sliver of what I feel for Mags, you don’t want to hide from that. That kind of love makes life worth living.”

It’s only six in the evening, but my father excuses himself to head to bed, shuffling back to the house. I keep my eyes peeled on him, just in case he stumbles. Then I notice Wells on the back porch, doing the same. He offers me a half-smile.

Knowing Laine will be gone in less than forty-eight hours, there’s nothing I want to do more than simply be at her side. So, because my doctor made me swear off horseback riding and driving for at least two weeks, I have no choice but to walk to her. I keep my body tensed, protective of my shoulder and ribs as I shamble down the dirt road toward the venue for tomorrow.

When I reach the last crest of the road, I’m not surprised at the beautiful view in front of me. The grassy field stretches toward the lavender that begins just beyond the wedding arch. The soft purple blooms sway in the evening breeze, their fragrant scent carried through the air. Everything looks exactly as it should for a perfect wedding—the rows of white chairs arranged neatly, the delicate floral arrangements entwined around the wooden arch, and the distant mountains framing the entire scene like a painting. Mom, Frankie, and Laine huddle together, making final adjustments to the space. Their laughter is like music.

Mom oversees the placement of each bloom with a discerning eye. Frankie is happy to follow her directions. Laine seems content just to be with them. She looks at ease—at home, even—moving naturally through the space as if she belongs here. And I can’t shake the feeling that she does. It’s not just about how she looks; it’s about the way she fits. Like this place was always meant to have her in it.

A smile lights up Laine’s face as she notices me on thetrail. Immediately, she abandons her task to walk toward me. Golden hour bathes her in a soft glow, making her dark, cropped hair shimmer. She closes the distance between us, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, the same greeting she gives every time she sees me.

“Better now,” I murmur, stepping closer to her.

She twists the pendant of her necklace around, nervous but still grinning. “Still no memory loss?”

“Not a lick of it.”

“Shame.” Her full lips pout, their familiar red washing over my vision. “I was really hoping I could take some inspiration fromWhile You Were Sleeping. You know, convince you we’reactuallymadly in love and engaged.”

“Wouldn’t take too much convincing, I think.” I suddenly miss Laine’s longer hair, just for a moment, because I could have an excuse to touch her face if I could brush a strand from her face.

It’s been like this for days, both of us trying to downplay our feelings without actually abandoning them. We haven’t kissed again, and neither of us has brought up the one we shared at the hospital. All we’ve done is sneak in flirty comments and pretend they don’t mean exactly what they do, in fact, mean. My selfish desires still battle with my guilt. Laine, meanwhile, told me that she wants me to focus on healing, not on her.

It was a pointless wish.

She occupies my every thought.

Mom and Frankie walk up behind us, giggling like teenagers.

“We were just heading out,” Mom says, winking at me.

“You two have fun.” The implication is clear in Frankie’s voice, and I roll my eyes at her.

Laine looks up at me, perhaps waiting for me to tell them to stay.

I don’t.

And Laine smiles.

Once Mom and Frankie are out of earshot, Laine steps close enough to brush a finger just outside the line of stitches on my forehead. My swelling has gone down a bit, but the goose egg is still visible, as is a hint of my black eye and my other bruises. Tired of resisting my impulses, I reach my hand up, laying it against the back of hers so I can hold it to my cheek. Closing my eyes, I drink in her closeness, breathe in her perfume.

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