Page 63 of The Lilac River

And he wasn’t wrong.

Because the real fire?

It was back at the house.

And she was holding my whole damn heart in her hands like she didn’t even know it.

Chapter 24

Stay - Rihanna

Lily

Bertie was finally asleep, her tiny body curled into a soft comma beneath the covers. Even in sleep, she clung to her stuffed dog like a lifeline, her damp curls sticking to her cheeks. Two more rounds of throwing up had taken what little energy she had left. I’d coaxed her into sipping some water and a bit of Enfalyte, whispering gentle encouragement the whole time like it might trick her body into settling. Her fever had dropped a little, thank God, and the rise and fall of her chest was steady now. But still, I couldn’t leave her side just yet.

I stood there longer than necessary, smoothing her blanket, brushing a curl from her forehead. Just watching her breathe. Something about her vulnerability pulled at a place so deep in me it almost hurt. She was fierce like Nash, but there was this softness to her, too, a sweetness I hadn’t expected. A carefulness. Like she'd learned the world could hurt and was already preparing for it.

I hadn’t known what I’d find when I went digging through Nash’s medicine cabinet, but of course, it was all there. Everything Bertie needed. Electrolytes, wipes, a thermometer that worked. Nash had even labeled the kid’s drawer. That shouldn’t have surprised me. Whatever Nash did, he did it with his whole damn heart. Being a dad was no different. And somehow that hurt worse than anything else.

Bertie’s room was the same. A quiet kind of proof that he’d built a world for her from the ground up. The walls were painted a warm buttermilk and soft lilac, colors that felt gentle without being precious. It wasn’t overly girly, just cozy, lived-in, and deeply hers. A hammock sagged in one corner, overflowing with plush toys. On the wall, a pinboard bristled with her drawings, some crude stick figures, others bright, bold swirls of color that reminded me of the way Nash had once painted dreams out loud with me.

Family photos dotted the space. Nash and Gunner with a wild-eyed pony between them. Wilder lifting Bertie high over his head like a fireman drill. All of them laughing, alive. But not one image of the Mayor. That absence said more than any argument ever could.

My gaze snagged on a smaller photo on her nightstand. Nash’s mom. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, smile bright enough to blind a camera. She was giving a double thumbs-up like she knew a secret no one else did. It hit me like a freight train.

And then I looked up.

A shelf above Bertie’s bed. A picture frame. Nash in his old football gear—SCH jersey clinging to his frame, helmet under one arm, grin wide and boyish and full of light. That smile had once lit me up from the inside out.

I remembered that night. The autumn wind had been sharp, leaves crunching beneath our boots as we walked back to thetruck. He’d just been named MVP at a game that drew university scouts from three states to Sundance County High School. I’d taken that photo right after the whistle blew. He’d run up to me, lifted me off the ground, and kissed me like nothing else mattered.

“It’s the beginning of our dream, Lila,”he’d whispered against my neck. “Alabama will be just the start, baby.”

I swallowed hard. That night had been everything. Before things unraveled. Before lies and secrets and grief turned dreams into ghosts.

I had to look away before the tears spilled. My heart clenched so tight it hurt.

After one last check on Bertie, I slipped from the room and padded downstairs, instinct guiding me around the creaky step that used to squeal if you weren’t careful. Funny thing, it didn’t squeak anymore. Another small, strange change in a place that used to feel like my second home.

The house was different now. Colder. The warmth that used to greet you at the door had been scrubbed clean. Where family photos once lined the hallway, abstract paintings now hung in their place—sharp angles and muddy tones. The kind of art that said money but not soul. It didn’t feel like Nash. Or the boys. Or Bertie.

I moved through it like a stranger. A ghost.

Downstairs, I curled up on a stiff leather couch that squeaked every time I shifted. I clicked the remote and let the TV flick through channels until it landed on Below Decks. The crew was yelling. Someone had dropped a tray of oysters. Mindless, chaotic comfort.

But even two episodes in, I couldn’t settle. The house felt too quiet. The clock on the wall ticked past eight-thirty, and there was still no sign of Nash. Worry gnawed at the edges of my calm. I didn’t have Wilder or Gunner’s numbers. Just Nash’s. And Ididn’t want to call him, not unless it was an emergency. I didn’t want to seem like I couldn’t handle it.

Considering what to do, three raps at the door sent my heart racing.

The door creaked open. I squealed.

"Shane." The manager of the lilac farm. My old boss from time to time.

He blinked, taking a half-step back. "Lily?"

The years had silvered his hair and deepened the lines around his eyes, but his embrace was exactly as I remembered, warm and steady, like the father I'd needed.

"Heard you were back," he said, holding me at arm's length. "Still haven't found a worker half as good as you."

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