Page 64 of The Lilac River

"Good to see you, too," I managed, feeling the closest thing to happiness I'd experienced since returning to Silver Peaks. Without Cassidy, I had no one left here.

His brow furrowed. "You and Nash...?"

"God, no." My response came too quickly. "Had to bring Bertie home from school and then Nash had an emergency."

"Of course, you’re the amazing new teacher." His eyes softened. "Bertie hasn’t stopped talking about you." He chuckled softly. “She’s real special that girl.”

"She is."

“God, it’s so good to see you, Lily.” He glanced at his watch. "Wish I could stay, but Felicia and I are due at Sarah's."

"Your Sarah? She's married now, right?"

His smile turned proud. "To Jaxon from the fire department. Baby's due in weeks."

"That's wonderful." I hesitated. "She was finishing college when I..."

The unspoken words hung between us:When I left without explanation. When I broke Nash's heart.

“I know, sweetheart. Anyway, you’re back now.” Shane patted a canvas bag. "So, farm takings for Nash. Mind giving them to him?"

"Of course. How is the lavender farm?" My voice cracked as memories flooded back. Working there. Loving Nash there.

A shadow crossed his face. "Good, though Mr. Miller's talking about selling."

"No! He can't." My fingers clutched at my dress, right over my heart. That farm, our special place, where Nash and I had lost ourselves among purple blooms and summer heat. “Nash’s mom started it when she was a little girl.”

"Seems that our mayor doesn’t care. The boys are fighting it, so let’s hope it doesn’t happen." He squeezed my shoulder. "Anyways, don't be a stranger. Dinner soon. Felicia would love to see you."

I nodded, not voicing my doubt. Felicia had warned me once about breaking Nash's heart. Three weeks later, I'd done exactly that.

As the door closed behind him, I wondered if talking to Shane back then might have changed everything—saved Nash and me from a decade of silence. Another question without an answer, in a life suddenly full of them.

Trying to distract myself, I wandered into the kitchen. The difference hit me like stepping through a memory. This room, this room was still theirs. Still his.

Buttermilk cabinets. A long, worn table scattered with Bertie’s coloring books and a half-drawn horse. A wool throw draped carelessly on the sofa, smelling faintly of cedar and something warmer, something like Nash. Crayon drawings stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. A note in a child’s handwriting that just said:DADDY I LOVE YOU.

I pressed my hand over my heart.

Here, in this space, I could breathe.

I found pasta and chicken and cooked without thinking, letting the motion ground me. Stirring. Draining. Slicing garlic with a familiarity I didn’t question. It wasn’t a fancy meal, but it was warm. Real. I set a plate on the kitchen table and left it there like a peace offering. Like maybe it could say the things I didn’t yet know how to.

I was wiping my hands on a dishtowel when I heard it.

Boots on hardwood.

I turned and forgot how to breathe.

Nash stood in the doorway, shadow and light dancing across him. His shirt was dusted with grit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dirt smudged across one cheek. His shoulders looked like they carried the weight of a whole mountain range. His hair was a mess. And he was, without a doubt, the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“You’re back,” I said, my voice catching.

He gave me a tired half-smile. “Yeah.”

Two strides and he was in the room, close enough that I could see the lines around his eyes. The kind that didn’t come from age, but from too many sleepless nights.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

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