Page 121 of Boomer
As she disappeared into the house, her husband stepped onto the porch.
“Carter.”
Boomer stood. “Ryan.”
They shook hands, firm, respectful.
“Congratulations on the baby,” Boomer said, glancing toward the kitchen.
Ryan followed his gaze. “Thanks.”
Then he helpfully disappeared, leaving them the porch and the past. Lila returned with two glasses, passed him one, then settled into the rocking chair beside his. She waited.
She always was good at waiting.
“I owe you something,” Boomer began, voice low. “I came to apologize. For vanishing. For shutting you out. For hurting you.”
Lila’s eyes softened, but she didn’t speak.
“I lost myself after Mike. I was drowning in it, and we—” He exhaled. “—we became a casualty of war.”
She nodded, slow. “I won’t lie. It hurt. I wanted so badly to love you through it. To be enough. But…”
“I made it impossible.”
She nodded again, tears brimming.
“But look at you now.” His smile was real, unburdened. “You got the life you dreamed of. A family. Love. That makes me happy for you.”
Her hand found his, warm and familiar. “And you?”
“I’m in love.” He said it without hesitation. “Taylor Hoffman and her nephew, Ansel are waiting for me in Lisbon. I don’t know where we’ll go from there, but we’ll get there together.” He swallowed, and everything just seemed lighter. “I let Mike go today, and I needed to come here, to scrub out the last bit of shame I carried for hurting you, so I can give her everything. She deserves that.”
Lila leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’m so damn happy for you, Carter. Thank you for coming. It means more than you know.”
“I’ll always love you,” he whispered.
“Me too.”
They hugged again, long and gentle. Then he stood, heart light. “Let me know when the baby’s born.”
“I will.”
He walked back down the path, the gate clicking shut behind him. The sun was warm. The breeze was kind, and for the first time in a long damn time…Carter “Boomer” Finley was free.
He drove toward the airport, toward Taylor, toward Ansel.
It was a good goddamned day.
The moment had stretched as faras it could go, as taut as a bowstring. Taylor stood frozen, her fingers clenched into a fist, watching the man she thought she would never find cradle her nephew like he was something sacred. He’d called her from the airport, had poured his heart out to her about everything…Mike…Lila and the journey he’d been on, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him.
Ansel had run to him like his little soul had been waiting, like the space between them had never existed. Boomer had caught him, strong arms folding tight around the boy's narrow shoulders. He hadn't said much. He hadn't needed to.
Her mother stood beside her, rigid, arms crossed in that fortress stance she always assumed when emotion threatened to get too close. Her father lingered at the edge of the doorway, quiet, hands clasped behind his back like a man waiting for orders that would never come.
Then Gretchen Hoffman, voice sharper than the late-autumn wind, called out, "Ansel, go and get your things packed."
Ansel hesitated, glancing at Taylor, then at Boomer. Boomer gave the boy a small nod, and Ansel obeyed, slipping his hand from Boomer's fingers like it cost him something. He disappeared into the house.
