Page 36 of By Your Side
“Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Back at home, the kitchen lights shone overhead like a spotlight while I peeled apples over the sink, trying not to overthink what I was doing—but failing. All I’d been doing lately was overthinking and avoiding taking action. But that was over. I’d already showered, dressed, and formed a plan.
Ozzy launched himself onto the counter, tail twitching with judgment. He promptly knocked over my measured bowl of sugar with one paw; he didn’t seem to like it when my attention wasn’t solely on him.
“Seriously, man?” I muttered, brushing sugar off the edge into a paper towel. “You’ve got three scratching posts and a cat tree, and you pick my pie station for your chaos?”
He flopped dramatically across the counter like he was exhausted by my incompetence, then purred like he hadn’t just ruined my prep. I slid him gently to a stool with one arm and grabbed the bag of sugar.
The pie dough was already resting in the fridge, waiting to be rolled out. I was using my dad’s recipe—flaky, buttery crust with just a touch of cinnamon in it. He used to make it for Mom every Sunday for dessert, even if she never asked. Said it was his love language. It must be genetic.
I sliced the apples thin, tossed them with cinnamon, lemon, sugar, and a fresh swipe of nutmeg over my microplane before layering them into the crust with practiced hands. The smell hit me square in the chest.
Paige loved this pie. When he realized how much, my dad started saving some for her and Piper to eat every Monday after school, back when he used to babysit them.
I’d caught her once, curled up at the counter with her math book open and a plate of pie crumbs beside her, eyes shining from what my dad referred to as being food drunk.
“Your dad made this?” She’d asked after the first time she tasted it. “My future husband better be able to make me a pie every Sunday, just like it.”
I smiled at the memory, pressing the top crust into place.
Maybe I wasn’t trying to win her over with pie.
Maybe I was just trying to remind her that I already knew what she needed—that I knewher.
I brushed the crust with egg wash, sprinkled it with sugar crystals, and tossed it in the oven. Then I leaned back against the counter, watching the timer tick down like it was a countdown to a new future.
When it finally rang, I set it on the counter to cool, its golden crust crackling as it met the air. I packed it carefully—warm, fragrant, still a little too hot but perfect all the same.
I slid into my truck, pie riding shotgun, and headed to Paige. The road narrowed, streetlights thinning until only the sound of the tires on gravel kept me company. At the very edge of town, almost swallowed by the dark and mist, the Twilight Tavern waited. Its parking lot stretched under a scatter of tired lamp posts and the pulsing violet haze of the neon sign, painting the world in a strange, hopeful hue.
I pulled in and cut the engine. For a minute, I just sat there, pie in hand, letting the silence settle. The parking lot was empty except for Paige’s car.
She was still here. Alone, probably tired, too damn stubborn to ask anyone for help. That part hadn’t changed. But something in me had.
I’d stopped by this place a hundred times. Shared a laugh, a drink, a story. But this… this wasn’t just dropping in anymore. My pulse was too loud in my ears for that.
I stared at the tavern door, feeling the weight of the pie in my hands. I wasn’t sure when it had shifted—whenshehad shifted in my mind—but now I couldn’t look at her without feeling like the ground under my feet was just slightly off. Like I was leaning toward something I couldn’t take back.
And suddenly, I was nervous. Anticipating the way she’d look at me. Speak to me. Whether she’d feel it too, that something was changing.
I blew out a slow breath, ran a hand over my face, and opened the door.
I knocked once on the glass and pushed the door open. Frowning at the fact that it was unlocked. The creak it made was loud enough to make a horror movie proud. I made a mental note to oil the hinges for her.
A split second later, I heard it—a sharp inhale, followed by the low, fierce scrape of something solid on the floor.
Then Paige appeared from behind the bar like a vengeful goddess, gripping a baseball bat with both hands.
“Jesus, Paige! It’s me. Hunter. Don’t kill me.”
Her eyes were wild, breath shallow. “You scared thehellout of me, Hunter Cassidy. I was this close to going full Final Girl on your ass. Everyone just left. I was about to lock up and finish closing.”
“Pretty sure I just lost ten years off my life,” I muttered, heart hammering.
She lowered the bat but didn’t let go of it. “You can’t just sneak in here after hours like some bar-hopping vampire. I’ve got baseball bats stashed in every corner for a reason. I also have pepper spray in my apron. I’m almost forty, for fuck’s sake—I’m in perimenopause, also known as the coming of rage. I could have killed you. You could be dead right now, then what?” She huffed, chest rising and falling as her wild eyes met mine.
