Page 132 of When Love Found Us
And after that? I’ll get my life back—if I survive this town.
“Mom needs me.” Delilah finally responds. Her voice cracks at the edges like something fragile, already half-broken. “I don’t know what’s happening to her. She keeps talking about the past—about my father. But not in a sweet, nostalgic way. It’s . . . weird.”
“Like she’s losing her mind weird?” I try not to sound alarmed.
Del shrugs but also nods.
I frown. “Why haven’t you brought her to the clinic? I could run some tests.”
I try to sound chill, very friendly and not frantic because—what the fuck? This is more than just ‘coming check on my mom.’ It’s a medical issue that has to be addressed immediately.
“We’ve seen doctors in Boston. They ran every test, and everything came back clear. Clean bill of health, but Mom’s convinced he’s still around.” Her voice drops, raw with something that might be fear or guilt—or both. “She’s mad at me. Said I should believe her when she tells me she’s seen him. He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep or spying on us outside The Honey Drop.”
Which sounds impossible when the man died when she was a baby, she doesn’t say out loud. A chill needle down my spine, but I try to lighten it. “Have you tried a psychic?”
She glares.
I hold up my hands. “Just offering alternatives. Some of them claim they can talk to the dead.”
“Cute joke, like how you try to detour the conversation,” she deadpans. “But you still haven’t told me why you left. And don’t say it was a coincidence, because something tells me it has everything to do with Keir Timberbridge.”
There’s a burst of laughter from somewhere behind us, a kid’s shriek slicing through the summer air. At first, it sounds playful—tag or hide-and-seek—but my body tenses anyway. There’s always a moment, right before the fun turns into tears. Right before everything tilts.
It takes me back.
I was eight the first time he defended me. Keir Timberbridge. I hated how much I relied on him after that—hated that I kept looking over my shoulder for him like some sort of human security blanket.
The Montgomery boys had cornered me near the swings. I didn’t understand their words at the time—just that they were smirking, mimicking things they’d overheard at home. Things about my mom. About how they wanted to play the way their dad did with her. I had no idea they were friends or that adults played but I was scared.
Then Keir showed up. No warning, no hesitation. He threw a rock, then his fist, and told them to back off. Said I was under Timberbridge protection.
He was only ten and Malerick was twelve, but people feared them. The Timberbridge name had power—ugly power inherited from their violent father. I didn’t believe it at the time because their mother was kind. She went to church every Sunday and brought the five boys with her. Back then, my grandparents said that those people were good people, so I believed them.
After that, I followed him everywhere. Because I thought being close to Keir meant nothing bad could touch me.
I was wrong.
So wrong.
Being close to Keir Timberbridge destroyed me.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the sound around us suddenly shifts. It’s subtle at first, like a low rumble buried beneath the music. Then, the ground stutters under my feet—just enough to make my heart miss a beat.
The explosion hits before my brain catches up. It’s not just noise—it’s a blast that rips through the air, knocks into my chest like a fist, and keeps going. The tent trembles. Metal groans. Something collapses behind me with a crash that makes my ears ring.
And then come the screams.
Not the kind that floats through a summer festival, all cotton candy and carnival rides. These are guttural. Raw. People calling out names, crying out for someone to answer.
I bolt toward the tent’s entrance, my heart hammering. My breath is already shallow, as if I’ve sprinted a mile and haven’t even moved more than a few feet.
I spin toward The Honey Drop just in time to see it—smoke billowing up from behind the building, thick and rolling as if it has somewhere to be. Heat blasts through the street like someone opened an oven door straight into my face. My lungs seize as the smell hits: charred wood, burnt syrup, and something chemical that stings all the way up my nose.
Delilah is frozen right next to me. We were just talking. One minute ago, she was trying to figure out why I left town, and now . . . Now, she’s staring at her coffee shop like the world’s playing a cruel joke.
“My coffee shop,” she whispers, voice too thin to hold itself up. Then louder. “My coffee shop—oh my God.”
And then she’s running.
