Page 79 of Three Months Yesterday

“Madison.”

She blinks, coming back to herself, and looking around like she’s surprised to find herself sitting outside her own house.

“Sorry,” she says, reaching for the door handle. “I zoned out.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand lands gently on her shoulder, stopping her before she can get the door open. “Are you all right?”

The words leave my mouth and I almost laugh at how stupid they are. Of course, she’s not all right.

“I know that’s a stupid question,” I start, but before I can finish the thought, Madison leans across the center console and presses her lips to my cheek.

It’s quick and barely a kiss, but it’s the first time Madison has initiated contact between us. Every touch we’ve shared has been from me. She’s never shied away from it, always leans into it, but she’s never been the one to start it.

And even that small, brief press of her lips against my skin is enough to make everything in me go still.

“I’m okay,” she says quietly, pulling away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course you will.”

I watch her walk up the path to her door before she disappears inside. The porch light clicks off a moment later, but I keep sitting here, the engine still running. I sit here until the lights from her windows downstairs go out and I know she’s gone up to bed.

It’s only then that I finally turn the car off and make my way to the cottage.

Without knocking on the door, it opens, and pulls me back to the present.

Thomas stands in the doorway, his frame filling most of the space. He looks confused for only a moment, his brow furrowing as he takes in the sight of me on his porch. Then something shifts behind his eyes. Recognition dawns, soft and slow, and he steps back, pulling the door wider.

The house smells like coffee. That’s the first thing I notice. Not the kind from a pod, but the real kind. The kind that takes time and fills the whole house with something warm and heavy. It’s a small detail but it catches me off guard, the domesticity of it. Like last night didn’t happen. Like this is any other morning at the Hawthorne house and I’m here for any normal reason.

Thomas leads me to the kitchen without a word. His back is straight, his shoulder set in a way that reminds me of Aiden—same posture, same way of quietly bearing the weight.

The kitchen is empty, just a single mug on the counter next to the coffee pot, half full. Thomas reaches for a second mug from the cabinet and pours without asking. He slides it toward me before grabbing his own cup and leaning back against the counter.

I mirror his positions, letting the warmth from my mug seep into my fingers.

Silence settles between us, and I let Thomas study me over the rim of his mug. He takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine, and I get the sense he’s deciding something. How much to say. How much to trust the man standing in his kitchen.

I wait, taking a page out of Aiden’s playbook. Years of green rooms and sound checks have taught me how to wait.

“Aiden called this morning.” Thomas sets his mug down on the counter, his thumb tracing the rim. “Him and Wyatt both. Early. Before I really got out of bed.”

I’m not sure I’m surprised by the words. I’m still getting to know Aiden and Wyatt, but everything I’ve seen of them tells me that’s exactly the kind of brothers they are. No one hurts their little sister—not even their parents.

Thomas pauses, and I see him choosing his words. Not the way you choose words when you don’t know what to say, but the way you choose them when you know exactly what to say and you’re trying to make it land right.

“I love my daughter, Beckett. I need you to know that.” His voice is quiet by firm, the kind that comes from somewhere deeper than volume. “I’ve loved her since the day we found out about her. I loved her when she was a little girl who used to sit on my lap and tell me about her day. I loved her when she came home from college and told me she wanted to rebuild that house. I loved her when she broke up with Mark and I didn’t know what to say. I have loved that girl every single day of her life.”

He stops, takes a breath, and lets it out slowly.

“But last night, I sat at that table and I didn’t say a word. Ruby got up and left, and I just sat there. I can make all the excuses in the world. I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing…every single one of those excuses is true and every single one of them is worthless because my daughter was sitting at that table with tears in her eyes, and I didn’t open my mouth.”

His jaw works as he picks up the mug, taking a sip and setting it back down again. I don’t think he needs to drink, just something to do with his hands.

“Ruby’s not a bad mother.” The words come out strong, almost defensive, and I understand why. She’s his wife, he loves her. “She’s not. In forty-one years of marriage, I’ve watched that woman love our kids in ways that would put most people to shame. She was at every game, every recital, every doctor’s appointment. She made birthday cakes from scratch and kissed every scraped knee. She kept this family together in ways I sometimes think she doesn’t get credit for.”

He pauses, his jaw working like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow.

“But this is how she’s always been. When something doesn’t fit the picture she has in her head, she can’t sit with it. She has to go somewhere else until she can figure out how to make it fit. I know that’s not an excuse. I know that,” he repeats. “It’s just how she’s been for as long as I’ve known her.”