Page 80 of Three Months Yesterday

I nod slowly. I believe him. I’ve only been in Stonebridge Hollow for a short time, but I’ve seen enough of the Hawthorne family to know they love each other. I’ve heard Madison talk about her parents. Seen the way Thomas looks at his kids. I’ve watched Aiden and Wyatt circle around Madison like she’s one of the most important people to them. This family loves each other, it’s impossible to miss.

But last night, sitting at that table, love was the furthest thing from that room. The silence was so thick I could feel it pressing against my chest. Last night, their daughter dried her tears, cleared the table, and went home like nothing happened because that’s what she learned to do a long time ago.

I know they love her. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. But their actions last night don’t match it, and I don’t know how to say that to a man standing in his kitchen telling me he loves his daughter while his eyes are red at the edges.

“I know you love her,” I start. “I’ve seen it. I’ve heard her talk about this family. She doesn’t talk about any of you the way someone talks about parents who don’t care. She talks about you like you are people she always thought would be there.”

Thomas’s expression shifts. Something held tight loosens just slightly, like a fist unclenching a fraction.

“But last night…” I continue, keeping my voice steady because I’m not the kind of person to kick a man while he’s down. “Last night, she told you something scary. Something that took everything she had to say out loud, and the two people in this world who were supposed to tell her everything was going to be okay didn’t say a word.”

Thomas doesn’t look away. He takes it, standing there with both hands on the counter, he takes it. And my respect for him grows.

“I know,” he says, his voice rough. “I’ve been sitting here since I got off the phone with Aiden going over it in my head.”

The house is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and two men standing in a kitchen trying to figure out how to talk about something neither of them have words for.

“Aiden said the same thing,” Thomas says after a moment. “Not those words, but the same thing. That Madison didn’t need anything more than to hear that we love her.”

He picks up the mug again, looks into it like the coffee might have an answer.

“I called her this morning,” he says. “Madison. She didn’t pick up.”

That lands somewhere in my chest. I think about Madison this morning, her phone ringing, her father’s name on the screen, and her not picking up. Not because she doesn’t love him or because she’s angry, but because she’s hurt and needs a little more time.

“She will,” I say. “She’ll pick up. When she’s ready.”

Thomas looks at me, something in it searching, wanting to believe me but not sure. “You think so?”

“Madison loves you both more than I think you realize. Right now she’s hurt, and she needs you and Ruby to prove that love isn’t misplaced.”

Thomas nods slowly, the same measured nod I’ve seen Aiden give. The same way Wyatt looked last night when Madison said she was going to clean up. This family has a tell. When they hear something they don’t want to accept but know is true, they nod—slow and deliberate, like they’re filing it away for later.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and my daughter, Beckett.” He holds a hand up, stopping me before I can interrupt. “That’s her business, and I’ll respect it. But I saw you last night. You didn’t say anything or offer her platitudes. You supported her and offered her a shoulder to lean on.”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” I say. “I was just there.”

“Exactly. That’s what she needed, someone who was there.” Thomas straightens. He looks older than he did last night, or maybe I wasn’t looking closely enough. There’s gray at his temples I hadn’t noticed and lines around his eyes that deepen when he’s tired. He looks like a man who’s been sitting in the kitchen since before dawn going over every second of a dinner he can’t redo.

“Thanks for coming by,” he says. “You didn’t have to, but you did.” He picks up his mug, rinses it in the sink, and sets it on the counter. Simple automatic motions, the kind of thing a man does when his body knows the routine even when his mind is somewhere else. “That tells me a lot about the man you are. About what my daughter means to you.”

I don’t respond, still not sure what to label us.

Thomas walks me to the door, and when we step outside, the cold hits again, the same sharp January air from last night, but it’s cleaner now. Brighter. The sun is higher, casting long shadows on the porch.

“We’ll see you Sunday for dinner?” Thomas asks, his eyes hopeful.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “Maybe I’ll see you sooner. Around the cottage?” I suggest, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He nods, almost absentmindedly before giving my shoulder a quick squeeze.

I stand on the porch for a moment after Thomas returns inside—the coffee warm in my stomach and something warm in my chest.

The knock is soft, so soft I almost miss it over the click of the microwave. I glance at the clock. A little after six. Not late necessarily, but late enough that anyone I know who’d stop by are already seated at their own dinner tables.

Wyatt left for a job first thing this morning. Aiden swung by around lunch with a bag of sandwiches from the diner and that look on his face that said he was checking to make sure I haven’t fallen apart since the last time he checked on me yesterday evening. Sadie’s spending the week in Ashford Falls with Reid. And Beckett told me after our morning run that he’s deep in a new song and probably won’t come out of the writing cave until it’s done.

So, who in the world is at my door?