Page 83 of Three Months Yesterday

My brows pinch. “I don’t have a man.”

She looks at me, one eyebrow raised. It’s the look she gives me when I say something so ridiculous she can’t believe it came out of my mouth. She straightens and gestures toward the front of the house, toward the cottage where we both know Beckett is. “If Beckett isn’t you man, then what is he?”

“A friend?” I don’t know why it’s a question, but I regret it the second it’s out.

Mom laughs, a real one that has her shoulder shaking. “Beckett Stone is not your friend, Madison. Not with the way you two look at each other, and not with the way he protects you.”

Something tightens in my chest. “What do you mean the way he protects me?”

Her eyes widen and her body stiffens. She spins back to the oven, adjusting the temperature dial. “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Mom.” It’s a simple word, but it says so much.

It takes her a moment to bring her attention back to me, but when she does there’s contrition in her voice. “He came to the house on Monday morning. He wasn’t rude, just honest. Showed your father exactly the kind of man he is.”

I stare at her, the words not quite making sense. And yet they do. Hearing them sounds exactly like something Beckett would do. My gaze lands on the coffee maker, the origami flower he left earlier today sitting right there, and I can’t stop my mind from racing. My eyes move back to Mom, she hasn’t moved and the concern is more than evident in her eyes.

“Madison?”

“We agreed to try something,” I blurt. “The day of the accident. We were going to start exploring a relationship.” I swallow. “And then I found out about the baby and I told him we couldn’t.”

I don’t know what makes me tell her, but a lightness comes over at finally letting the words free.

“Why would you do that?”

I scoff, the sound sharp and bitter. “How could I ask someone like Beckett to start something with a woman carrying another man’s child?”

Her expression changes from concern to fierce protection. “What do you mean, someone like Beckett Stone?”

“Mom.” I sigh. “Beckett deserves so much more than I can give. I’m a small town inn manager with a load of baggage.” I gesture to my growing stomach. “I have a baby who isn’t his, an ex who⁠—”

“No,” she cuts me off, her voice firm. “Anyone, including Beckett Stone, would be lucky to have you. Do you hear me?”

I want to believe her. The way she says it, the way her eyes hold mine without wavering makes me want to believe that the things I carry don’t make me less. That the baby growing inside me isn’t a weight someone else has to bear.

But wanting to believe something and believing it are two different things, and I’ve never been very good at the second one.

The cottage door is slightly ajar.

I don’t notice it from the driveway as I’m pulling in from picking up lunch and snacks for my movie day with Madison. It’s not until I’m up the porch steps that I’m even aware of it. I shut the door behind me this morning when I left. I locked it. The habit is automatic now, ever since the first conversation with Ian. I always double-check the deadbolt before I leave anywhere. It’s become an obsessive tic over the last year.

I stand on the top step, the bags from the store hanging at my side, and stare at the gap. It’s barely there, less than an inch. I was in a hurry to meet Aiden at the cafe this morning, maybe I didn’t latch the door like I thought I did. Maybe it was the wind. It could have been a dozen things that aren’t my stalker showing up in Stonebridge Hollow. There still hasn’t been a single report about my whereabouts, just a lot of theories.

The porch creaks under my feet as I step closer to the door, pushing it open with my elbow, the bags rustling against my chest as I do. Nothing looks wrong. The kitchen counter is clear, my instruments sit against the wall where I left them, the dishes from last night are still in the kitchen sink.

I set the bags on the counter and stand there for a second—listening.

Nothing. No footsteps, no breathing. Just the hum of the fridge.

My eyes move to the stairs, following their path up to the loft. Something in my gut tells me that’s where I’m supposed to go. It’s a stupid decision, but I still move up the stairs slowly.

I don’t make it to the top before I see it. The pillow’s shifted, angled away from the headboard, and the sheets are pulled loose on one side, the corner bunched up near the middle of the mattress. I make the bed every morning, a simple reminder of my childhood, the action something my mother made me do. It’s muscle memory for me, the same way I brush my teeth and start the coffee. I know the sheets were flat and tucked when I left.

I try to make sense of it. Maybe Madison came by to straighten up. She still does, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not needed. Not only is it weird having my friend clean up after me, but she’s pregnant and doesn’t need the extra work when I’m more than capable of cleaning up after myself. She just laughs and says I’m a paying guest and does it anyway.

But she wouldn’t leave it like this. Even if she’d come up to change the sheets, she’d remake the bed before she left and she wouldn’t leave the door open on her way out.

I sit on the chair by the bed and pull out my phone. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of it, but…