Page 32 of Vows of Ruin

“Brunch with my mom, it’s an apology for storming into her house last night. And of course shopping day, babe,” she says, already backing out of the room. “And before you two get all broody and territorial, yes, someone is coming with us. And no, it’s not one of you.”

Liam’s head drops back to the pillow with a sigh of relief.

Max mutters, “We’re not territorial.”

I snort, “You literally threatened to have someone’s spine rearranged because they looked at me too long last week.”

Max shrugs. “He was staring.”

Liam smirks. “He’s lucky I wasn’t there too.”

Margot calls from the hallway, “I’ll give you twenty to get dressed, or I’m coming back in with a bucket of ice water!”

I lean up and kiss both of them on the cheek. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Max catches my wrist, pulling me in for one more kiss. “Bring home something that’ll make us regret letting you leave.”

Liam hums. “Preferably leather.”

I wink, grabbing the robe from the foot of the bed. “Noted.”

We take Julie to a small brunch place just off Main Street in Northwyck. The kind with outdoor seating, mismatched chairs, and flowers on every table. It’s the kind of place that makes the world feel simple, and nothing bad ever happens before noon. Julie loves this place.

She’s smiling when the waitress brings coffee, thanking her. It's just a ceramic mug and burnt espresso, but in a place like this it feels precious. Margot sits across from her, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, looking almost relaxed for the first time since last night.

They look so much alike it almost makes my chest ache. Same eyes. Same smile. Same soft way of looking at the people they love. The only real difference is the hair, Julie’s warm brown, Margot’s blonde, but even that feels like a technicality. If you put them side by side in old photographs, no one would need labels to know they were mother and daughter.

Julie reaches across the table and squeezes Margot’s hand. “You two didn’t have to bring me out, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m fine really.”

Margot smiles, but I can see the tightness in it. “Mom. You got woken up by the three of us like armed lunatics at five in the morning.” she says. “You’re getting fancy pancakes at the very least.”

Julie laughs softly at that, shaking her head. She looks at me then, and her expression warms even more.

“I used to have you girls in my kitchen every weekend,” she says. “You remember that? You two eating me out of house and home like you hadn’t seen food in weeks.”

I smile before I can stop myself. “I remember your cinnamon rolls,” I tell her. “I still think about those.”

She beams like I just handed her an award. Julies was always like this. Warm, easy, and loving in a way that didn’t ask for anything in return. Growing up, Margot’s house became an escape. It was stepping into a different world, one where people hugged you for no reason and asked how your day was and actually waited for an answer. It was the opposite of my house. The opposite of my mother. I spent more weekends at Margot’s than I ever admitted out loud.

Julies reaches over and pats my hand. “You were always such a serious little thing,” she says gently. “Margot was the troublemaker. You were the one who looked like you were already running a company at fourteen.”

Margot snorts. “She still does.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue.

For a little while, it almost feels normal. Coffee, pancakes, sunlight, Margot stealing bacon off Julie’s plate like she’s sixteen again. For a few minutes, the world is just brunch, laughter, and warm syrup, not the mess we left behind last night.

Julie sets her fork down. The change is small, but I see it immediately. They way her shoulders straighten. The way her eyes move between Margot and me.

“So,” she says gently, “Are one of you going to tell me why I woke up to Margot and her boyfriends clearing my house like a SWAT team?”

I give a small nod. Margot exhales slowly looking at her mother. “There’s someone we’ve been dealing with,” she says carefully. “Someone from a long time ago.”

She nods already knowing the answer. “Sebastian,” she says.

Margot stills. I feel it more than I see it. Julie leans back slightly in her chair. “I wondered if that was what this was about when you called asking about the old photographs,” she says quietly.

I frown at her. “I don’t remember him,” I say. “Not anything from that young really. It’s scattered. I remember pieces. Rooms. People. But not him.”