Page 119 of Tessa and Nash

Then, because I’m apparently committed to being emotionally reckless now, I add, “Thanks.”

His brows lift slightly. “For what?”

“For coming,” I say. “For… not leaving me there.”

Nash exhales slowly, eyes softening. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Which is an insane thing to say.

Anytime implies again. It implies always, like he thinks he’ll still be here when this burns down.

Before I can respond, I open the truck door and step out into the cold, as if it can reset me. It doesn’t, so I walk up the porch steps, bag heavy at my side, heart heavier in my chest.

Behind me, Nash’s truck starts up again. I hear it pull away, tires crunching down the drive.

I don’t turn around to watch him leave. If I do, I might do something stupid, like run after him.

Inside, the house is warm and quiet in that early afternoon way that feels too controlled to be natural.

The kind of quiet that means someone has been waiting.

Grandma Nell is in the kitchen, tea steaming, bread on the counter, a book open beside her like she’s been reading.

She looks up as I enter.

Her gaze drops immediately to my face.

“Tessa,” she says softly. “You’re home.”

I set my bag down on the chair and take off my gloves with fingers that feel clumsy. “We were snowed in.”

“I know,” she replies, calm as ever. “The roads were closed most of yesterday.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Grandma’s eyes sharpen. “Alright.”

I pull the journal from my bag and place it on the table, setting down something that might explode if handled wrong. The map follows, folded and brittle, pencil marks and old promises staring up at us.

“I’ve seen that book before,” she says quietly. “Your grandfather kept it in a drawer in this house when we were younger. He never let anyone read it. Said it was part of an old argument best left buried.”

My chest tightens. “You knew?”

She exhales slowly. “I knew there were stories. The land was never meant to be stolen,” she says quietly. “Not by anyone.”

I sit down across from her, the chair suddenly feeling too stiff, too formal, like this conversation should be happening in a courtroom.

“I read it,” I say. “The agreement. The winter pasture. The creek access. The fences. The profit share. All of it.”

Grandma nods once. “Yes.”

I swallow. “So what happened?”

The question is heavier than it looks.

It’s not just what happened between the Longs and the McCoys.

It’s what happened to me.