Page 182 of Tessa and Nash

I hesitate before adding, “Every time someone asks what I think, I try to explain that both families carry some responsibility for how things unfolded, and that the truth is likely more complicated than anyone wants to admit.”

“And does anyone listen?”

I consider the question.

“Politely,” I say.

Her mouth curves faintly. “Which means they do not.”

I exhale slowly.

“I thought staying neutral would help,” I admit. “I assumed that if I didn’t escalate the argument, the facts might eventually speak for themselves.”

My grandmother closes her book and places it carefully on the table beside her.

“Facts rarely speak,” she says. “People do.”

The quiet certainty in her voice makes my chest tighten.

“For years,” she continues, “Buckhorn repeated the same version of events about this land. The McCoys prospered. The Longs suffered. The narrative became familiar enough that no one felt the need to question it.” She folds her hands in her lap. “And because no one challenged it, the lie calcified.”

The word lands with uncomfortable precision.

Calcified.

Turned solid through time and repetition.

I feel everything shift slowly in my understanding. “I thought doing nothing would keep things from getting worse.”

My grandmother shakes her head gently.

“Silence rarely prevents harm,” she replies. “It simply allows someone else to define the truth.”

The room grows very still.

Because suddenly I understand exactly what she means.

For eight days, I have told myself I was being cautious, measured, and responsible, when in reality I was avoiding a choice entirely. I have been watching the town argue while my uncle shapes the narrative to suit his purposes, and while Nash stands alone in the middle of a story he cannot correct.

Choosing nothing, it turns out, is still choosing.

My grandmother watches my expression carefully.

“You see it now,” she says softly.

I nod.

Finally, the confusion in my mind begins to sharpen into something far less comfortable but far more useful.

Resolve.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Nash

February 12th

I wake before the sun, though it has very little to do with feeling rested. My brain simply refuses to settle long enough for sleep to count.