Page 220 of Tessa and Nash

“No,” I say, reaching for the suitcase in my closet. “But I may become dramatically sentimental, which would be far more inconvenient.”

For the next half hour, I pack.

Clothes. Toiletries. A stack of sweaters. Boots. My work things. My box of old maps and copied deeds. The leather notebook I’ve been carrying all this time. The silver-framed photograph of my mother. The bergamot perfume bottle on my dresser. The scarf Grandma knitted me three winters ago.

Grandma helps in the unshowy way she does everything. Folding. Carrying. Handing me items without fuss. At one point, I catch her pausing with one of my childhood books in her hand, thumb brushing absently over the worn spine before she sets it back on the shelf.

That nearly ruins me again.

When I zip the final suitcase shut, the room echoes.

It is amazing how quickly a place can stop looking inhabited.

Downstairs, the house is silent.

Thomas has retreated to the study, the door closed with pointed finality.

Good.

I don’t want a second confrontation. I have no interest in a theatrical exit.

Grandma walks me to the front door. One suitcase in my hand, one in hers, despite my protest, document box balanced against my hip.

When I open the door, the night air cuts cold across my face.

Nash’s truck is already at the curb. I give Grandma a look.

“What?” She shrugs. “I called in the date I paid for on Valentine's Day.”

The porch light catches him as he steps out of the truck and heads toward us, hat in hand, expression carefully neutral in the way people get when they are trying not to stride into the middle of a family crisis and make it worse.

“You all right?” he asks quietly when he reaches the steps.

“No,” I say truthfully. Then, because it is also true: “But I will be.”

His gaze softens.

Grandma sets the suitcase down and gives him a look so measured it almost makes me smile. “You will take care of her.”

Nash inclines his head, serious all at once. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s been through enough.”

“I know.”

“And if you upset her,” Grandma adds, “I have survived too much in this life to be frightened of burying a cowboy.”

Nash blinks.

I close my eyes briefly. “Grandma.”

“What?” she asks. “He should understand the stakes.”

To his credit, Nash doesn’t laugh; he just nods solemnly. “Understood.”

I turn to Grandma before the emotion can get any worse and hug her hard. She holds me just as tightly. For a moment, I’m twelve again and newly orphaned and trying not to drown in all the things that changed overnight.

Then I’m twenty-two, standing on the porch of the house that shaped me, leaving it by choice.