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When I walked by Wolfe, his hand reached out for mine. His fingers were a long, slow drag against my arm. I shivered at the touch. Tommy turned, steadying me.

“All right, lass?”

“I’m fine,” I managed. Wolfe squeezed my hand, thumb swiping up the middle of my palm. “I’m fine.”

Dinner was delicious.

I’d never had a better meal. The roast and carrots were tender and loaded with flavor. The ale Tommy poured was cold and crisp and went down far too easily. Moira baked a cinnamon apple bread that I would have begged for if she’d asked.

They were lovely people.

Kind, genuine, and so desperately in love with each other it hurt to look at. They spoke fondly of their children, their grandchildren, and their neighbors in Bracken Bay. Wolfe watched all of it leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest.

How something could be so healing and hurt so terribly all at the same time baffled me.

This—this existed.

What I wrote about in my books was real.

Warmth, love, companionship, happily-ever-afters.

It was all real.

Looking at Tommy and Moira I could see it.

Maybe not every year was perfect, and maybe there were fights and arguments and nights someone slept on the couch, but the…the love, the devotion, the reverence in which Tommy fiddled with his wedding band…

I hadn’t expected it to sting so deeply.

Somewhere I knew it existed. It had to. But with every night I spent alone, listening to my parents argue, readying myself for school and walking to the bus without anyone to make sure I got there safely, it calcified something in me.

For a romance writer, maybe I was bitter. Jaded.

Maybe I didn’t even know what love was.

It was a horrible time to have an identity crisis.

Seated at someone else’s table, heart beating so furiously I felt it in my temples.

“Breathe,” Wolfe commanded quietly. “You’re turning white, Avery.”

I did as he commanded and focused on breathing, inhaling in and out slowly. I wanted to cry. Wanted to tear the broken thing out of my chest and heave it into the sea.

I was alive, but was I living?

“Avery? You’re looking a bit pale, darling.” Moira settled her hand over mine. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I should get going, it’s late. Thank you for dinner, it was delicious.”

Moira wouldn’t let me go without a few slices of cake for the road. She hugged me hard, kissed me on the cheek, and promised to give me the dates of her book club. Tommy walked me to my car, hands stuffed in his pockets.

The night sky above was clear for once and not shrouded by clouds. Stars burned overhead, staring down at me while I tried to piece myself together. Wolfe followed, hovering by my side. He settled like an itch between my shoulder blades, arm brushing against mine.

“For what it’s worth,” Tommy began, then paused. “For what it’s worth,” he said, trying again, “it doesn’t make us weak. Being alone,” he explained. “It takes a strong soul to bear the weight of it—to live in it. But you must promise me, Avery,” he said, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder, “that when it comes—when it all comes—you’ll reach out your hand and take it.”

Wolfe inhaled sharply behind me and I wanted to echo it, wanted to shudder and shiver and bow under his words.

“It’s all worth it,” he promised. “You don’t need to wear your loneliness like a badge. It’s a terrifying feat to open yourself up, but we’re always better for it in the end.” He gave me a small, sad smile. “Promise?”