She had her parents. She could talk with Evie. The girl Birdie, who was at her house daily these days. Mrs. Lewis.
Even after only a few months in this town, Bree had a thousand shoulders to cry on.
Not his.
There was no way she’d cry on his shoulder. Even if a part of him, a strange, small part, wanted her to.
He tapped on the computer and waited as the monitor woke up.
The cursor flashed at him on the password line, waiting.
His fingers hovered over the keys.
He glanced out his window.
Exhaled.
Stood.
He walked back up the stairs and peeked through the bedroom window. Bree was no longer on her phone but sitting on the edge of her bed. Alone. Her head sunk into her hands.
Within seconds, he was out the door and standing on her doorstep. He rang the doorbell and waited . . .
Chip pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.
Listened to the quiet clucking of the chickens inside their henhouse.
Watched the windmill at the top of the henhouse turn.
He rang the doorbell again.
“Bree. It’s Chip,” he said through the door.
He inclined his head to the door. Heard nothing but silence on the other side.
He rang the doorbell once more, and after one more minute of silence, he walked until he hit the crunchy area of her driveway. He peered up to the second story. Picked up a piece of gravel. Rolled it in his fingers. Tossed it up to her window.
It clinked against the pane and fell to the driveway.
Silence.
He tossed another.
And another.
Bree came to the window.
He caught her eye.
“C’mon, Bree. Open up.”
She hesitated but then pulled up the pane. “I’m not in the mood to fight, Chip,” she said, and started to shut it again.
“I didn’t come for that.” He put up his hands in surrender. “Honest. I just want to talk.”
Her long braid fell over her shoulder and a few inches out the window while she stood there. He almost saw the gears turning in her head.
He bounced on his toes, looking back at her. “Just for a minute,” he said.
Even from this distance he could see the red around her eyes.
“Just for a minute, then,” she repeated. A moment later, the window slammed shut.
As her figure moved out of sight, he walked over to the front porch. Listened as several deadbolts unlocked behind her front door. The door swung open.
Bree stood beside it awkwardly. Nodded as though she had no idea what to do. “I would say I was sorry for leaving so abruptly, except I didn’t invite you.”
Chip cut to the chase. “Who’s Anna?”
Bree pursed her lips.
When she spoke, her voice was carefully controlled. “She’s my niece.”
Chip nodded. For the first time since he’d moved in, there was no sarcastic tone or hidden meaning between them. “How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“Cancer?”
Bree seemed to have to swallow before she answered. “Yes.”
Chip nodded again as he stood there on her front porch, his hands dug into his pockets. He nodded more toward the doormat this time, bouncing on his toes for a few moments before settling back on the ground. “I had no idea.”
“I can’t imagine how you could,” Bree replied, her voice as stiff as her posture against the door.
For several seconds they both stood there, each staring down at the mat, she looking as uncomfortable as he at this new type of communication between them. Teasing was easy. Silent mockery had been fun. But honesty? Authentic feelings? Pulling down their guard?
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She nodded.
It didn’t feel like enough, though. He found himself standing out in the cold, having dragged her out of the privacy of her own home, just so he could pry out the facts of why she was so upset. It wasn’t enough. What he’d said wasn’t enough.
He had to say more.
He cleared his throat. “The fact is, Bree, I know a little something about loss too. Being afraid of loss.” He hurried on with the words he so seldom shared. Facts everybody in this town knew except her. “My twin brother passed away four years ago. It’s . . . why I came back to Abingdon.”
He watched as she blinked, and her hard expression softened. “Oh.”
He hated sharing this. He hated what followed every time someone found out. Condolences. Slanted, pitying eyes. Trite, pithy sayings to fill the void of silence.
And now he was standing there, waiting for her to say something about the most defining event of his