Page 108 of Holding Hope

She threw her head back in a full-bodied King laugh—the same one her father had, the same one Colton had, the same one Melody had when she was strong enough. The one I had come to love and wait for.

“Yes ma’am.”

I kissed her, wanting to drown in her. “Mmm,” I murmured against her lips, “say that again.”

The Saturday of Colton and Delia’s wedding arrived faster than I expected, and for reasons I couldn’t quite name, I was nervous. I wasn’t the one getting married, but a tight knot of energy sat coiled in my stomach anyway.

Clarke and I spent the few short days leading up to it cramming in every spare second we had away from Delia and her never-ending list of to-dos, working on our album. One afternoon, we ended up on the floor of her music booth, surrounded by half-finished lyrics, two guitars, and one giant stress ball she kept launching at the ceiling whenever she got stuck. She chewed on the tip of her pen—the teeth marks looked like they’d survived several albums—and tapped out a rhythm on her knee.

“Try it slower,” she murmured, leaning in as I hummed a melody. She matched it, then shifted it, then added a harmony so soft it felt like a secret. For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist—not the accident, not the wedding, not the ache sitting heavy in both our chests. Just the music. Just us.

Finding inspiration was easy when your muse sat across from you at dinner. Or laughed at your stupid jokes. Or held your hand during thunderstorms. Clarke and her family were so vividly painted into every line I wrote I might as well have become Leonardo da Vinci.

Melody sat in on some days, or rather Clarke and I set up camp in her room. She helped with more than she would ever know, and in the evenings, when we were all too tired to even think of writing another word, we curled up—one on each side of her—and fell asleep to the sounds of the TV.

And while the ridiculous feeling of anxiety continued to burrow in my belly, the rest of the King family moved through the morning with their usual calm. We all woke at our normal times despite staying up late drinking and laughing at the rehearsal dinner.

Mrs. King made breakfast as she always did, and we ate together — minus Melody, who was saving her strength for the ceremony.

Colton looked more composed than I’d ever seen him. His beard was trimmed, his mustache neat, his hair freshly cut by his mother the night before. I’d caught a glimpse of them in the dining room — him sitting in a chair, her standing on a small stool behind him, scissors snipping carefully as they reminisced about his childhood and the moment she first knew he’d fallen for Delia.

The sight warmed me… and hurt a little. I would never have moments like that with my own mother. Wishing for them wouldn’t change anything. I’d simply gotten unlucky in the parent department.

After breakfast, Mr. King and Colton headed to the barn. Clarke explained that it was King family tradition to gift a horse on a wedding day—usually one from childhood. I knew she was thinking about Artemis again. Had she imagined Artemis would be hers someday?

By noon, Clarke and I drove to the old barn Delia had chosen as her venue. It sat in the middle of a wide field on her parents’ property, decorated with the garlands we’d spent hours stringing and rows of mismatched chairs. It looked beautiful.

Inside, the spare office had been transformed into a dressing room. Delia’s dress hung from a hook on the door — soft cream linen with a corset bodice, off-the-shoulder sleeves, and a waterfall skirt. The lace-trimmed veil was embroidered with her favorite flowers.

Once she put it on, she looked like a storybook princess. Her bright red hair was pinned up with pearl pins, and Clarke—who had done her makeup—kept everything soft and natural, letting Delia’s freckles shine.

I could’ve watched Clarke all day. Her hands moved with such confidence as she worked, and the two of them laughed like they’d been doing this their whole lives. That familiar feeling of intrusion crept up on me, and I slipped quietly out of the room.

My phone buzzed. My mother’s name lit the screen. I groaned. I considered ignoring it—but answered anyway.

“Hi, mom.”

“Avalon, honey, when are you coming home? I have a brand who wants to talk to you about modeling for them. It’s this Friday.”

Straight to business. No hello. No I miss you. Kennedys didn’t do softness.

“I—I don’t know, Mom⁠—”

“Oh please,” she cut in. “You know how I feel about that word. Mom sounds so… old.”

I swallowed my irritation. “There are still things I want to accomplish here. I’m not ready to go back.”

She sighed dramatically. I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “What could you possibly accomplish in that boring little town? Los Angeles has opportunities. Texas has horses and hay bales.”

She bit into something crunchy. “Now, as your manager⁠—”

“You’re not my manager,” I snapped. We’d had this argument too many times. She wanted control over everything—my music, my food, my image. She wanted to mold me into a shinier version of herself.

“—I think it’s time you end this little rebellion, Lonny.”

There it was. The nickname she used when she was disappointed. Lonny. Childish. Belittling. A way to make her cruelty feel like affection.

“I’m not done here,” I said firmly. “I’ll come home when I’m ready.” I hung up before she could respond. Relief washed over me— followed quickly by the sting of her words. She could sour anything, even today.