Page 64 of Holding Hope
Her lips curved into a slow smile that sent a flutter through my stomach.
“You thought of me?”
“Shut up,” I coughed, turning away to hide my blush. “You need to shower.”
Avalon sighed, staring down at her knees. She looked like she wanted to say something—something about what I’d seen at Rorie’s—but I wasn’t going there. Not while she was still intoxicated. I wanted her to hear me. To remember.
I stood and pointed to the towels and body wash on the rack. I’d stocked up on extras, even though they were nowhere near as nice as what she was used to.
“You wash up, and I’ll get you some clothes. Just tell me where they are.”
She nodded distractedly, already peeling off her clothes. “You can grab anything tossed on the bed.”
I slipped out, closing the door behind me. The air felt stiff again—like sun-dried sheets left out too long. Whatever moment we’d shared—the laughing, the teasing—was gone. Replaced by the same stagnant tension that had followed us for weeks.
Were we slipping backward? I didn’t want that. I wanted to talk to her.
So why couldn’t I?
Crossing the barn toward her side of our shared space felt like stepping into enemy territory. The atmosphere shifted—a clear divide between her world and mine.
Avalon hadn’t been here long, and she hadn’t decorated much, but everything already felt like her.
Her open suitcases.
Clothes strewn everywhere.
Silver jewelry scattered across the dresser.
Boots and sneakers lined up beside a guitar case and sound equipment.
An unmade bed with pillows shoved toward the headboard, like she’d tried — and failed — to make it.
A small mountain of clothes sat on the covers. I stepped over an open notebook and sifted through the pile, searching for something comfortable.
Most of her clothes were black or gray, barely covering anything, or made entirely of lace.
“Goodness, Avalon,” I muttered. “How am I supposed to find anything?”
Eventually, I found an oversized band tee and a pair of shorts. As I turned to leave, the notebook on the floor caught my eye.
She’d come here to work on music with me, so of course she’d been writing. Curiosity tugged at me. I bent down, skimming the page.
It felt wrong — like reading someone’s diary — but I wanted to know.
Had she written songs about me the way I’d written about her?
The page was chaos — scribbles, crossed-out lines, highlighted phrases, tiny notes in the margins. Rough, but raw. Emotional. Full of potential.
Avalon didn’t believe in herself, but she had talent. She just needed someone to believe in her when she couldn’t. Someone she’d never had.
Her parents hadn’t been there for her — not when it mattered. Not when she’d been hurt. That kind of absence carved wounds that never fully healed.
Her words proved it.
I turned the page— and froze.
A strip of photos was tucked between the sheets.
