Chapter 17: A New Beginning
The last row stretched before me, a long green ribbon waiting to be tamed. The sun had climbed higher, pressing down on the back of my neck, and sweat had soaked through the sports bra, plastering my tank top to my skin. My arms ached from wrestling the steering wheel, and my thighs burned from the vibration of the seat. But the lawn looked good, transformed, a wild tangle turned into neat, even stripes that curved around the farmhouse like a promise kept.
I was maybe two-thirds down the final pass when I saw the patrol car turn into the gravel drive. Sunlight caught the windshield, turning it to a bright flash, and my heart did a little skip that had nothing to do with the heat. Allan was early. Dinner was hours away. I watched the car roll to a stop near the front porch, the engine cutting off with a soft click.
I wanted to run to him. But the mower was still running, and the last strip of grass mocked me, an unfinished sentence. I gunned the throttle and finished the pass, the blades chewing through the final clump of tall grass with a satisfying whir. I killed the engine at the edge of the yard, and the sudden silence hit me like a wave, the headphones still clamped over my ears muffling the world into a soft hush.
Allan had gotten out of the car and was standing by the porch, one hand shading his eyes against the sun. He was still in uniform, but he had loosened the collar, and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, showing the tan line where his watch usually sat. He was smiling, a slow, crooked thing that made my stomach flip.
I pulled the headphones off and let them drop around my neck, the world rushing back in with the sound of birds and the creak of the tractor settling. I climbed down, my boots hitting the gravel with a crunch, and then I was running.
The grass was short and springy under my feet, and each stride sent a jolt through my body. I felt it immediately, the heavy, rhythmic bounce of my chest against the snug sports bra, the way the weight of me moved with every step. It was a sensation I still wasn't used to, a constant reminder of the body I inhabited, but right now it just made me laugh, a breathless, surprised sound that escaped me as I closed the distance.
Allan watched me come, his smile widening. He stepped off the porch to meet me, and when I reached him, he caught me easily, his arms wrapping around my waist and lifting me off my feet in a brief, effortless spin. I clung to him, my legs wrapping around his hips, my arms around his neck, and I could feel the sweat on my skin, the heat of my body, the pounding of my heart against his chest.
"You're early," I managed, breathless.
"I got the early shift covered." His hands were on the backs of my thighs, gripping the damp fabric of the shorts. "Didn't want to wait until tonight."
I pulled back enough to look at him. His face was close, his eyes bright, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks from the sun. I could smell the soap from his morning shower, faded now, and underneath it the clean scent of his skin.
I kissed him. It was not a slow morning kiss. This one was hungry and quick, fueled by the heat of the afternoon and the joy of seeing his face. He made a small sound against my mouth, his grip tightening on my thighs, and when I finally pulled away, I was grinning like an idiot.
"You're a mess," he said, his voice rough.
"I just mowed the lawn," I said, gesturing at the field. "All of it."
He looked over my shoulder at the neat stripes of grass, the tractor sitting at the far edge like a faithful dog waiting for its next command. His eyebrows lifted. "You did that yourself?"
"Got the tractor going. It just needed a battery and some carburetor love."
He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through his chest. "I'm starting to think there's nothing you can't fix."
I snorted, but the words settled warm in my chest. He shifted, letting me slide down his body until my feet hit the ground, and his hands moved from my thighs to my waist, resting there like they belonged.
"I brought you something," he said.
"Besides dinner?"
He ducked his head, a hint of shyness flickering across his face. "Come see."
He took my hand and led me to the patrol car. The trunk opened with a soft beep, and inside, nestled on a blanket, was a small potted plant with delicate white blossoms and dark green leaves. He lifted it out carefully, cradling it like something precious.
"I saw it at the nursery in town," he said. "They said it's a gardenia. It'll bloom all summer if you take care of it." He looked at me, a little uncertain. "I thought it might make the porch feel less empty. When I'm not here."
I stared at the plant, then at him. Something thick and tight formed in my throat. He had seen the empty porch. He had noticed the way the house sat silent and alone, and he had decided to fill it with something that would grow.
"It's perfect," I said, my voice coming out a little husky.
I took the pot from him, cradling it against my chest like a baby. The planter was white ceramic, simple and clean, and the blossoms smelled faintly sweet. It looked impossibly alive against my sweat-stained tank top.
"Thank you," I said, and I meant it more than he could know.
He smiled, that soft, private smile he saved for moments like this, and reached out to tuck a strand of damp hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek, warm against my heated skin.
"Wanna help me water it?" I asked.
He looked at the gardenia, then at me. "Yeah. I'd like that."
We found a spot on the porch, near the railing where the afternoon sun would reach it but not scorch it. I fetched a watering can from the mudroom, and we stood side by side, watching the water soak into the dark soil. The little white blossoms seemed to nod at us, approving of their new home.
I was still covered in sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead, my shorts grass-stained and dusty. But Allan didn't seem to mind. He kept glancing at me with that soft look, as if I was the only person in the world worth seeing.
"Thank you for this," I said, setting the watering can down. "For today. For everything."
He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "You don't have to thank me, Sabrina."
"I know. But I want to."
He looked at me for a long moment, the afternoon light catching the gold in his eyes. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, soft and lingering, a promise of the evening ahead.
His lips lingered at the corner of my mouth, warm and unhurried, and when he pulled back, there was a shyness in his eyes I hadn't seen before. He cleared his throat, glancing down at our joined hands.
"So, I was thinking about something," he said, and the careful tone made my stomach do a little flip. "I told my mom about you today. At work, I mean. Called her on my lunch break."
I blinked. "You told your mom about me?"
"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, a flush creeping up his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. "I've been talking about you a lot lately, apparently. My deputy noticed. Said I had a certain look when I mentioned the new neighbor. So I figured I should probably tell Mom before someone else did."
I felt a warmth spread through my chest, fragile and bright. He had told his mother about me. Allan Cole, the guarded deputy who kept his cards close, had called his mom to talk about the girl who moved into the old farmhouse.
"What did you tell her?" I asked, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
"That I met someone." He met my eyes, and there was something open and vulnerable in his gaze. "Someone who fixed a tractor and a truck and makes me laugh. Someone I like spending time with. Someone I'd like her to meet."
The words hung in the air between us, golden and warm like the afternoon light. My thumb traced across his knuckles without me thinking about it.
"I'd love that," I said, and the smile that broke across his face made my heart ache in the best way.
He exhaled, a breath he'd been holding. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I would really love that."
He pulled me into a quick hug, his arms wrapping around my waist and lifting me off my feet again. I laughed into his shoulder, feeling the press of his uniform shirt against my cheek, the warmth of him through the fabric. When he set me down, his hands stayed on my hips.
"She's free tonight," he said, and there was a hopeful lilt to his voice. "I was thinking, if you're up for it, maybe she could join us for dinner. I mean, I already said I'd bring dinner, but I could just as easily make enough for three. Or we could order something. Whatever you're comfortable with."
I stared at him. He had told his mom about me, and he was inviting her to our dinner. Tonight. In my house. My borrowed farmhouse with its fabricated backstory and its carefully constructed life.
A flicker of fear ran through me, cold and quick. His mom would ask questions. Mothers always did. She would want to know about my parents, my childhood, my life before Vermont. And I would have to lie to her face, spin the fiction Vance-Ross had handed me like a script I'd been rehearsing my whole life.
But then I looked at Allan, at the hopeful, almost nervous way he was watching me, and the fear settled into something quieter. He had trusted me with himself last night. He had opened up in a way I knew cost him. And I had handed him my truth, at least the part I could bear to share. This was the next step, the natural turn of the path we were walking together.
"I'd love to meet her," I said, and I meant it. "I'm a little nervous, honestly. What if she doesn't like me?"
He laughed, low and warm. "She's going to love you." He leaned in and kissed my forehead. "She already thinks you're the best thing that's happened to me, and she hasn't even met you yet."
I ducked my head, a flush rising to my cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. The gardenia sat on the porch railing beside us, its white blossoms bright against the gray wood, and I reached out to touch one of the petals, soft and cool under my fingertip.
"Okay," I said, looking back at him. "Let's do it. Dinner tonight. Your mom joining us."
His grin was like sunrise. "I'll call her. Tell her the plan." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling for her contact, then paused. "You sure? I don't want to push you into anything."
"I'm sure." I squeezed his hand. "I want to meet her. I want to be part of this."
The words surprised me even as they left my mouth. Part of this. Part of his life. I had spent weeks feeling like a ghost in my own borrowed skin, floating through a life that wasn't mine. But standing here with him, covered in sweat and grass clippings, the gardenia blooming at my elbow, I felt anchored. Real.
He made the call while I went inside to wash up. I could hear his voice through the open window, warm and easy, a low rumble punctuated by laughter. By the time I had scrubbed the grime from my hands and face and changed into a clean sundress, he was leaning against the porch railing, phone back in his pocket, still smiling.
"She's excited," he said as I stepped out. "Told me she's been waiting to meet the girl who finally caught my eye. Whatever that means."
I laughed, the sound surprising me again. "I didn't know I'd caught your eye."
"Sabrina." He pushed off the railing and crossed to me, taking both my hands in his. "You haven't just caught my eye. You've caught all of me."
My chest tightened. I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come, so I kissed him instead, soft and slow and full of everything I couldn't say.
"Six o'clock?" I managed when we broke apart.
"Six o'clock. I'll bring enough for an army." He kissed my forehead one more time, then headed for his patrol car, glancing back at me with a smile that made my heart do a slow, sweet somersault.
I watched him drive away, the gardenia a small white promise on the porch behind me. His mom was coming to dinner. And for the first time in weeks, the thought didn't terrify me. It felt like a beginning.
I watched his patrol car disappear around the bend, the gardenia's perfume drifting on the breeze. Then I was moving, my feet carrying me up the porch steps and through the front door, the screen slamming behind me. I took the stairs two at a time, my sundress catching on my thighs, and kicked off my sandals in the bedroom doorway.
The dress hit the floor in a pool of cotton. My bra followed, then the thong, and I stood naked in front of the mirror for just a moment, taking in the flushed cheeks, the damp hair, the soft curves still gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Then I stepped into the shower and turned the water hot.
Steam billowed up, filling the small space with warmth. I let the water pound against my shoulders, washing away the grit and grass clippings, feeling the heat seep into muscles I hadn't known were sore. The soap smelled of lavender, the same scent that lingered in the bedroom, and I worked it into a lather across my arms, my stomach, the heavy weight of my breasts. My hands moved slowly, savoring the sensation of skin against skin, the way the water sluiced over the curve of my hips.
I tilted my head back, letting the water run through my hair, and thought about the evening ahead. His mother, coming to my house. Allan, watching me with those flint-gray eyes. The gardenia blooming on the porch. A beginning, unfolding out of everything I'd thought was lost.
I shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around myself. The mirror was fogged, my reflection a soft blur, but I smiled at it anyway. I had time before six. And I knew exactly what I wanted to wear.
The towel was soft against my skin, rough from a few weeks of use. I dried off quickly, the steam still curling in the air, and padded barefoot across the bedroom floor to the closet. I hadn't spent much time in there since I'd arrived, just enough to grab the basics. The clothes had all come with the house, curated by people I'd never meet, chosen for a woman I was still learning to be.
I pulled the door open and ran my hand along the row of hangers. Most of it was casual, jeans and tees and tank tops, but toward the back, pushed against the wall, hung a dress. I pulled it out and held it up to the light.
It was a sundress, pale blue with thin straps and a modest neckline that wouldn't show anything I didn't want to show. It had a small floral pattern, delicate white blossoms scattered across the cotton, and it fell just past my knees. It felt like the kind of thing a daughter would wear to meet her boyfriend's mother for the first time. The kind of thing that said, I made an effort, but I didn't try too hard.
I laid it across the bed, smoothing the fabric flat, then turned to the dresser. The top drawer held the underthings, all new, all in their neat little compartments. I reached for a bra, a simple white one with no lace, nothing fussy. Matched with a plain white thong from the same drawer. Modest. Honest. The kind of underwear a good girl wore.
Me, a good girl.
I laughed softly at that, the sound swallowed by the quiet room. Justin Zygurski had been many things. Accountant. Witness. Coward, maybe, for the years he'd spent looking the other way. But a good girl? That was new.
I stepped into the thong, working it up over my hips, then reached behind me for the bra. I'd gotten better at the clasp, my fingers finding the hooks with an ease that surprised me. The cups settled over my breasts, snug and supportive, and I adjusted the straps, feeling the weight of me lifted, contained.
The dress went on next, sliding over my head, the cotton cool against my skin. It fell into place, skimming my curves, the straps settling on my shoulders. I turned to the mirror and looked at myself. The neckline was modest, a soft scoop that showed the hollow of my throat and nothing more. The fabric nipped in at my waist before flaring gently over my hips. It was a kind dress. An unassuming dress. A dress that said, I am not a threat. I am just a girl who wants dinner to go well.
I smoothed my hands down the front, feeling the cotton against my palms. Underneath, I could feel the shape of me, the weight and give of my body, the way the thong sat snug against my skin. I thought about what I would tell her, Allan's mother. The script I'd rehearsed played in my head, the story Vance-Ross had given me. My parents died in a house fire. I needed a fresh start. A small town felt like the right place to find one.
The lies sat heavy in my throat, but they tasted familiar now. I'd told them once already, to Allan, and he had believed me. Or at least, he had accepted me. That was enough.
I sat down at the vanity, the small table with its round mirror and its collection of cosmetics I'd barely touched. I had experimented with makeup once, and it had gone surprisingly well. Now I faced the mirror again, the afternoon light soft on my face, and picked up a tube of foundation I'd noticed in the drawer.
My hands moved with more confidence than they should have. A dot here, a dot there, blended outward with my fingertips. The foundation evened out my skin, softened the sun-pink flush from mowing, gave me an even canvas. I added a touch of concealer under my eyes, where I'd been sleeping less than I should. Then a little mascara, sweeping the brush through my lashes, and a soft pink lipstick that I blotted with a tissue.
I sat back and looked at myself.
The woman in the mirror was pretty. She was more than pretty, she was beautiful, with her honey-blonde waves and her bright blue eyes and her sundress like a summer morning. I still didn't fully recognize her. Some mornings I woke up and reached for a body that wasn't there, expecting Justin's flat chest, his broad shoulders, the weight of his thirty-six years. But more and more, the face in the mirror was becoming mine.
I picked up the blow dryer and went to work on my hair, the warm air lifting the strands, coaxing them into soft waves around my shoulders. I brushed it out afterward, watching the honey tones catch the light, the way it fell in gentle curves against the pale blue of the dress.
Funny, I thought, setting the brush down. A week ago, I wouldn't have known what to do with any of this. I'd never worn makeup as Justin. Never thought about it, never wanted to. It was a language I didn't speak, a ritual I'd never learned.
And yet my hands had known. They'd picked up the brush like they'd held it a hundred times. My fingers had found the right shade, the right pressure, the right blend. It was like the body knew things I didn't, had instincts I'd never asked for.
It was terrifying, that thought. And it was also, in a strange way, comforting. Some part of me was settling into this new skin, learning its rhythms, its rituals. I wasn't just wearing Sabrina anymore. I was becoming her.
I capped the lipstick and stood, smoothing the dress one last time. In the mirror, a girl I was starting to know looked back at me. She was nervous. She was hopeful. She was about to meet the mother of the man who had, against all odds, made her feel like she had a place in the world.
I walked to the window and looked out at the yard, the neat stripes of mown grass, the gardenia bright on the porch railing. The sun was beginning its slow slide toward evening. Six o'clock would be here soon enough.