Page 21 of The Run Back Home

"Twenty-four hours too long without coming home," she says. "You could just stay here, ya know. Golden City's only like a thirty-minute drive. People commute every day!"

There it is. Not five minutes in.

"Not Max," I remind her.

She rolls her eyes, and turns toward the kitchen. It's empty except for us, which tells me my siblings knew exactly what I was stepping into, and rather than choose sides, they disappeared.

"Yeah, but he's here more than he's not," she argues, picking up the spoon on the counter. She puts it into whatever cookie dough she's whipping up and swirls it like she can mix back time if she tries.

"Plus, he's with Sadie. You're all alone up there."

"Not for long," I shoot back, picking at a crusty edge of a piece of bread on the plate. "I start work tomorrow."

She smiles, watching the dough in the bowl finally come together. I'm trying to decide if she's thinking of her next counter-argument or if this is Mom retreating. For now.

But then she answers for me.

"You could save money," she presses, turning back toward the stove to grab a pan. "And it'd be nice having everyone close again. Bridget's finally settled with Zuri down the street, and Sam and Olive bring the baby here all the time."

I lean against the counter, watching her roll what I can now see is shortbread cookies into small balls and place them on the pan.

Everyone close.

There was a time I wanted that more than anything—all of us still rooted in the same little corner of the world.

Back before I understood what staying cost.

I let my eyes drift out the window behind Mom and immediately spot the tree house like it was waiting for me to look. It's tucked into the thick oak in the back, exactly where Sam helped Dad build it all those years ago. The wood looks weathered, even from here, and the rope ladder still hangs angled from that massive thunderstorm that threatened to rip it away.

My stomach knots.

That damn treehouse.

I can still picture us sitting in it—the only place outside not covered in snow. I can still see our breaths, intertwining between us. Still feel the smooth wood beneath my glove as I dragged my fingers across it nervously.

I knew that moment was different—our first time together outside of the park. And when he said my name—the way only he said it—it's like my body knew that moments later, it would never be the same.

"Lenny," he said, scooting closer, our knees touching as we sat cross-legged on the floor.

"Yeah?" I barely managed, the combination of the cold and my nerves stealing my breath.

Jace pulled his hand from where it was tucked inside his sleeve and lifted it slowly. Cautiously. Like he was testing my reaction.

When I didn't flinch, he slid his freezing palm to my face and held my cheek like I had only ever seen him hold a baseball—surely, tightly. Like it was a gift. "Can I kiss you?"

I nodded, and I didn't know it then, but that was the moment Mage Hollow stopped being enough. Where that closeness Mom talks about started to feel like distance from what I really needed.

Back then, leaving felt like a pipe dream. Something you might talk about but never commit to. You might want it even—like how Max wanted hockey—but Mage Hollow wouldn't allow us to go.

"Nora," Mom says, calling me back to the present. Back in from the treehouse.

I swallow hard, blinking away the memories.

"Yeah?"

She pauses. "You okay?"

I force a smile so quickly I think it almost works. "Yeah," I nod. "Just hungry."