Chapter 6: The Sunrise Pact

The Langley garden had been filled with yellow roses that Lila loved, and the glass sunroom held an expensive grand piano. Every day, the gardener trimmed those roses, and the piano sat untouched in the sunroom, a shrine to a ghost. That piano had been custom-made for her by Derek, and no one else was allowed to touch it.

I’d once run my fingers over the keys, but Derek stopped me with a look. “That’s not yours.” The memory still stung.

That year, Grandma Carol wanted someone to remove those roses. She’d called a landscaper, telling me it was time for a fresh start. I’d nodded, hopeful.

Derek got furious. He stormed in, voice shaking the windows. It was the first and only time I saw him truly lose his composure. “If the roses go, then I’m not coming back to this house.”

He made it sound like a threat and a promise, all at once. Everyone tiptoed around him for days. No one brought it up again. Lila and those roses became off-limits in the Langley house. Their presence grew, year after year, a living memorial to a love I could never match.

In the afternoon, someone knocked at the cottage door. I wiped my hands on my jeans and opened it to find Jackson Monroe—paint-splattered hoodie, backpack slung over his shoulder, eyes shining with excitement.

He bounced on his heels, sunlight catching in his tousled brown hair. He looked like someone who’d never had his heart broken. “Hey, I’m heading up the ridge to paint tomorrow’s sunrise. Want to come for a walk?”

He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, enthusiasm contagious. "Best view in town. You gotta see it."

From my porch, the hill rolled green and wild—local legend said it was the best place to see the stars. Old postcards featured the ridge, and every diner waitress swore by its magic. Most people who visited the town came for that hill. It was a rite of passage. Locals called it ‘Lover’s Lookout.’

There was something honest about Jackson’s offer—no pretense, no expectations. Just a walk and a sunrise.

“Don’t worry, I camp all the time. I know what I’m doing—it’s safe.” He held up his hands, mock-serious. “I’ll even bring the bug spray.”

Convinced by his enthusiasm, I nodded. It felt good to say yes for once—no overthinking, no guilt. Just curiosity.

Jackson really was as experienced as he said. He moved with practiced ease, rolling up sleeping bags and securing tent poles like a pro. I watched, amazed.

He went back and brought out another bag, carrying both sets of camping gear by himself, along with his painting supplies. The canvas was nearly as tall as me, but he slung it over his shoulder without complaint. "Art is a contact sport," he joked.

I tried to help, but he wouldn’t let me. He shook his head, refusing to let me lift a finger. “I’ve got this. Besides, you brought the cornbread. That’s enough.”

“I’m strong! This is nothing.” He flexed for effect, making me laugh out loud for the first time in months.

On the way up the hill, we talked about the past and the future. The path was steep, but Jackson’s stories kept me distracted—tales of college misadventures, wild art professors, and dreams of opening a gallery someday.

My past seemed dull and unremarkable—just circling around the Langley family, around Derek. I realized how small my world had become. Everything revolved around the Langley mansion, never me.

I said it out loud for the first time, and Jackson didn’t flinch or pity me. He just listened. He talked about cities he wanted to visit—Santa Fe, Seattle, New York—and artists he hoped to meet. His optimism was infectious.

“Gotta at least try before I chicken out, right?” he said, grinning.

He winked, making light of it. But there was a truth in his words I recognized—a longing to belong and the fear of being pulled back in.

For the first time in a long while, I felt seen—not as Mrs. Langley, not as a charity case, just as me. Maybe that’s why we understood each other. We were both searching for something we’d never had.

When we reached the top, it was just in time for sunset. The sky blazed orange and violet, streaks of light dancing across the horizon. We stood together in awe, silent for once.

Jackson was already busy setting up the tent. He whistled as he worked, the rhythm familiar and comforting. He handed me a flashlight with a grin.

I asked, “The sunset’s beautiful too. Why not paint it?”

He shrugged, shading his eyes with his hand. “Sunset’s like saying goodbye. Sunrise is hope. New day, new chances.”

His words lingered in the fading light, the promise of tomorrow stirring something restless in me.

I let go, stretching out beside him, letting the night air fill my lungs. It felt like permission to breathe. Lying there, the stars felt so close, like I could reach out and touch them.

We swapped stories about our favorite movies, worst first dates, and childhood dreams. Laughter came easy. I realized I couldn’t stay stuck in the past forever. I needed to try—really try—to move forward.

I didn’t want to hide anymore. I wanted to live. For the first time, I wanted to wake up and see what tomorrow looked like.