Dixie was already waiting for me on the bench, hands in her lap, a timid smile on her face. I was fifteen minutes early, yet somehow it didn’t surprise me that she’d been waiting here. Dixie was always three steps ahead, and forever at my disposal since she came to Todos Santos.

Maybe that’s why hating her was so pointless. It got old fast. Mom was gone now, and my entire range of emotions was directed toward either mourning her loss or putting a plan together to get Luna back. Dixie was no longer a threat, because I wasn’t worried Mom would somehow find out about her and feel replaced.

Dixie handed me a purple and blue slushie. Berries and grapes. My favorite, though we’d never discussed slushies, so my guess was it was one of the many things she’d found out by stalking my ass.

“Thanks.” I took a big slurp, squinting at the sunset. She curled a strand of my tousled hair behind my ear in response.

“How are you holding up?”

Great. Small talk. Exactly what I needed. That, and a hot bleach treatment for my anus.

“Fine.” Everyone’s favorite word.

“No, you’re not. I’m relieved to see you hurting. Numbing the pain with substances would have made things much worse.”

I wanted to shatter her hope to miniscule pieces. To tell her that, although I had been sober—as promised to Luna, not her—I hadn’t been eating or sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mom. And every time I opened them, I saw a ghost-like vision of Moonshine walking away from me, getting farther and farther with each blink. I was shit-scared that, as time went on, Luna’s sense of responsibility toward me would lessen. She’d go back to Boon. To April. To FUCKING JOSH.

I wanted to tell Dixie I was haunted by two women, that I had no room for her in my heart, in my brain, or in the space in between them.

Yet, for the first time since we’d met, I didn’t say any of that mean shit.

“When’re you leaving?” I changed the subject.

Even talking about Mom with Dixie felt like a betrayal. I’d told Dad I was glad he gave Dix the third degree for attending Mom’s funeral, but the truth was, I mostly pitied her while she was there. Yeah, she was alive, and Rosie wasn’t, but Mom had been loved. Adored. Cherished by an entire community and put on a pedestal by the men in her life.

I’d never love Dixie the same way. Hell, I’d have given my own life for Mom, without even pausing to think about it.

“Knight…”

“It’s a simple question, Dixie,” I snapped.

Silently, she handed me an envelope. It was already torn open and wrinkled to death. I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Couldn’t afford the glue?” I crooked an eyebrow.

“Read it.” She ignored my bullshit, nudging me. “Please.”

“And then you’ll tell me when you’re leaving?” I flashed a taunting smirk, trying to make her feel unwelcome, but no longer invested in making her feel unhappy.

“Then you will tell me if you still want me to leave.” She jutted her chin up.

That piqued my interest. I took out the letter, and the first thing I noticed was the handwriting. It was like a bucket of ice water in my face. Because I would recognize it anytime, anywhere, even in my sleep. Neat and bold, all long strokes.

My throat went dry, my eyes drinking in every word, as if they were water.

Dear Dixie,

I know I should stop writing to you. Maybe it’s compulsive at this point. Thing is, I don’t have much time left, and I cannot afford to leave this earth knowing I haven’t done everything I possibly could to connect you two.

I understand why you’re not replying to my letters when I send you pictures of him. It is frighteningly easy to get attached to our Knight. And by “our,” I mean mine, Dean’s, and yours.

Yours, Dixie. Yours.

He is gorgeous, isn’t he? The most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. But it’s not just his good looks and athletic nature that make him so popular. I don’t want you to think he’s just another pretty face.

Did you know he is best friends with our neighbor’s kid, who is a selective mute? She doesn’t speak at all. He carried her backpack all through elementary and middle school, every single day, even when he was sick. Up until last year, when she graduated from high school, he had spent every recess and lunch break with her just so she’d have someone to sit with. He once punched a boy in the face for insulting her and got suspended. His heart is big and open and spongy. It’s soaked in goodness. I swear.

He’s funny, too. I hope this doesn’t come off as gloating, but he really is wonderful. Do you remember his father? Did he have a good sense of humor? Knight can bring me to happy tears when he puts his mind to it. And he does, often. Especially when I don’t feel well. He stands in front of my bed, like it’s a stage, and tells me jokes.

This is not me trying to convince you to love him. I know you already do. This is me basking in the joy we should share, for our son is kind, and handsome, and healthy, and strong. My only regret is the circumstances in which I want you to reconnect with him.

Knight deserves a mother. Someone who will take care of him.

Lev deserves a mother, too, although I would never ask you to take that role.

My husband, Dean, needs a companion.

I know you are single. I know you live alone. I know you never bounced back from giving Knight away.