I listened more than I talked, letting the voices wash over me like warm water. This was something I’d forgotten how to do in recent months — just sit and absorb the presence of people I loved without analyzing every word for subtext, without scanning the room for threats or calculating the probability of everything going wrong.
The absence of my abilities made it easier, strangely enough. Without the constant input of dimensional awareness, my mind had space for simpler things — the way my mother laughed at something my father said, or how Ben’s hand found mine beneath the table without either of us having to look. The way my grandmother watched all of us with an expression that might have been contentment if she’d been anyone else.
“A toast,” Rebecca said at last as she raised her glass of wine. The table fell quiet, all eyes turning to her. “To the people who saved the world. And to the ones who are still figuring out how to live in it.”
We raised our glasses. The wine was good — something Eric had brought from a vineyard in the Willamette Valley, apparently — and I let the taste of it sit on my tongue for a moment before swallowing.
“I want to say something,” I heard myself say, and twelve faces turned toward me with varying degrees of surprise. Public speeches had never been my strong suit. But the words were there, pressing against the back of my throat, and I’d learned recently that some things needed to be said out loud.
“Two weeks ago,” I continued, “I woke up in this house and reached for the ley line, and there was nothing there. Just silence. And I thought — ” I paused so I could steady my voice. “I thought that meant I’d lost everything that mattered. That I was broken in some fundamental way that couldn’t be fixed.”
Ben’s hand tightened around mine beneath the table.
“But looking at all of you right now, I’m starting to think maybe I was wrong.” I let my gaze move around the table, taking in each face in turn. “My mother and grandmother, who came back from a place I couldn’t reach. My father, who spent seventeen years protecting us from the shadows and then took a bullet to save my mom. Ben, who fell in love with me when I was suspicious and scared and terrible at letting people in. Rebecca and Eric, who risked everything to help us when they didn’t have to.”
I took a breath.
“I thought being a guardian was all about the abilities, the sensing and the channeling and the connection to something larger than myself. And I grieved when I lost that. I still grieve.” I let myself acknowledge the truth of it, the ache that hadn’t fully faded and might never fully fade. “But I think maybe being a guardian is actually about showing up for the people you love and about choosing to protect what matters, even when it costs you something. About building a life that’s worth defending.”
The table was silent, but it was a good silence. The kind that held rather than pressed.
“So here’s my toast,” I said, raising my glass. “To normal. To ordinary. To turkey and mediocre wine” — this drew a mock-offended noise from Eric, something I’d intended to lighten the mood — “and family gathered around a table in a house that’s survived everything the universe could throw at it. To the life we’re going to build together, whatever that looks like.”
“To the life we’re going to build,” my mother echoed, and the others joined in, glasses raised, voices blending into a harmony that filled the old home’s rooms with something very close to hope.
Across the table, my grandmother caught my eye and nodded once, a small gesture of approval that meant more than any speech she could have given.
The light outside deepened toward dusk, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I let myself believe that everything might actually be okay.
Later, after the dishes were washed and the leftovers stored and the house had settled into the drowsy contentment of a holiday well spent, I stood on the back porch and watched the stars come out.
Ben found me there, as I’d known he would. He brought two cups of coffee and settled into the chair beside mine, close enough that our arms touched.
“Big day,” he said.
“Mmm.” I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and let the steam rise into my face. “I think I gave a speech.”
“You definitely gave a speech. A good one, too.”
“I surprised myself.”
“You’re always surprising yourself.” He sipped his coffee, his gaze on the darkening forest at the edge of the property. “Hope cornered me before she left. She told me about the offer.”
“And?” I knew what I wanted…but I needed Ben to want it, too.
“And I told her it was your decision.” He turned to look at me, his expression open in the fading light. “But for what it’s worth, I like the idea. The house, the practice, the life. It feels like something we could build together.”
“‘We,’” I repeated. The word sat strangely on my tongue, weighted with a whole host of intention I wasn’t sure I was ready to examine.
“If you want,” he added quickly. “I’m not assuming anything. I just — ”
I cut him off before he could spiral into qualifications. “I want,” I said. “I want the ‘we.’ I want the house and the practice and the life we could build. I want all of it.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then he smiled — not the careful smile of someone managing expectations, but the real one, the one that transformed his whole face.
“Okay, then,” he said.
“Okay, then.”