"Good. Because you're stuck with it now." I kissed him once more, softer, trying to memorize the exact pressure of his lips, the way his hand came up to cup my jaw. "Drive safe. Text me when you get home."
"You too." He climbed into his car, and I watched him buckle in, adjust his mirrors, take a deep breath that fogged in the cold air.
Then he was pulling out of the parking lot, brake lights bright red against the snow, and I stood there watching his car disappear down the mountain road. Someone—Claire, maybe—touched my shoulder in passing, a brief squeeze of solidarity.
The snow fell harder and I wondered if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Or the best decision.
***
The drive to Denver felt longer than it had on the way up.
I kept picking up my phone to text Jason, then remembering he was driving and putting it back down. The rental car's heater blasted dry air that smelled like industrial cleaning solution and a thousand previous drivers. The radio played nothing but Christmas songs—too cheerful, too certain of their happy endings.
The highway cut through mountains and trees, everything white and pristine and lonely as hell.
At the airport, waiting for my flight in a terminal decked out with garland and oversized ornaments, I finally gave in and texted:Made it to Denver. Flight boards in an hour. Miss you already.
His response came almost immediately:Just got home. My cottage feels way too empty. Miss you too.
Tell me about it. What's the first thing you're going to do?
Probably collapse for 12 hours. Then face the interrogation from Garrett and the others. You?
Deal with my agent's fury. Probably get yelled at for ignoring emails all week. Decide what the hell I'm doing with my career.
No pressure.
Ha. Yeah.
A pause. Then:Brent?
Yeah?
Thank you. For this week. For seeing me. For making me brave enough to write that piece today.
I stared at my phone, pressure building behind my ribs. Around me, families moved through the terminal—kids hyped up on travel and Christmas anticipation, parents looking exhausted, everyone heading somewhere they belonged.
Thank you for reminding me why I do this. For making me want to write something that matters.
I boarded my flight feeling unmoored but hopeful. The retreat was over, but whatever this was with Jason—this terrifying, exhilarating thing—it was just beginning.
And for the first time in years, I was excited about what came next.
Chapter 8
Jason
The drive back to Juniper Bluff should have been peaceful.
I-70 wound through pine forests dusted with fresh snow, the late afternoon sun turning everything gold and pink. The radio played Christmas classics I'd heard a thousand times—Mariah Carey currently insisting all she wanted for Christmas was some unnamed you. My hands ached from gripping the steering wheel, and my eyes burned from hours of staring at the road.
But mostly, all I could think about was Brent's face in the parking lot. The way he'd kissed me goodbye like he was memorizing the feeling. The hollow space spreading through my chest as I'd watched him walk away, shoulders hunched against the falling snow.
As I drove into town, the houses along the road had gone full Christmas—inflatable Santas competing with light-up reindeer, one ambitious display featuring an entire nativity scene complete with spotlights. Every mailbox wore a wreath. Every porch had luminarias waiting for nightfall.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I glanced down—Garrett again. He'd been texting periodically since I'd left the retreat, checking in with increasing frequency as I got closer to home.
