But underneath it all ran a current of anticipation. Brent had promised we'd figure it out. That he'd come to Colorado or I'd go to New York or we'd meet somewhere in between.
We just hadn't decided when. Soon, though. It had to be soon.
***
I left The Perch an hour later, after Finn had to head back to the farm. Garrett walked me out, standing on the sidewalk in just his henley despite the cold.
"You're really okay?" he asked, his breath fogging between us.
"Yeah." I zipped my jacket against the cold. "Scared, but okay."
"Good scared or bad scared?"
"Both?" I laughed. "Good scared that it might work. Bad scared that it might not."
He pulled me into another hug. "For what it's worth, I've never seen you look like this. All lit up from the inside. So whoever this Brent guy is, he's already done something right."
"Thanks, G."
"Bring him by The Perch when he visits. I want to meet the man who finally cracked open the fortress of Jason Foster."
"It wasn't a fortress."
"It was absolutely a fortress. A very polite, well-organized fortress. But a fortress." He squeezed my shoulder. "Go home. Rest. And text me if you need to talk, okay?"
"I will."
I drove the few blocks to my cottage on Oak Street. The little house looked exactly as I'd left it—white clapboard with green shutters, a small porch with exactly two chairs. My next door neighbor had more than made up for my lack of decorating, her cottage blazing with multicolored lights and no fewer than three inflatable snowmen. My own front door was bare except for the wreath I'd hung in November and kept forgetting to replace as it dried out.
Inside, everything was exactly as I'd left it. Small living room with the couch I'd found at a garage sale. Kitchen barely big enough for one person. The bedroom with its queen bed and the reading chair by the window. My office—really just a converted second bedroom—with my desk and overflowing bookshelves and the bulletin board covered in revision notes.
It should have felt comforting. Safe. Mine.
Instead, it felt too quiet after a week of sharing space. Of always having someone to talk to. Of falling asleep to the sound of another person breathing, waking up to warmth beside me.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood in the middle of my living room, suddenly exhausted. The drive, the emotion, the coming out to my friends—it all crashed down at once.
I unpacked slowly, moving through the familiar motions. Dirty clothes in the hamper. Toiletries back in the bathroom. Notebooks on my desk, full of a week's worth of work and scribbled late-night thoughts and one particular scene I'd written about what it felt like to be touched like you mattered.
When I opened my laptop to back up everything I'd written, I found a new document I hadn't created.
The filename:For Jason, when you're home and missing me.
My heart stumbled. I clicked it open.
Jason—
I'm writing this while you're in the shower.. In a few hours, we'll say goodbye and drive in opposite directions, and I'm already dreading it. Already missing you even though you're still here, humming something off-key while water runs, and I can hear you being alive and real on the other side of this door.
But I wanted you to have something to come home to. A reminder that this week was real. That what we found together wasn't just a vacation romance or a temporary escape from our regular lives.
You asked me once what I was working on at this retreat. The truth is, I came here trying to write something meaningful, something that mattered. But I couldn't find it until I found you.
You remind me that writing isn't just about craft and structure and commercial success. It's about truth. About vulnerability. About being brave enough to put your real self on the page, consequences be damned.
You do that naturally. Your manuscript is beautiful because you're willing to be honest, to dig deep, to show the messy complicated parts of being human. The parts most of us spend our lives hiding. And watching you work, talking with you about story and character and what actually matters—it's made me want to be that brave too.
So I'm going to try. I'm going to write something real, something true, something that scares the hell out of me. And when I do, I want you to read it first. Before my agent, before my editor, before anyone else gets to have an opinion about it. Just you, because you'll understand what I'm trying to say.
