"Trace, wait?—"
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded like the end of everything.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the door and listening to the sound of his truck driving away. Then I sank onto my couch and finally let myself cry… for the girl who'd been too scared to ask for what she wanted, for the boy who'd been too scared to take it, and for the chance we'd just lost all over again.
Outside, life in Hard Timber went on, unaware that my world had just fallen apart. A week from now, the big wedding I’d been working on would happen as planned. The podcaster would get his story. And I would have to figure out how to put the pieces of my heart back together.
Again.
This time, I wasn't sure they'd fit.
CHAPTER 9
TRACE
Three days after having it out with Sabrina, I dragged myself to the weekly Trail Supper I had with the guys. Sitting around a fire pit with a beer in my hand was better than drinking alone, even if I did still have a head full of anger I couldn't seem to shake. Trail Supper had always been sacred. Just the guys who'd grown up running wild through these mountains together. Tonight, I needed it more than I had in years.
"You look like hell," Ridge said, settling onto the stump across from me with his own beer. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." Holt dropped down next to me, his brow furrowed like he was concerned. "You've been holed up in your cabin for three days. Marla's worried you're going to skip the wedding tomorrow."
I took a long pull of my beer. "Maybe I should."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. These guys knew me better than anyone. They'd seen me through my dad's death, through every failed attempt at a relationship, through the humiliation of being branded The Heartbreaker by half the town. But they'd never seen me like this.
"What happened?" Thatcher asked. He was the unofficial leader of our group, the one we all turned to when life got complicated. "And don't say nothing. You look like someone ran over your dog."
“And backed up and ran over it again,” Dane added.
I stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. Part of me wanted to keep it private, to deal with this mess on my own like I always did. But the weight of it was crushing me, and if I didn't talk to someone, I was going to explode.
"Sabrina wrote the Ex-List," I said finally.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the crickets seemed to need a moment to react.
"Fuck," Harlan muttered.
"She what?" Holt leaned forward, his beer forgotten. "Are you sure?"
"She told me herself. A few nights ago." My voice sounded rougher than sandpaper. "All this time, I thought some anonymous blogger decided to make me the poster child for commitment issues. Turns out it was the woman I've been in love with for years.”
Thatcher nodded slowly, processing. "That's... a lot."
"You think?" I laughed, but there was nothing fucking funny about it. "She looked me in the eye and called me The Heartbreaker. Then she let me spend months thinking some stranger had decided I was toxic. Let me question everything about myself, every relationship I'd ever had."
"But why?" Ridge asked. "What could possibly make her?—"
"I don't know." The admission came out like a confession. "I mean, she tried to explain, something about being hurt and frustrated. But I couldn't... I walked away before she finished."
Thatcher got up and paced in front of the fire. “When did Sabrina write that list?"
"I don't know. A couple years ago?"
"Right around the time you started dating that teacher from Billings.” Thatcher stopped in front of me. “What was her name?"
My stomach dropped. "Sarah."
