He watches me now. Really watches me. Like he’s trying to figure out what’s different. What’s changed.
I slide a piece of paper across the table, the edges trembling just slightly from my hand. He doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move.
“This is my two weeks' notice,” I say quietly. “Effective the day we return from Texas.”
The words hang heavy in the air. Liam’s jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle move. But he says nothing. Nothing at all. And somehow that silence hurts worse than any begging or apology could have. Because it tells me everything. Tells me he’s going to let me walk away.
Tells me he’s too afraid?—
Or too stubborn?—
Or too broken?—
To fight for me. To fight for us.
I stand, smoothing my hands down the front of my jeans.
“I’ll be out of your hair before the end of the month,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as my heart crumbles inside my chest.
I pick up my coffee. Turn. And walk away. Again. But this time it’s for good.
We manage to avoid each other for the rest of the day. Easy, really. The house is big enough. Our silences are even bigger.
At five the next morning, I’m waiting in the foyer, already packed, dressed, and ready to go, when he finally emerges. He looks worse than yesterday. Paler. Hollowed out. Like he hasn't slept at all.
I hold out a travel mug of coffee. It’s an olive branch he doesn't deserve, but I offer anyway.
“I’m ready when you are,” I say, my voice soft and even.
He just nods, taking the mug without meeting my eyes. Not a word passes between us as we step outside.
The dawn is still gray, the air cool and damp, and every step I take feels heavier than the last.
I set my bag in the backseat of the truck and climb into the passenger side, closing the door with a soft, final click. My chest tightens painfully. This is the last time I’ll see the house like this. The last time it’ll still feel a little bit like home.
Blinking fast, I pull out my phone and fire off a quick message to Phern, letting her know we’re officially on the road. I reached out to her yesterday and asked if she could look after Sammi while we were gone. She agreed without hesitation. Thank God for her.
At the airport, we move through the motions like strangers. Check-in. Security. Finding our gate. No conversation. No accidental touches. No sideways glances.
Just nothing.
When we find our gate, I don’t sit. I can’t. Instead, I wander off, ending up at a bench in front of a bathroom Everything about this trip feels wrong. Liam should be here. Laughing with me. Planning stupid inside jokes for the flight. Bugging me with t-shirt ideas I won’t approve for the ranch. But he’s not. He’s a ghost now. A ghost sitting twenty feet away with my heart still clenched in his fist.
I kill time the only way I can think of. I pull up job listings. Start scrolling.
There are more postings than I expect for a ranch manager. Positions in Montana, Kansas, Colorado, Tennessee. One listing in Kansas catches my eye. Close to Wichita. Close to my parents. Close to something that might eventually feel like peace.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I send an inquiry. And two more after that.
By the time I make it back to the gate, boarding has already started. I fall into step behind him, silent as a shadow. Liam doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look at me.
He keeps his sunglasses on even once we’re seated side-by-side, trapped together in a space too small for all the things we’ll never say. Fine. Let him pretend to sleep. Let him pretend this doesn’t hurt. I pull out my tablet, put in my earbuds, and dive into work. Because if I stop even for a second, I’ll fall apart.
We touch down in San Angelo, Texas under a bright, punishing sun. Teddy and his wife, Bessie, are waiting for us outside the tiny airport, all smiles and joy. Liam barely says a word as we climb into their truck. He and Teddy take the front. Bessie and I sit in the back, tucked between leather seats that smell like dust.
The drive from the airport to their ranch takes nearly an hour, winding through wide-open country. Bessie, bless her, fills every minute. She tells me about her fifteen kids and thirty grandkids. How her pecan pie won first place at the state fair three years running. How she’s learning to crochet, even if her hands "ain’t made for dainty work."
She asks about my family, her blue eyes soft with curiosity, so I tell her about the sister I lost.
