I wait until her taillights disappeared behind the trees before closing the door.
The cabin feels different now.
Warmer, but also empty in a way without her sharing space with me.
Still quiet—but a quiet that feels expectant, as if something had shifted in the air and settled there, waiting for the next time she walks through that door.
And I know, deep in my chest, that this isn’t the last dinner we’d share.
Not by a damn long shot.
Ten
Holley
I don’t remember the last night I actually slept. Not really slept. Just the kind of dozing where your body sinks and your brain finally stops tallying everything you did wrong in life. The cold doesn’t let me. It crawls into the car with me, curls around my spine, and grips me with fingers that feel like they belong to winter itself.
By the time dawn edges up over the trees, my toes are numb, my neck is locked stiff, and my head aches like I’ve been clenching my jaw for hours. The car windows are fogged from where my breath hit them all night, little crescents of frost spiderwebbing across the glass. I wipe the windshield with the sleeve of my coat, but it doesn’t help much.
I’m so tired my eyes burn.
Another night of this. Another morning trying to pretend I’m fine.
I turn the heater on even though it eats gas I can’t spare. Warm air sputters out weakly. I hover my hands in front of the vents, begging them to actually do something. Eventually they thaw enough that I can grip the steering wheel.
Work. I just have to get through work. After a steaming hot shower at the gym, I face the day ahead.
The dental office is warm, at least. Heated, bright, and smelling like mint and disinfectant—an odd comfort. But the moment I step inside, I can feel Kendra’s eyes on me. I know I look like hell. Hair piled in a messy knot. Dark circles under my eyes. My scrubs rumpled from being in my bag in the cold.
“You okay, hon?” Megan asks. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s gentle. But I still flinch inside.
“Didn’t sleep great,” I reply, forcing a smile I hope looks casual.
She gives me the kind of assessing glance that tells me she’d push if she thought I’d cave. I don’t. I move toward my desk, pull patient files, and get everything ready for the day. But I’m sluggish. Clumsy. I drop a tray of sterilized tools and cringe as they clatter across the floor.
“Jesus, Holley.” Dr. Kline pops his head out of exam room two. “Rough morning?”
Rough month. Rough year. Rough everything.
“Just tired,” I murmur.
He doesn’t push either, but he watches me too long before going back to the patient.
By noon, my whole body feels dipped in cement—heavy, slow, uncooperative.
I can’t keep doing this.
But what choice do I have?
When my shift finally ends, I pull my coat tight around me and step back into the biting air. Snowflakes swirl lazily at first, but the clouds rolling in promise something heavier. I’m shivering by the time I reach my car.
My phone buzzes.
Tony Chili on the stove. Come eat with me.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Tony. The man has practically become the magnetic energy my life keeps tilting toward even though I keep telling myself not to. He’s too much—too steady, too solid, too kind in a way that feels dangerous after how my marriage ended. But he makes me feel seen. Not pitied. Not judged.
