I move to the oven.Dinner’s ready.So I pull it out and place it on the counter, my hands shaking, blinking back the tears that threaten again.
I glance at the clock.
Six-thirty.
I nod to myself and start plating the food. I even give Colt an extra helping, because it’s his birthday and because, despite everything, I still love him enough to show up for him. Even when he’s not showing up for me. I carry the plates to the tableand set them down with care. Then I just stand there. Looking at the food. At the empty chair across from mine.
The silence in the room is deafening.
Snow starts falling outside. Big, heavy flakes. A quiet kind of storm.
Concern creeps in and pushes aside my frustration. What if Colt’s is trying to get home but is caught in bad weather? What if he’s stuck? What if something’s happened?
I rush to the front door and yank it open. A sharp gust of wind slices through me, sending goose bumps prickling across my skin. I hug my arms around myself and squint down the driveway.
No headlights.
No sign of him.
I close the door with a quiet click and head back to the kitchen, my fingers already reaching for my phone again. I hit redial.
Voicemail.
Again.
The beep sounds, and I can’t hold back anymore.
“Colt,pleasejust come home. I’m really starting to worry. I just want to spend your birthday with you. I’m sorry for doubting you. I love you so much. Please… please come home to me.” I end the call and crumble against the counter, burying my face in my hands.
I don’t know what to do.
Drive to Macy’s?
Wait longer?
Start packing?
My mind swings wildly between panic and heartbreak. It feels like Colt’s already gone, like I’m holding onto air, and the part that scares me the most is maybe he has given up.
Maybe that’s why he’s not calling.
Maybe this is his way of walking away without saying the words.
I think of Anna and Johnny. Of how they love so easily. Even Dingo and Sia—solid, grounded, happy.
Why is it always so hard for Colt and me?
I let my eyes drift to the clock again.
Seven o’clock.
And I’m still waiting.
My mouth is dry as I try to swallow past the lump lodged in my throat. Every breath feels like a chore. With leaden steps, I walk over to the dining table and lower myself into the chair, my eyes on the untouched meal now growing cold. I absently push food around with my fork. Emotions churn inside me—no longer just sadness or worry, but something hotter.
Darker.
Anger.
