“Not a chance.”
He huffs out a laugh, and I ruffle his hair like I always do. My throat’s tight, but not because I’m leaving . . . it’s because I know what I’m coming back to.
Thatcher’s already waiting in the truck, hands on the wheel, music off. He nods as Jamie jogs back to the house, waving once before the door swings shut behind him.
The drive to the airport is quiet.
Not tense. Just . . . us.
He pulls into the drop-off lane, shifts into park, and looks over. There’s sunlight catching on the bridge of his nose, and he looks tired but sure. I’ve learned the difference.
“You got everything?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You packed my flannel.” But I rub my chest, knowing I’m carrying a piece of Thatcher there. And that’s the everything I need.
He smiles. The soft one, the real one.
I reach over and take his hand, thumb brushing along the calluses near his knuckles.
“One season,” I say. “Then I’m done.”
“I know. Focus on the season. I’ll be here.”
“See you in a few weeks.”
I want to say more. I want to say thank you. I want to say I miss you already. But none of it fits. Not between us.
So I get out, sling my bag over my shoulder, and close the door with care. I walk over to his side and give him a searing kiss. One he can’t forget or read anything into except my devotion to him.
“Damn,” he whispers, and I feel the smirk settle on my face.
I take four steps toward the terminal before I hear his voice behind me—low, steady.
“Show them what you can do, Rory.”
I look back.
He’s still in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, but he’s watching me like he always does—like I’m not just something passing through.
I give him one last nod.
Then I turn and walk inside.
***
The apartment the team sets me up with is clean, furnished, and about as personal as a hotel lobby.
Gray couch. White walls. A kitchen with more chrome than soul. But the price is right for what I want to put toward the bar, and the hotshot kid is my roommate so it manages to be nice and close to affordable.
I unpack in twenty minutes. My gear, a few shirts, two books I don’t remember putting in the bag, and the carved sign Thatcher gave me the day I left.
THE FIVE HOLE – EST. 2025
We finally decided on a name, but the sign goes out front, over the sidewalk. I know it’s Thatcher’s way of saying that the bar isn’t complete until I’m there to hang it myself. I like to think of it as my good luck charm. A reminder of what I’m here for.
I hang it in the front hall, just above the coat rack.
Every time I leave, I see it. Every time I come back, it’s the first thing waiting for me.
