What does a girl say to that?
Nothing. You can’t.
So, I don’t. instead, I cup one side of his cheek and lean in, pressing my lips gently against his.
Colter doesn’t take it further. He’s content, pulling me closer into him, one hand running down my back. I gently lay my head on his shoulder as we listen to the soft hum of the radio that filters around us.
And for a peaceful moment, I feel like he described.
Content.
Eternal.
A star, blinking into existence.
41
Normal settles in slowly.
Not all at once. Not comfortably. But enough that I almost start believing that, for the first time, everything is going to work out. Be normal.
A week has passed without any confrontation. Colter doesn’t push. John doesn’t pry. Pace pretends everything is fine. I stay at Colters sleep in his bed, wake up to his arm heavy around my waist. My favorite mornings are when he wakes me with his face between my legs.
It feels…stable.
Which is probably why I let myself leave.
Suttons insists we go into town. She needs supplies for the house and claims she’s tired of relying on John’s “bunker mentality”. I don’t argue. I need the air. The movement. Something that isn’t the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on my chest.
John insists on a driver.
Sutton doesn’t argue. She’s used to it, but it still feels weird to me.
We sit in the back of the black SUV as it rolls down Main Street, the afternoon sun glinting off shop windows andold brick buildings. Sutton leans forward between the seats, pointing out things like she’s a tour guide.
“That bakery on the corner?” she says. “Best apple fritters you’ll ever eat. Worst coffee.”
I smile. “That seems contradictory.”
“Crimson Ridge is full of contradictions.”
We stop at the first hardware store. The bell over the door jingles when we step inside, and conversation dips. Not dramatically or enough to call out, but enough that I feel it. Eyes flick our way. Whispers stall.
Sutton notices.
She always does.
“Ignore them,” she murmurs as we walk the aisles. “They’ll find something else to talk about by dinner.”
I nod, pretending it doesn’t sting. We load a basket with lightbulbs, extension cords, screws Sutton doesn’t actually need but insists she might someday.
At the register, the cashier’s smile tightens when he sees us.
“Sutton,” she says, her eyes hard as she stares at her.
“Put it on John’s account,” Sutton says smoothly.
The woman blinks, recalibrates, and the tension eases enough to let me breathe again.
