One second, I’m standing in Tessa’s doorway, her hand held out, holding a bag of all my things and her eyes on mine, telling me she needs space, telling me to go.Next, I’m behind the wheel of my Bronco, knuckles white around the steering wheel, the highway blurring past in streaks of salt and dirty snow.
No music.No radio.Just the too-loud sound of my heart and the echo of her voice.
Will you whisper her name and tell her you love her while you fuck her?
You broke me.
I trusted you.
I think I mean to drive back to the city.To the penthouse.To the life that is still technically mine.Or maybe I’m just taking the long way, giving her a few hours to breathe before I show up again and try to fix it.But I keep driving.The exit markers stop looking familiar, and the lights thin out, and somewhere between one breath and the next, the asphalt turns into a road I know even better than the one that leads to the arena.
My headlights sweep over the old fence posts, the weathered Carson Farms sign, and the gravel drive my tires have known since I was sixteen and begging my dad to let me take the truck into town.
I pull in and put the Bronco in park.
The engine ticks as it cools.
The house is mostly dark, but the porch light is on.My mom’s habit.She never goes to bed with her boys out, even now that one of us is supposed to be a grown man in charge of an entire franchise.
I stare at that light for a long time, palms slick against the steering wheel, chest hurting in a way I don't think I can recover from.
I didn’t mean to come here.
Of all the places I could’ve run to, my body chose this one.
Home.
Not the penthouse with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the city skyline.This.The mud-stained steps.The door that sticks in winter.The kitchen that always smells like coffee and home cooking.I get out before I can think myself out of it.The cold smacks me in the face, sobering and sharp.I open the front door, and it squeaks the way it always has.
“Hello?”I call out because I haven’t been here unannounced like this in a long time.
Soft light spills from the kitchen.
I follow it.
My dad sits at the table, a mug cradled in his big hands, shoulders hunched.There’s a half-done crossword folded in front of him, pen resting on the page.He looks up when I step into the doorway.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything.
His eyes sweep over me once, taking in the wrinkled suit, the exhaustion, whatever the hell is written all over my face.His mouth pulls tight, like he knows and doesn’t like it.
“Well,” he says finally, voice low, roughened by years of early mornings and yelling at stubborn cattle.“If it isn’t Captain Carson.”
I flinch.
He sees it, and his expression softens.
“Come sit,” he says, tilting his chin toward the chair across from him.“Coffee’s still warm.Or I can pull something stronger from the cabinet if you need it.”
I’m tired of using alcohol to numb how fucked up everything is, so I shake my head.“Coffee’s fine.”There's no use in arguing with Dad that coffee at this time of night isn't a good idea.
He pours me a mug without another word.I sit.The old wooden chair creaks under my weight.
For a second, we just sit there.
The clock ticks.
I can hear the crackle of the wood stove running hot.
