“Of course it’s not.But I know you’ll make the right decision.”She pulls her hand back, shaking off the intensity.Her eyes widen.“¡Ay, Dios!I meant to tell you sooner!I asked Lucia yesterday about apartments for rent in my building.Sadly, she doesn’t think so, but she’ll double-check for me.”
“It’s okay.Don’t worry.I have a list of places I’ll start checking out,” I reassure her.“I just need to survive tomorrow first.”
“I should go and let you rest.”She rounds the counter to gather her purse and coat.“Think about what I said.Don’t let him win like that.”She emphasizes the words with a single, firm tap on the counter before slipping her arms into her coat.
“You’ve definitely given me a lot to think about,” I murmur.
“Good.”She smiles warmly, giving my shoulder a squeeze.“Stay.I’ll lock the door after me.Get some rest.”
It takes me a moment to nod, my mind swimming with Helen’s dangerous, terrifying, but incredibly tempting advice.
“See you in the morning.”
The click of the lock echoes, leaving me alone.Just me, a half-empty bottle of Cabernet, and the dregs of wine swirling with the familiar feeling of failure, the old script whispering it is time for another ‘fresh start’.
It hits me then…
The old me would have cut her losses and left town.The old me would have never stayed this long in one place to begin with.
Just pack my one suitcase.Get in my car and drive off…
Vanish.
Find another town, another temporary existence.
Pretend this place never happened.
But walking away from Madison now means more than just leaving a job or a city.It feels like tearing out roots I didn’t realize had grown so deep.
This place, with its ridiculously cheerful yellow walls and the scent of coffee practically baked into the plaster… it’s more than just a café.It is Helen’s fierce loyalty, Lou’s unwavering care.The fragile, tentative ties to a community I never thought I’d find, let alone need.It’s the first ground I chose to stand on, the first space that felt like maybe, just maybe, it could be mine.
To run now wouldn’t be self-preservation.It would be surrender.
I see it with sickening clarity.
Leaving is letting James write the last chapter of my story here.
It’s letting Bancroft bulldoze Mary’s legacy.
Every fibre of my being screams in rebellion at the thought.
And for the first time, a different choice solidifies in my mind.
I’m not running.
I’m drawing a line.
A refusal to break and scatter again.
A refusal to give up on the first real home I’ve ever tried to build.
FORTY TWO
WHAT DOES ONE wear to publicly expose her fiancé?
The couch, my bed for the past few days, has vanished under an explosion of fabric.Black leather pants tangle with skirts.A crisp white blouse lies draped over a black sheath dress.Silk camisoles are shoved against dress pants.Every option I own, yanked from my lone suitcase and assessed.
Discarded.
