I walked him out, closed the door with a soft click that felt like an ending. No dramatic slam. No tears. Just done.
My phone buzzed again. Wyatt.
Everything okay? You went quiet.
Mark was here.
Three dots appeared and disappeared several times before his response:Need me to come down there?
The protective fury in those simple words made me smile.No. It's handled. He's gone. For good.
Good. Because I'd hate to have to explain to the Dallas PD why I had to hit him again.
No hitting. You promised.
I promised to try. Trying real hard from five hours away.
12.5 more days.
But who's counting?
I went back to packing with renewed energy. Each box filled felt like shedding skin, emerging new. The kitchen barely took an hour—I'd rarely cooked, living on takeout and restaurant meals. The living room was just furniture I'd leave for the next tenant. My whole life fit into a dozen boxes and two suitcases.
Sarah from down the hall stopped by as I was loading my truck. We'd lived ten feet apart for three years, shared maybe fifty words total.
"Moving out?" she asked.
"Going home."
"Where's home?"
"Copper Creek. Little town northwest of here."
She looked at my boots, my jeans, the way I stood, like I had earth under my feet instead of concrete. "You look different. Happier."
"I am."
"Good for you," she said, and meant it. "This city can eat you alive if you're not careful."
It had tried. Had almost succeeded. But I'd survived, and now I was going home.
The last box went into my car as the sun set, painting the glass towers orange and red. Pretty, but nothing compared to sunset over the ranch, the way the light turned the grass to gold and made the cattle look like ancient monuments.
I stood in my empty apartment one last time. Three years of my life, and it left no mark. The next tenant would never know I'd been here. But at the ranch, my presence was already woven into thefabric—in the breeding program, in the plans for the cooperative, in the bed I'd shared with Wyatt, in the family dinners where my place was set without question.
"I'm done running," I said to the empty room, and the words echoed back like agreement.
The drive out of Dallas was a resurrection. With every mile, I felt lighter. I headed northwest, toward home. Toward Wyatt. Toward the life I'd almost been too scared to claim.
My phone rang through the truck's bluetooth. Wyatt.
"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" I said by way of greeting. "Dawn comes early on a ranch."
"Can't sleep. Bed's too empty."
"Twelve more days." I fibbed.
"About that," he said, and I heard the smile in his voice. "Mom wants to know if you'll be back in time for the Sunday dinner. She's making pot roast."
