She studies my face for a long moment. Whatever she sees there makes her nod.
“Okay. Not yet.”
But the machinery keeps rumbling, getting closer with every passing minute. And we both know that “not yet” is just another way of saying “soon.”
The real world is coming.
I just don’t know if what we’ve built can survive it.
Chapter 13
FINN
The radio crackles at 4:47 PM.
“Road crews report Highway 7 is now clear to mile marker 23. Timberline Falls accessible. Travelers are advised to use caution—conditions remain hazardous in some areas, but the pass is open.”
Mile marker 23. That’s past Marcella’s car. Past the turnoff to the rental cabins. Past every barrier that’s kept her here for the last three days.
She can leave now.
The thought hits me like a round to the chest.
I look across the room to where she’s sitting on the couch, her phone in her hands, probably checking the same weather updates I just heard. Her face is pale. She knows what this means.
“Finn—”
“I’ll help you pack.”
The words come out clipped, automatic. Mission mode. It’s what I do when things get dangerous—shut down the emotions, focus on the task, survive now and feel later.
Marcella stares at me. “What?”
“Your things. You’ll want to get down the mountain before dark. The roads will ice up again once the sun sets.” I’m already moving, already retreating into efficiency because it’s safer than standing still. “I’ll make sure your car starts. Battery might be dead after three days in the cold.”
“Finn, wait.” She’s on her feet now, crossing the room toward me. “We need to talk about this.”
“About what?”
“About what happens next. About us.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Us. Like we’re something. Like three days in a snowstorm created something permanent instead of just... this. Whatever this is.
“You have a life in Denver,” I say, not quite meeting her eyes. “A career. Friends. Your blog. All of that is waiting for you.”
“And you’re here.” Her voice is steady, but I can hear the fear underneath. “That doesn’t mean we can’t figure something out. Long distance, or?—”
“Long distance doesn’t work.” The words come out hard—too hard. I hear it even as I say it, but I don’t stop. I can’t. “You’d drive up here on weekends, and I’d try to come to Denver, and every time I’d have a panic attack in traffic or freeze up at one ofyour social events. Eventually you’d get tired of managing me. Of making excuses for me. Of explaining to your friends why your boyfriend can’t handle a dinner party.”
“You don’t know that?—”
“I do know that.” I finally look at her, and the hope in her eyes is almost enough to break me. Almost. “I know exactly how this ends, Marcella. I’ve watched it happen to a dozen guys at the VA. The partners who try so hard to be patient, to be understanding, until they can’t anymore. Until the damage is too much. Until they realize they signed up for a life of managing someone else’s broken pieces instead of building something whole.”
“I’m not those partners. And you’re not just broken pieces.”
“No. You’re better. Which means you deserve better than what I can give you.” The words feel like glass in my throat, cutting with every syllable. “You deserve someone who can take you to dinner without mapping the exits. Someone who sleeps through the night without waking up screaming. Someone who doesn’t have to count his breaths just to get through a trip to the grocery store.”
Her expression shifts. The hope fading, replaced by something harder. “So that’s it? You’re just going to decide for both of us that this isn’t worth trying?”
