“Her blog. The contact page has—I’ll figure it out.”
“Don’t screw this up again.”
“I won’t.” I’m already moving, pulling out my duffel bag, the one that’s been in the closet since I got out. “I can’t.”
The driveto Denver takes three hours in good conditions. Tonight, with patches of ice and my hands shaking on the wheel, it takes four.
I count my breaths the entire way—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The technique that’s supposed to calm me barely keeps me functional. Every mile closer to the city, the anxiety ratchets higher.
Cities mean crowds. Crowds mean chaos. Chaos means danger.
My body doesn’t care that the war is over. My nervous system doesn’t understand that Denver traffic isn’t Kandahar, that backfiring cars aren’t IEDs, that the press of people isn’t a threat.
But Marcella is worth it.
I keep repeating that as suburbs give way to actual city. As traffic thickens. As buildings rise around me like walls.
She’s worth it. She’s worth it. She’s worth it.
Her address was easy to find—the blog’s “About” page mentions her Denver neighborhood, and a quick search gave me the rest. I’ve been to Denver exactly twice since I got home, both times for VA appointments I couldn’t avoid. Both times ended with panic attacks in parking garages.
This time will be different. It has to be.
The city at night is a special kind of hell. Lights everywhere, too bright, too many. Sirens in the distance. People on sidewalks even at nine PM. My hypervigilance kicks into overdrive—tracking every movement, cataloging every potential threat, exit routes constantly mapping in my head.
By the time I find her building, I’m sweating through my shirt despite the cold.
It’s a nice place. Not fancy, but well-maintained. Security door that requires buzzing in. Three stories, older architecture. The kind of building where people have plants in their windows and know their neighbors’ names.
I sit in my truck for five minutes, engine off, trying to stop shaking.
This is insane. Showing up at her door at night, after the way I sent her away. She’s probably not even here. Probably went out with friends, telling them about the asshole hermit who broke her heart. Probably?—
Movement in a second-floor window catches my eye. A familiar silhouette passes by, hair piled in that messy bun.
She’s home.
She’s right there, two floors up, living her life without me. Like she should be. Like she has every right to be.
I could leave. Drive back to my mountain, to my silence, to my carefully controlled existence. She’d never know I was here.
But then I think about tomorrow. And the day after. And all the days stretching ahead, empty of her laugh, her warmth, her stubborn insistence that I’m worth fighting for.
I get out of the truck.
The buzzer panel lists twelve units. M. Campos is 2B. I press the button before I can think too hard about it.
Silence. Then: “Hello?” Her voice through the speaker, cautious.
“It’s Finn.”
Longer silence. I can almost feel her shock through the intercom.
“Finn? What are you—how did you?—”
“Can I come up? Please?”
The pause stretches so long I think she’s going to refuse. Then the door buzzes, and I’m inside.
