“You must know that even if we can unravel this mess, you’ll never have a normal life with this guy.”
I jab a thumb in my chest.“Do you really think Iwantnormal?”
“Adena—”
I cut her off."I knew what I was doing.And I don’t regret the choice I made," I say.
Her eyebrow arches."Are you sure?Because if you're wrong…"
She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.I know she’s just concerned.
And she has every reason to be.
My career is in jeopardy.I'm married to a stranger.And the truth is, I have no idea if I made a vow while running on adrenaline and attraction.
The doubt sits heavy in my chest, and I can't tell anymore if it's doubt about him or doubt about myself.
The jet banks slightly, sunlight sliding off the wing.I twist the ring once more, then stop.
Ben wants an answer.Silas is disappointed in me, and Verity thinks I’m nuts.
Maybe they’re right.
But I didn’t make that vow for their approval—and I’m not breaking it to earn it back.
Jagger
Four weeks later…
The little store sits where the road bends, tucked between trees like it’s trying not to be noticed.No sign big enough to read at speed.No gas pumps.Just a gravel lot with more mud than gravel and a handful of trucks parked crooked, like everyone assumes they’ll be back out in a minute.
I sit in my truck longer than necessary, watching a man in rubber boots argue with a goat tethered to the hitch of his pickup.The goat wins.The man sighs, scratches his beard, and keeps talking to it like this is a conversation he’s had before.
No one is watching me.
That alone feels unnatural.
I climb out, the limp not as pronounced now that the stitches are gone and the tight pull in the muscle has eased.
Inside, the store is narrow and dim, shelves stocked with whatever the last delivery truck felt like bringing.Canned goods.Feed.A mismatched rack of winter gloves even though it’s barely autumn.The floor creaks under my boots, announcing every step like the building’s keeping score.
A brittle strip of flypaper sags above the register, fluttering with the bodies of summer long past.A heap of battered shopping baskets sits by the door, warped handles jutting out like broken bones.
I grab a basket and immediately regret it.It feels like a commitment.
Coffee.Eggs.Bread that looks homemade and suspiciously dense.I stare at the labels too long, reading ingredient lists like they’re mission briefs.Sodium levels.Expiration dates.What passes for risk now.
A bell jingles behind me, and the goat comes in.
The man follows, unbothered.He nods at me like this is normal.“He don’t like bein’ left alone,” he says, as if explaining himself to a jury.
“Know how he feels,” I say.
The goat blinks its rectangular pupils at me, slow and deliberate, like it's seen enough of people to know they don't change much.
At the counter, the cashier—late sixties, hair braided tight down her back—eyes me over half-moon glasses.She rings up the goat feed first, then my groceries, tapping the keys slow and deliberate.
“You the one up at the old cabin,” she says, not a question.
