Caleb straightens, eyes narrowing. “That’s not fair.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “Iknowyou love me. I know you’re trying. But you raised me?—”
I pause. Shake my head. “I felt like I was made of glass and dynamite—too fragile to be out of your sight, yet too dangerous to be allowed to make my own choices. And now you're surprised that I want to figure something out on myown?”
Weston meets my gaze, and I see it—not agreement, but recognition. He understands. He’s always understood, even when he couldn’t do anything about it.
Caleb’s voice is softer this time. “Where are you going?”
I hesitate. My boots are on, my bag is packed, and the words are on the tip of my tongue.
“Clover Canyon.”
Boone frowns. “That’s... an hour away.”
“Exactly.” I attempt a smile that doesn’t quitereach my eyes. “I’m not running off to Vegas. I’m just... stepping sideways.”
“What’s there?” Weston asks.
“Space,” I reply. “And quiet. And people who don't know me as ‘the Cutter girl who needs watching.’”
Caleb studies my face as if searching for a lie. There isn’t one—just omissions.
He exhales through his nose. “For how long?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A bit.”
The silence stretches, and I brace myself for the argument, the interrogation, the list of reasons this is a bad idea.
Finally, Boone stands up, walks over, and pulls me into a fierce hug. I inhale deeply—hay, coffee, home—and something cracks inside my chest.
“You call if you need anything.”
“I will,” I promise, my throat tightening.
Weston hugs me too, whispering, “Miss you already. The kitchen's gonna be too quiet.”
“You’ll survive.” I pull back, blinking rapidly. “Probably.”
Then it’s Caleb. He doesn’t hug me; he just holds my gaze, trying to see past the noise in my head.
“Be careful.”
“I’ll try.” It’s more honest than what I want to say.
He nods—permission, not approval—and steps aside.
Driving out of Tangle Creek feels like loosening a knot in my chest.
I roll down the window, letting the cold air rush in and tangle my hair. The chill stings my cheeks, but it feels real. Grounding.
The radio plays something country and forgettable, and I turn up the volume to drown out my thoughts.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.
Marlie:Still on for tonight? You can back out anytime, Jane.
I pull over to the shoulder—because I’m not an idiot who texts and drives, despite what my brothers think—and stare at the message until the screen dims.
