I roll onto my side and stare out the window. The field beyond is dusted with fresh snow, smooth and untouched, like it hasn't yet been trampled by my poor decisions.
My brain is already buzzing, cataloging sensations, replaying last night, and planning what to say when I see him. The noisenever stops. It’s been like this my whole life, a constant internal narration that I can’t turn off. Most people call it ‘overthinking.’ I call it ‘being awake.’
My phone buzzes.
I grab it before it can buzz again; if Caleb calls at seven in the morning, I might actually throw the thing out the window.
It’s the group chat.
Caleb:You okay?
I exhale, the ache in my chest softening a little.
Jane:Alive. Not kidnapped. Slightly embarrassed.
Weston:Embarrassed how? Like “tripped in public” embarrassed or “accidentally joined a traveling circus” embarrassed?
Jane:Weston!
Boone:That’s not an answer.
Weston:Coffee. Drink it. That fixes 70% of Jane’s problems.
Caleb:Where are you?
I hesitate, my thumb hovering.
Don’t lie.
Also:don’t tell them too much.
Jane:Still in Clover Canyon. Safe. Warm. Roof. No bears.
Weston:Yet.
Boone:Check in later. Seriously.
Jane:I will.
Caleb:Love you. Be careful.
Three messages hit at once:
Boone:Love you. Don’t fight anyone.
Weston:Love you. Don’t die.
Jane:Love you. I’m fine.
Setting the phone down, I stare at it for a moment.
I miss them. A lot. But I needed to exist somewhere that wasn’t shaped by their worry. To be a person, not a problem to manage.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I flex my toes against the cold floor.
My stomach feels hollow. Not sick anymore, just empty. The cold floor grounds me; too much sensation is overwhelming, but too little makes my brain float away. Cold feet? Perfect.
I pull on my jeans, then choose one of my own shirts because I’m not ready to face Tex in his flannel this morning, not after last night, not after the way he looked at me.
