I was going to get her out of our orbit.
Not to save her.
Not to redeem her.
But to end the damage.
Some love stories aren’t meant to be finished.
They’re meant to becontained.
And this one—this summer, this fire, this woman—it was done burning through the people I loved.
One way or another.
I picked up the phone and called the airport hotel myself.
Sheraton.
Four nights.
I even added the free breakfast—the fifteen-dollar one they upsell you on like it’s some kind of luxury. Eggs, toast, coffee. Something predictable. Something warm. Something that meant she wouldn’t wake up hungry and panicked.
Then I opened my wallet.
Four hundred in cash. Crisp. I didn’t count it twice.
I held it out to her.
“Go get yourself cleaned up,” I said. “Hot meals. Enough gas to get there. I’ll pick you up in a few days.”
She stared at the money like it might disappear if she blinked.
“Tony… I don’t deserve?—”
“No,” I cut in gently. “You don’t. But you’re not evil, Sage. You’re just very confused.”
Her chin trembled.
“And he did love you,” I added. “We all did.”
That was when her eyes finally filled.
“But those days?” I said quietly. “They’re gone now. Buried. For everybody. No matter how much we want them back, it’s never going to be like that again.”
She pressed her lips together, fighting it.
“The best we can do,” I went on, “is make new memories. Have more summers. And you will, Sage. You will. We’re going to get you figured out.”
She broke then.
Full-body sobs. Arms around me like she might fall apart if she let go. I stood there and let her cry it out, because sometimes that’s the only mercy left.
She took the money. Swallowed her pride.
Five days later, I met her at the airport.
I’d already had someone pick up her car. We donated it to the Boys & Girls Club. She got a five-hundred-dollar tax deduction and a clean break.
