I park and sit for a moment, hands on the wheel.
Whatever happens in there, I need to hold it together. For them. For Callum. For Jessica, even if she doesn't know it.
I need to be the good guy.
Even if it feels like swallowing glass.
I get out of the truck and head inside.
The living room is exactly what I expected. Pedro is standing by the window, arms crossed, face set in that permanent scowl he wears when he's processing something he doesn't like. His dark hair is perfectly styled even after a full day at the clinic, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. He's still in his work clothes: dress pants and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with lean muscle. The scent of sage and honey clings to him, the calming alpha scent that makes his patients trust him instinctively.
Carlos is pacing the length of the room, running his hands through his dark curly hair every few seconds like he's trying to pull his thoughts out through his scalp. He's still in his work clothes too. Jeans covered in sawdust, a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing arms thick with muscle from years of manual labor. At six-foot-two, he's built like he spends his dayshauling lumber and building houses, because he does. The scent of sandalwood and sawdust surrounds him, earthy and warm.
Nacho is sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, perfectly still, watching everything. His sheriff's uniform is crisp despite the long shift, his badge gleaming on his chest. He's the shortest of us at just under six feet, but he's built like a tank. Broad shoulders, thick chest, the kind of solid presence that makes people think twice about causing trouble. His black hair is cut military-short, his jaw covered in dark stubble. The scent of leather and rain surrounds him, clean and masculine and steady as hell.
Their eyes dart in my direction when I walk in, and I can see it written on their faces. The same thing I'm feeling.
Hope. Fear. Confusion.
"About time," Carlos says, and his voice is tight with emotion. "I've been losing my mind here."
"You lost your mind years ago," I say, but there's no bite to it. I drop my bag by the door and move to the center of the room. At six-foot-four, I'm the tallest, my frame lean and athletic from years of hockey. My dark hair is getting too long, curling at my neck, and I'm still wearing my coaching gear—track pants and a team jacket. The scent of cedarwood and ice clings to my skin, sharp and cold from hours at the rink. "What do we know?"
Pedro answers. His voice is clipped. Professional. Like he's giving a medical report instead of talking about the woman we've all been trying not to think about for six years.
"She drove through town approximately two hours ago. Wedding dress. Alone. No sign of Callum or anyone else from the wedding party. She went directly to her mom’s house and has been there since."
"Mrs. Whight saw her," Nacho adds. "Apparently she's been telling everyone that Jessica said she's on her honeymoon."
Carlos lets out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "Honeymoon. On her mother's porch. In Largo Waters."
"It was probably sarcasm," I say softly. "That's so... Jessica."
The way I say her name makes my chest ache. Carlos stops pacing and looks at me, and I see it in his eyes. The same pain I'm feeling.
Carlos kissed her. Six years ago, the night before she left. He's never told us exactly what happened, but I saw his face the morning after, when we woke up and she was gone. I saw the guilt. The grief. The way he's never quite forgiven himself for whatever role he played in making her run.
"Has anyone talked to Callum?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Silence.
"Someone should probably call him," Pedro says, but he doesn't move toward his phone.
Neither does anyone else.
"He's supposed to be our best friend," I say, and the words hurt coming out. "His fiancée just ran out on their wedding. He's probably losing his mind right now. He probably needs us."
"Probably." Nacho's voice is flat. "But I'm not calling him."
"Why not?" I ask, even though part of me doesn't want to know.
"Because if I talk to him right now, I'm going to ask questions I don't want answers to." He meets my eyes, and there's something dark in his gaze. "She ran, Sergio. Women don't run from weddings for no reason. Something happened."
"You don't know that," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
"I know what I saw." He leans forward in the chair. "I've been sheriff for five years. I've seen a lot of women who were scared of the men they were with. And Jessica ran, because she’s scared.”
The room goes quiet.
