Three days into the ride, I’d lost feeling in my right hand. The McKenzie River county line was behind me, but the ache in my chest only got worse the farther I leaned into the throttle. Every mile marker was a tally on a prison wall, each one less about the distance traveled and more about the distance I’d put between me and the only man who’d ever made me want to stay.
The highway was a straight shot east—two lanes, dotted with tar patches and the kind of potholes that could turn a good day into a closed-casket funeral. My bike ate up the blacktop with a steady hum, engine tuned to a frequency that should have drowned out everything else. It didn’t. The rumble in my bones was nothing compared to the static behind my eyes.
Morning sun pressed in from the left, turning the dew on the grass into a million points of light. I watched them flicker by at seventy miles an hour, trying to remember what it was like to give a shit about anything but the next gas station. There were no other cars, just me and the endless ribbon of asphalt and the ghosts of last night’s argument.
I shifted down to take a tight curve, the centrifugal pull giving me a brief illusion of escape. It was a lie; the second I straightened out, the phone in my pocket buzzed against my thigh. I ignored it. Five seconds later, it buzzed again, a persistent little worm working its way through the layers of denim and leather.
At mile marker 64, I gave in and pulled off onto the gravel shoulder. I killed the engine and let the silence slap me in the face. For a moment, all I could hear was the ticking of the exhaust and the blood thumping in my ears.
The phone glowed up from my gloved hand: three new voicemails. I scrolled, thumb hesitating over each one like it wasa trigger. They all started with “Floyd Hardesty,” the name still attached to his work contact. I’d never changed it, not even after the first time he told me he couldn’t be the man I wanted him to be. Not even after he made me feel like the biggest mistake he ever made.
The first message was clipped, almost professional:“Ransom, it’s me. I know you won’t answer, but I need to talk. Please. Just… call when you get this.”It ended with a static click, as if the signal itself was too ashamed to stick around.
The second was later. Different tone—ragged, a man trying not to sound like he was pleading.“Listen, I get it. I fucked up. I just need to see you, okay? I made a mistake. Please don’t do this. Please.”The word“please”sat on the message log like a bloodstain.
The third came in at 3:02 AM, when the world is at its most honest.“I miss you. I know I don’t have a right to say that, but I do. You can hate me, that’s fine, just—just don’t disappear. Okay?”His voice cracked at the end.
I almost dropped the phone.
I pressed the lock button, hard, and shoved it back in my jacket. The urge to throw it into the nearest ditch was strong, but I couldn’t do it. Not while his words were still ringing in my ears, not while my own hands were shaking from the effort of not calling him back.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of cold water and distant wood-smoke. I stared down the empty highway and tried to tell myself that I was better off this way. That freedom was worth more than the illusion of safety Floyd gave me. That the last thing I needed was a man who couldn’t even say my name in public.
But the ache wouldn’t go away. Not after the things he’d done to me, the things I’d let him do.
I remembered the way he looked at me that last morning—like I was a fire he wanted to warm his hands on, but was afraid to let burn. The way his fingers trembled when he buttoned up his shirt, the way he watched me dress without saying a word. I remembered the sound of his voice when I told him I wouldn’t be his secret anymore.
“I can’t,” he’d said, and it wasn’t a threat or a promise, just a flat fucking truth. “Not here. Not now. Not with everything on the line.”
So I left. I packed my shit, got on my bike, and pointed it away from everything I knew.
I kicked the stand up and slid back onto the seat, letting the cold soak through my jeans. My knuckles went white on the grips as I merged back onto the highway, the familiar weight of the engine the only thing that made sense anymore.
I didn’t look at the phone when it buzzed again, or the time after that, or the time after that. I just rode, and let the ache in my chest be the only thing that kept me warm.
* * * *
The sign above the diner was a miracle of false advertising: “Bluebird Café,” neon still half-lit at 11:43 AM, with zero evidence of birds or even the color blue anywhere inside. What there was: cracked vinyl booths, a countertop scarred by a thousand pocketknives, and a smell so saturated with fryer grease that my hair would need three shampoos just to pass for human again.
I took the stool at the end, the one nearest the window where I could watch the bike, as if it might up and leave me too. The counter was sticky in that way that dared you to put your arms down, so I did it anyway, let the residue cling to my forearms. The waitress was a woman in her fifties, maybe, with shortpurple hair and the kind of eye makeup that said “fuck you” in three shades of metallic gray. She gave me a look, then poured a coffee without asking.
My kind of hospitality.
The mug was the color of mud and probably had been white in another lifetime. I cupped it between my palms, but didn’t drink. My stomach was a chasm of acid and bad decisions; even the thought of caffeine made me want to puke.
I stared out at the parking lot—empty except for my bike and an ancient Ford with a bed full of scrap metal—and wondered if anyone would notice if I just kept driving until I ran out of gas and goodwill.
The phone was on the counter, face-up, screen dark. I willed myself not to touch it, not to check the missed calls, the voicemails, the texts that had probably stopped by now.
I failed.
I thumbed it open and saw the wallpaper: Floyd, asleep on his couch, mouth open, a line of drool darkening his favorite throw pillow. I’d taken it in secret, because if he ever caught me snapping a candid, he’d threaten to tase me on general principle. The sight of him, so unguarded, hurt more than the worst of our fights.
I pressed the voicemail tab. The last one was from 5:17 this morning. His voice was hoarse, like he’d been up all night arguing with himself and losing.“Ransom. I know you’re gone. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? For everything. For being a coward. I’ll stop calling if you want, but—”There was a pause, the sound of him trying to swallow it down.“I hope you find what you’re looking for. I really do.”
He ended the call, but I kept listening to the empty air, as if he might come back on the line and say the thing he never said.
I locked the phone and shoved it away, hard enough that it spun out and almost toppled off the counter. The waitresscaught the motion, and I saw her watching me in the mirror behind the pie case.
