I take a deep breath and make myself face reality. She has a life. A business. A whole schedule of stops mapped out. She has dreams she's been chasing. Dreams her mother tried to squash, dreams her ex-boyfriend wanted to clip like wings.
I'm not going to be another person who holds her back.
I'm not going to be the reason she gives up on what she wants.
So when the silence stretches too long and I feel her start to stir, I press a kiss to the top of her head and say the words I don't want to say.
"We should get you packed."
*****
An hour later, we're loading the last of her bags into my truck.
The morning is crisp and clear, the sky a brilliant blue that feels almost offensive after days of gray. The roads are passable now. The plows have been through, and the sun is making quick work of what's left.
No more excuses to stay.
Madison climbs into the passenger seat, her jaw set in a way that tells me she's feeling this as much as I am. I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, and neither of us speaks for the first ten minutes.
"Thank you," she says finally. "For everything. The rescue. The shelter. The..."
"The Scrabble?" I offer, keeping my eyes on the road.
She laughs softly. "Sure. The Scrabble."
We drive the rest of the way in silence. When I turn onto the street where her food truck has been waiting out the storm, I'm already bracing myself for the worst. Three days of heavy snow, subzero temperatures, and brutal winds—there's no telling what kind of damage she'll find.
But when we round the corner, the truck is there. Intact. Buried under a mountain of snow, but miraculously undamaged.
"Oh thank God." Madison is out of my truck before I've even stopped, wading through the drifts to reach her mobile kitchen. She circles it twice, checking every panel, every hinge, every window.
"It's okay," she breathes. "It's actually okay."
I grab shovels from my truck bed and we get to work. It takes us an hour to dig the food truck out, and by the end we're both sweating despite the cold. But finally, she climbs into the driver's seat and turns the key.
The engine catches on the first try.
Madison laughs, genuine joy lighting up her face, and something in my chest twists painfully.
"She lives!" She pats the dashboard affectionately. "Tough old girl."
"Takes more than a blizzard to keep a good truck down."
She climbs out and walks over to where I'm standing by my truck. We face each other in the street, snow crunching under our boots, breath fogging in the air between us.
This is it. The goodbye we've been avoiding.
She extends her hand. "Thank you. Really."
I take it. Her fingers are cold, her grip firm. Professional. Like we're business associates parting ways after a successful meeting.
"Drive safe," I say. "Watch for black ice."
"I will."
"And don't get stranded in any more small towns."
"No promises. Apparently my truck has a type."
