“And get it in writing,” Jess added with a wink. “A relationship contract.”
I snorted. “That’s romantic.”
“No, but it’s practical,” Meghan said, surprising me by taking Jess’s side. “Not a literal contract, but clear expectations. What does a partnership look like to you? What are your non-negotiables? What are his? Figure that out before you’re in too deep again.”
“And maybe,” Allie said more gently, “give the man a chance to prove himself. He’s literally rebuilding your home piece by piece. That’s not nothing, Pepper.”
I stared down at my coffee, thinking about Rhett’s promise to do better, the sincerity in his eyes when he’d laid his heart bare. The way he’d asked for nothing but a chance.
“Just don’t rush,” Jess advised. “Date him properly this time. You jumped straight from high school into marriage before. Maybe what you both need is to rediscover each other as adults.”
I couldn’t argue with that. The idea of it was still circling around my brain as I headed home. Maybe we could talk about all of that over dinner tonight.
Except Rhett’s truck wasn’t in the driveway when I got home. I scanned the porch. The new posts had been put up, and the new floor installed. But I didn’t see any further progress on the railing. I’d kind of expected the steps to be finished by the time I got home today. Maybe he’d been working on some other project instead.
I let myself in through the kitchen door, dropping my keys in the ceramic bowl on the counter with a clatter that echoed through the empty house. It felt strange that he wasn’t here. Every day for the past three weeks, he’d been here working on something when I got home from the diner. I wandered through the living room, looking for any sign of his presence. No tools set out. No sawdust on the floor. No half-empty water glass.
I headed upstairs, checking the bathroom where he’d fixed the leaky faucet last week. Everything looked exactly as I’d left it this morning. The guest bedroom was untouched. No project, no Rhett, no note.
Back downstairs, I stood in the center of the living room, hands on my hips, feeling oddly abandoned. We hadn’t made any specific plans for tonight. Hell, we hadn’t made any specific plans for any night. He just showed up, worked on the house, made dinner sometimes, and then we’d end up tangled together on the couch or in my bed before he’d reluctantly pull himself away and head back to his place.
It had become our routine without either of us acknowledging it. I’d grown used to coming home to the sounds of him working, the smell of sawdust or paint, sometimes dinner cooking. Used to his presence filling up the empty spaces of this house that had felt too big since our divorce.
I pulled out my phone, checking for messages. Nothing. Not even a text saying he couldn’t make it today.
The silence of the house pressed in around me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been looking forward to seeing him until he wasn’t here. How quickly I’d gotten used to having him back in my space, in my life.
Maybe this was good, I told myself. A reminder that I shouldn’t get too comfortable, shouldn’t take his presence for granted. We weren’t back together, not officially. He was just… fixing my porch. And other things.
But as I headed to the kitchen to scrounge up something for dinner, I couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment that settled in my chest. I tried to quash it. Putting me first didn’t mean he didn’t get to have a life. I’d just thought right now he was focused here. On us.
As I pulled out some leftover meatloaf to reheat, it occurred to me that this might be something else entirely. What if something had happened? From time to time over the past few weeks, I’d caught him wincing when he thought I wasn’t looking. What if he’d pushed too hard and re-injured himself?
My heart rate picked up as I grabbed my phone and dialed his number. It rang three times, and I was about to hang up when he finally answered.
“Hey.” His voice sounded distant, traffic noise in the background.
“Where are you?” I asked, trying not to sound as worried as I felt.
“I had to leave town for a couple of days to take care of something.”
My fingers tightened around the phone. Leave town? Without telling me? The old resentment flared—him making decisions, going places, never bothering to keep me in the loop.
I took a deep breath. “Is everything okay with your shoulder?”
“Shoulder’s fine.” His voice was clipped, distracted. “I’ll be back day after tomorrow. Gotta go. Miss you. See you soon.”
“Rhett, wait?—”
But he’d already hung up.
I stared at my phone, a knot forming in my stomach. This felt eerily familiar—the short, uninformative call, the brushing off of my concerns. Like we were slipping right back into our old patterns already.
So much for all those promises about communication and putting me first. He couldn’t even manage a heads-up text that he was leaving town? Or a proper explanation of where he was going or why?
I could have let it go. Probably should have. Accepted that it was something we needed to talk about when he did get back. But something drove me to dial the station.
“Station 1, this is Holloway.”
