Eighteen
JOSEPHINE
Dawn breaks, thin and silver, a new ice threading the air. No rose, no gold. Warmth itself has gone missing.
Even the light sounds brittle, like frost cracking beneath its own weight.
Silence follows, too deep to trust.
The feeling is gone. Not faded. Muted. Like something has been pushed behind glass.
At first it’s a relief. Then, it feels like an ache. A held breath, air itself bracing, as if the world is waiting for something to break.
The stillness presses against my ribs.
The radio crackles once and dies. I switch it off, though I’m sure I did that last night.
My fingers find my lips. No heat. No ache. The burn of the cowboy’s kiss is gone.
Fever and lightning.
Yesterday, he never looked back when he walked away. Perhaps I shouldn’t either.
I pull on high-waisted jeans, a sage tie-front blouse, a soft dusty-rose sweater. The air smells of lilacs and rain—washed clean, like it could forget. Maybe that’s what I need to do: forget.
But the word doesn’t feel right in my mouth. Or even possible.
Downstairs, Grandma hums an old lullaby. When she sees me, a smile softens her shadowed face.
“The mountains are beautiful today,” she says. “Calm and settled.”
I answer, glancing toward the window, “They feel… gone. Like they’ve pulled their breath back.”
She huffs a laugh, goes to the glass, and studies the ridge. “Still there,” she murmurs.
Ash. Grandpa. The conversation at the table last night. I don’t know where to begin.
One look at her, and I don’t try.
The house feels too small for both of us and whatever’s moving outside.
Instead, I ask, “Is Grandpa already out doing chores?”
Really, I’m asking about Ash, imagining him atop his mare. Keeping to the pastures, though always with one eye on me.
I was up too early, wrapped in a blanket.
Still. Waiting for him.
From a distance, I saw him riding along the fence line. Away.
He never looked back. I never called his name.
I startle at Grandma’s voice. “Out mending fences.” She nods toward the hills, morning light spilling across the kitchen.
My eyes catch on a brown Carhartt draped over the porch rail—Ash’s jacket. The sight knocks the air from my lungs.
“Mind if I take a horse? Go find Grandpa?” The lie tastes thin.
