He’s happy. He doesn’t notice that I keep glancing out the window every five seconds, pretending to check the weather.
Ten-thirty.
Still nothing.
“Mom, can we bring snacks when we go?” Charlie asks, looking up at me with his big blue eyes.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “Always snacks.”
But my chest feels tight. There’s a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter around my ribs. The longer I sit here, the more that old, familiar ache creeps in. The one that whispers, “you should’ve known better.”
It’s ridiculous, right? Clint’s probably just busy. He runs a ranch, for crying out loud. There are cows to wrangle and fences to fix and… whatever else ranchers do before noon.
Sawyer mentioned a fire yesterday. Maybe Clint still has to— No, he knew that already when he promised to come.
The part of me that’s waited before, the part that remembers, is wide awake now.
When I was little, I used to sit by the front window every Saturday morning with my backpack ready, waiting for my dad. Thinking that he’d finally come for me.
And wait.
And wait.
And the gravel road would stay empty, and Mom would stop pretending to keep busy and just sigh that soft, tired sigh that said it all.
After a while, I stopped waiting.
Except… not really.
Because apparently, some habits die hard.
And then my phone dings.
Excitedly, I snatch it up, thinking I’m about to get answers from Clint, but it’s not him.
It’s an email from a client I’ve worked with many times before. I get a lot of illustration work from him, so the words I see cut deep.
I’m sorry, Dakota, you just aren’t very easy to reach anymore. We’ve had to go with someone else.
I drop my phone onto the counter. The words burn my eyes, and my stomach flips. Great. Just… great.
The shitty Internet in this place… it hasn’t bothered me much until now. I’veneverhad a signal so bad before. Bad enough to actually lose me work.
Shit.
Everything is too much. Clint not showing up. Charlie humming. My missed job. The past tugging at me like a leash I can’t break.
The house. The town. The feeling that somehow, no matter what I do, I’m always a little too late.
Now it’s five past eleven, and my heart’s doing that stupid heavy thing again. The “you got your hopes up, didn’t you?” thing.
I open the curtains again and glance out toward the road. Nothing but dust and sunlight. My reflection stares back at me in the glass.
Hair pulled into a messy bun, a mug of coffee gone cold in my hand, trying so hard to look casual.
I don’t feel casual. I feel twelve again.
“Mom?” Charlie says softly. “Who are you looking for?”
