The question catches me off guard. Kids notice everything, don’t they?
I swallow the lump in my throat and turn toward him. “Just checking if the mail came, buddy.”
He grins like that’s the best answer ever and goes back to coloring. But I can feel my heart twisting anyway.
Maybe Clint got caught up with something. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he changed his mind.
Maybe I was stupid to think this was anything more than a moment. One good night tangled in heat and hope and bad decisions.
I press a hand to my chest, as if that’ll stop the sting.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be that girl again. The one waiting by the window for someone who might not show up.
But here I am.
And damn it, it hurts just the same.
The clock ticks louder now, mocking me. Every minute that passes sounds like “he’s not coming.”
Everything feels too still. My throat too dry. I start pacing, my arms crossed tight over my chest, trying to hold myself together.
Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe something happened at the ranch. Maybe he forgot what day it was.
But then another voice in my head, sharper and crueler, cuts in.Or maybe he just didn’t want to come.
The thought hits me like a punch.
And once it’s there, it’s everywhere.
The panic sneaks in first. A flicker of heat under my skin. Then comes the shaking. The restless, pointless kind.
My hands can’t stop fidgeting, my breath feels wrong, too shallow.
It’s stupid, it’s so stupid. But that old rejection, it’s not logical.
It’s muscle memory. It’s the part of me that still believes if someone doesn’t show up, it must be because I’m not worth showing up for.
I pace from the window to the counter, then back again. My heart’s racing, my mind spiraling.
He probably saw me for what I really am. Messy. Complicated. Not the kind of woman a man like him sticks around for.
I squeeze my eyes shut.Stop it, Dakota.
But the thoughts keep going, a flood I can’t dam up. I remember the way Clint looked at me yesterday, soft, almost tender, and the way he’d said he’d be here. As if he meant it.
But maybe that’s what I’m always falling for. The words. The gestures. The little moments that feel safe until they’re not.
I’m back by the window before I even realize it, my hand gripping the curtain so tight my knuckles go white. The road’s still empty.
That’s when something inside me snaps.
It’s not anger, it’s survival. The same stubborn, scarred part of me that’s had to pick herself up too many times.
Fine. If he doesn’t want to come, if this is how it is, then I’m done waiting. I won’t let Charlie grow up thinking people are supposed to let you down.
My fingers shake as I grab my phone. My reflection on the screen looks unfamiliar. Tight-lipped, pale. Determined.
Thomas Buck.
