Page 76 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

So—my dramatic, tragic soap opera is playing in my head for no reason at all.

My heart does a weird, relieved stutter.

Kelly sniffs hard. “I came home from the supercenter and Mike had the minivan packed.”

Her voice cracks on the next part. “He was leaving a letter on the mail table—right next to the electric bill—like it was the same kind of chore.”

Willow’s face goes tight. “What about Evan?”

“He’s in school.” Kelly presses a fist to her mouth. “I’ll have to tell him after.”

Something in my chest gives way at that.

The casual cruelty of it.

Packing up and leaving like he’s changing cable providers.

“I can’t believe it,” Kelly whispers. “We’ve been together since we were kids. We’ve been through everything.”

“I never liked him,” Willow blurts.

Kelly gasps. “What?”

“It’s true,” Willow says, dead serious. “He looks at food like it’s the enemy. And I hate the way he breathes.”

Kelly lets out a surprised snort.

I gasp.

Then Willow starts laughing—and somehow we’re all laughing, too, the kind of laughter that’s half relief and half disbelief.

But it doesn’t last.

Kelly’s laugh breaks and turns into tears.

Willow’s arms are around her immediately, holding her like she’s keeping her upright.

“I’m sorry,” Kelly says into Willow’s shoulder, voice muffled and raw. “I don’t mean to cry. I just… I feel like my whole life has been a lie. We were together so long. Then Evan happened—he was such a surprise.” She swallows. “We didn’t think we could have babies.”

My heart clenches hard, because I know that fear.

PCOS doesn’t just mess with your body—it messes with your hope.

It makes you wonder what you’re allowed to want, and whether anyone will stay when things get complicated.

And suddenly I’m thinking of my own life—of Geoffrey, of the future I kept pretending I didn’t care about.

Of the fact that I never let myself imagine motherhood because I didn’t trust the person I was with to catch me if I fell.

“He does breathe loudly,” Kelly mutters.

“So, this jerk breathes loudly, and he left you a break-up note after how many years together,” I say slowly, voice tight, “and he took your minivan?”

Kelly pulls back, wiping her cheeks.

“We started dating when I was fifteen. So that’s twenty-seven years. Almost three decades of my life.”

“And he threw you away for a yoga instructor named Stormee—two e’s? Oh, honey, tell me you changed the locks already,” I say.