Page 85 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I look away, staring at the snow piled along the edge of the lot, the bright sun making everything look clean when nothing feels clean inside me.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I mutter.

Thatcher snorts. “Yeah. That’s part of the problem.”

I swallow. “So, where is she staying?”

Thatcher’s expression shifts—something like satisfaction, like he knew I’d ask that.

“She’s staying with Kelly,” he says.

My head snaps up. “Kelly?”

“My sister’s prick husband ran off,” he confirms. “And before you spiral again, no, Clara isn’t hanging around here to expose you. She’s been helping Kelly pack up Mike’s shit and listening to Willow talk her ear off.”

That shouldn’t make me feel anything.

It does.

Relief hits first—hot and sharp.

Then jealousy, ugly and irrational.

Then the sickest thing of all.

Hope.

Thatcher watches it play across my face like a man who’s seen too many stubborn fools do this dance.

“She’s been quiet,” he adds, slower. “But she’s hurt. Willow says she tries to act like she’s fine, but she flinches anytime your name comes up.”

My chest tightens like a fist closes around it.

I deserve that, too.

Thatcher jerks his chin back toward the Lunchroom.

“So. You gonna keep being a coward?”

I grind my teeth. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“What man has ever asked for someone to turn his life upside down?” Thatcher asks flatly. “Shit, Grey, nobody asks for the thing that changes them. But if you’re lucky, you get to stick around and say thanks.”

I stare at him, wet hair drying stiff in the cold.

“What do I do?” I ask, and the question tastes like weakness.

Thatcher’s mouth tilts.

Not quite a smile.

More like a warning.

“You go back in there,” he says, “and you apologize like a grown man.”

My stomach twists.

“And then?” I ask, because apology feels too small for what I did.